DoubleTake:Roy Keane had a few remarkable things to say last week about who wears the trousers in football, and who doesn't, writes Ann Marie Hourihane.
Well, it's a game of two halves. But many of us feel that in recent years, it has been undermined, not to say corrupted, by crass commercialism, a slavering fan base and the unrealistic expectations of its players. These factors, combined with the constant television exposure and the distasteful marketing of souvenirs, have led to falling numbers at the turnstiles and a consequent dip in the players' morale. Heartbreaking, really, for those of us who love the beautiful game. Now we have to ask ourselves: what does the future hold for masculinity?
Last week, Roy Keane, the man's man, came out and said that soccer players were going soft. A number of players had turned down the opportunity to move to Roy's team because they were being dictated to by their wives, some of whom - for inexplicable, girlie reasons - did not relish the prospect of living in Sunderland. Roy stopped short of saying that these malleable athletes were lady-boys, or of calling their wives Wags.
But he was not impressed: "It tells me the player is weak and his wife runs his life. The idea of women running the show concerns me and worries me, but the players we're talking about are soft."
Roy then went on to elaborate on that concept beloved of all people, from Baden-Powell onwards, besotted with the masculine character. Particularly on character as epitomised by his ideal player: "You can't always be a Steve Bruce, but you can be a character who comes in and gives 100 per cent. Characters have nothing to be nervous of. You look at Brucie. He was a top character. He had the character and desire to do well and that made him a top player. You need that kind of character." It is safe to say that, for Roy Keane, David Beckham is the stuff of nightmares: a golden boy whose wife is much tougher than he is.
But hold on a minute. Aren't all premier league footballers high-earning young men who buy a lot of clothes and worry about their hair? Don't they spend their days with other men, never having to meet a single woman with authority in their lives, with the possible exception of their mums?
And aren't all footballers' wives the feminine equivalent: lovely young things who think of nothing but clothes and the occasional photo-shoot? This, surely, is the modern football contract.
Roy Keane is only 36 years old. He is clever and admirable in many ways. This makes it doubly interesting that his idea of sporting masculinity seems to come from a now-forgotten hero, Alf Tupper, the Tough of the Track, who lived his life just a few pages down from Roy of the Rovers in a variety of British boys' comics for about 40 years. Alf was a simple soul, a working-class runner who trained on fish and chips and was always having his running shoes stolen by epicene, aristocratic rivals.
Most of us would prefer not to think about what became of Alf Tupper, or of how he must have reeled under the successive blows of feminism, digital technology, the death of industrial production and the rise of male toiletries. But Roy Keane won't let Alf die.
Masculinity's roots are very old now, in terms of our modern culture. A quick look at a strange little film called Hell Drivers, which was shown earlier this month on BBC as part of the Summer of British Film season, shows how peculiar traditionally masculine men would look in our shopping malls.
A mad and macho piece made in 1957, Hell Drivers tells the story of a trucking gang in an unspecified area of England, perhaps not that far from Sunderland. Its stars - Stanley Baker, Patrick McGoohan and a very young Sean Connery - were amazingly craggy and, to a large extent, ancient in the eyes of your contemporary cinema-goer.
The rules were simple - play fair, don't steal your mate's girl. And the rewards were few - the girl, plus a little cash to ease the agony of being a good man in an evil world. How different Hell Drivers was from the lives of our own dear matinee idols, Tom and Matt and Keanu, trying their damndest to stay looking slim and 21.
For a female viewer, Hell Drivers was fascinating. Because, just as most heterosexual men are not attracted to the anorexic fashion model, most adult women are not attracted to the airbrushed boys who are presented to us as movie stars. To see an adult male on screen, you have to look at heroes conceived generations, if not centuries, ago. No wonder Daniel Craig swept the multiplexes. No wonder Russell Crowe can name his price.
Roy comes from the Gladiator school of soccer. He has emerged from masculinity's provisional wing. He is a puritan. He is certain. He has suffered, silently. Roy may not be able to say what a real man is, but he immediately recognises what a real man is not. Even masculinity's gorgeous failures - Elvis and George Best - did not let women run their lives, although it sadly became apparent that they had no idea how to run them themselves.
How strange that Sunderland - which even sounds unlovely, a derelict hulk of defunct heavy industry - should prove to be the last stronghold of 20th-century manhood. Or perhaps it's not so strange after all.