So if you were a professional footballer would you have voted for ? Nah. Any right thinking person would've plumped for or .
But the award is always an odd one.
First of all the pros cast their votes in February, which is really a bit ridiculous considering the nub of the season hasn't arrived yet. If you ask petrol-heads who the best driver of the F1 season is, they'll tell you Jenson Button. Might not be by the end of the year though, eh? (Not that I could give a fig about ... Give it five years and I think they can get shot of the drivers altogether and we'll just have Ross Brawn and Flavio Briatore with little remote control gizmos in their hands. Life-sized , in other words.)
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Word has it that the real driving force behind was his dogs. They've been pestering needy clubs up and down the country in the hope that the Cork Clogger will stop making them gambol all over Cheshire.
"It's all that horrible growling and barking I can't stand", said one mutt. "We just want to let him off the leash so he can get rid of some of that excess energy," he added.
There's already been some worries voiced by Suffolkians but the dogs have been quick to reassure them. "Obviously we wouldn't dream of letting him in to the county without his muzzle on, but we've got great confidence that he'll thrive at Ipswich - he's always chasing tractors back home, as it happens."
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Here's the latest Excuse For Not Winning An Important Game Of Football. The pitch was terrible.
Somewhat typically Fergie and Wenger have blamed the turf for their defeats in the semi-finals. In fact Sir Alex has said ... which rather suggests there was a miserable sod in charge on Sunday.
To be fair, the pitch is bloody awful. They've tarmacked over this surface for a rally event, they've churned it up with the studs of 20-stone North American hulks, they've re-laid it five times in two years and it still looks like the has been cantering all over it after 10 minutes.
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I don't like to say I told you so but were there any other pundits out there tipping Chelsea to win the Champs League. Nah!
There's just been a lot of snorty laughter behind cupped hands - I've seen you all wiping that involuntary snot onto your closing down sale denims, boys and girls. But from the moment Hiddink arrived I've thought that Chelsea will come good and I've not been proved wrong.
Skiptoo (Malouda) looks a better player, Anelka actually managed a stint as right-winger on Tuesday night and Di-di-dums Drogba has slowly picked up all his toys since the Dutchman arrived and they all seem to be arranged in the right order now and the pram is looking well tidy. Even Hassungotta (Kalou) has looked a little less pony.
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All right. . That's the bitter Huth. Let the clouds of smog roll in and enclose this sorry bit of turf so that we might sit, motionless as our central defenders, and weep quiet men's tears into the pint pots of history. Sigh.
This weekend's footie proved one thing - there's Real Time and there's Big Four Time. Real time is counted in minutes and seconds but in Big Four Time you get these strange units called Superseconds, which can be added whenever you need them and you get at least 120 more of these than you would in normal life.
It is perfectly possible, of course, in the right circumstances (Manchester United or Liverpool are a goal UP with 90 minutes on the clock, say) that Superseconds can be lost as well as found. What this proves is that, in footballing terms Time is the Big sion.
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Crikey! . Never mind the police presence for the they're going to need the entire Tyneside constabulary to keep order up in Newcastle now!
I wasn't immediately convinced - it was April 1 remember! But I knew it was coming. Have I not before received secret sacred texts on the subject of the Hallowed Gallowgate? Well here's the latest chunk from the Gospel According to St James.
"For where once a Shepherd led them, who was begat by Hall, now all was bleak, and Gallows humour did descend upon the Gate of Gallow and the faithful army of Toon did from their terraces traipse like men marching toward their own demise.
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I'm Derek Robson. People call me Robbo. Legend has it I was raised in the furnace and smog of Teesside. Some might say I took the hard road. I like to tell folk I had trials for Middlesbrough, for Hartlepool and for burglary (not guilty). I've always loved sport. My job is to say it as I see it - whether it's in the bar of the Blue Bell or on this blog. You won't find me calling a spade a soil-redistribution implement.
