Only in the caricatured land of football is the King's Road thought of as trendy, argues Harry Pearson. Are you reading Mrs Karembeu?
Planet Football is a peculiar place, an alternative Earth where nothing ever changes and the hopelessly inaccurate can become the truth simply by repetition. This is a world where all Frenchmen are urbane, the whole of Brazil is a beach, no one relishes a trip to Turf Moor in January and everything north of Hadrian’s Wall is in Scotland. (How lucky Alf Ramsey was, by the way, that the Charlton boys chose to turn their backs on their native land and opt instead for England; and why don’t Newcastle United play in their own country, I wonder.)