England falls for the silent type

AFTER a humdrum week of cup football, one question jostled for attention above all others: What has become of the great English love of mime?

Chaplin must be arching an eyebrow, pursing the Little Tramp’s saddest face, and turning expressively in his grave. A legacy discarded by his people.

For the most part, George, if we can call him George, has buckled and embraced the dubious ways of the exotic creatures that now walk freely alongside him. He has taken to diving like a gull to water; he has donned gloves and complicated undergarments; the bravest George of all, John Terry, wears his socks provocatively above the knee. When he is really keen to show off, George now looks to take the ball short off his back four.