Not bloody likely mate, and in a lot of ways this shows exactly what is wrong with British culture. That that sycophantic nonsense (which was immediately followed by an incredibly frightening advert courtesy of the UK Immigration Council) actually passes for entertainment, let alone 'selfless humanitarianism' is quite incredible.
And what has happened to football? Not only is it now a shop window through which Mafioso Oligarchs and Super-Rich Sheiks with a taste for lashings and a distaste for womens rights can show their friendly face to the world; but it is also (apparently) such an innately good thing that the merest sight of cavorting clowns in England shirts, whoever they may be, should be deemed as sufficient motivation for me to pay 'SIGNIFICANTLY' more than £1 to call ITV and inform them that David Beckham plays for LA Galaxy (as opposed to b) Stars or c) Universe) in exchange for the chance to eat dinner with Robbie Williams in LA? Please.
How has this happened? Probably because of people like me. People who log religiously onto the BBC Sport Website and devour their synopsis of the red-top rumours I consider myself above reading directly. People who wake up in the morning and immediately flick to freeview channel 83 to see what news the suited bloke who used to be on Blue Peter is able to deliver 'exclusively' from Manchester United's Carrington training ground (the fact that I even know the name of Man Utd's training ground is a symptom of the problem). These people (we) are the ones who have created this space where dirty money is not only welcomed but sought after (apparently Bill Kenwright the Everton chairman had to actually apologise to his fellow board-members for not being a billionaire).
As it turns out I am not so stupid that the sight of the guy off Hollyoaks who bedded his teacher and Draco Malfoy sweating while looking lovingly at Alan Shearer's widow's peak has me reaching for the Mastercard, but its no surprise really that Ant and Dec should think that I might be. After all, I'll happily walk around with an expensively acquired piece of advertising on my back even when I know that the money goes straight into the pocket of a want-away striker with corn rolls and an increasingly errant right foot: why shouldn't I prepared to pay out a fraction of that amount to Unicef?
So maybe Sam Allardyce, Lousie Redknapp and Ant or Dec are right and it was a magnificent night, maybe the poor people who jumped rope with Lucy Liu are the real winners, maybe Craig David deserved his bottle of Man of the Match champagne. I don't know, but I'm pretty sure that football wasn't this complicated on my old videos of Alex Ferguson's Aberdeen.
