WHY GAZZA HAS MET HIS MATCH

 

THE War and Peace saga of Gazza’s nobbled kneecap may be over but it’s just the start of a new chaotic chapter in the comic book life of Europe’s most over-rated footballer.  

If you thought our tabloids had a field day with the Geordie joker, just wait until the paparazzi are finished with him - not to mention bone-crushing defenders. 

Sure, the “enigmatic” Mr Gascoigne has had a year to practise putting his tongue out for the cameras and perfect his impression of Rome’s Trevi Fountain. 

But sending such a temperamental talent to Lazio is like walking into a lion’s cage with a pocket full of pork chops. 

 

In Italy the player Forest fans claim would kick a sleeping dog will be a marked man both on and off the field - and he won’t last the first half of his first match if he reacts to the inevitable provocation by opposing players. 

To protect him from fervent fans and scandal set-ups, his new club has apparently hired a minder whose previous clients included Madonna and Sly Stallone. 

But more importantly, just who on earth is going to protect Gazza from himself?

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TAKEN FOR A RIDE

ON THE way home from a weekend’s walking (make that perspiring and collapsing) in the Peak District, I was persuaded to check out the famous Alton Towers on Bank Holiday Monday. 

Readers familiar with the theme park “experience” will know this is one of those bizarre places where millions of masochists pay good money to stand for hours in mile-long queues in silly temperatures.

Then they get their kicks by either (a) sitting in a giant revolving teacup with a bunch of spotty, screaming kids (b) getting soaked to the skin while strapped into a rubber tyre with seats, or (c) being dangled upside-down in a fast-moving train until you are sick.

 

Sensibly, Smith on Saturday decided against joining the 500-strong human crocodile chain which surrounded the park’s famous log flume ride for the entire afternoon. 

But I did spend 10 minutes in a so-called 3D cinema having my eyes gouged out by an assortment of giant ice hockey sticks, water skis and rabid husky dogs. This is what they call FUN?

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(This column was originally published in the Northamptonshire Evening Telegraph on Saturday, 30 May, 1992)