Marcus Rashford is a very nice 23-year-old from Manchester who is very good at football and loves his mum very much. So nice is he and so good is he at football that he makes us feel awful about ourselves and our myriad inadequacies.
What were we doing when we were 23? Best not to say, to be honest. Rashford, on the other hand, is a child-feeding, goal-scoring, England-cap-winning, defender-destroying superhero to the nation. And frankly, it is thoroughly depressing.
Leaving our own feelings of jealousy aside for a second though, we can begrudgingly admit one thing: Rashford is the man the nation and its favourite game need.
Just as we despair that The Game’s Gone
– finally, completely this time; fully sucked into its avarice-filled European Super League vortex, football’s demise rubber-stamped with that weird pink, blue and grey logo which looks like Andrea Agnelli’s 13-year-old child made it on Microsoft Paint – Rashford comes to its rescue once more.
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