George Caveney …on a love gone sour
You know what? I wish Robinho de la Souza would just ‘go away’. Bless the little fella and how he starts morris dancing at the box’s edge. Bless his performances for Brazil and how he either looks worried or mad. Bless all this from afar, as far away as we can send him without losing too much money. We all know damn well he’s only going to cause trouble if we make him get a plane to Ringway.
To my mind, he’s the last reminder of it not feeling quite right. It’s still incongruous to see him in a City shirt. I don’t mean that in a ‘we’re not worthy’ way, because we are. I just think he came along at the wrong time, blissfully unaware of his own whereabouts.
And until he’s either the permanent beach-boy at Santos he clearly yearns to be – or somehow someone else’s problem entirely, I can’t mentally move on. He has me shrieking and sweating in the dead of night. Peering over my shoulder in the Co-op. Turning the pages of my newspaper with one eye closed and the other one scrunched up a bit. Clenching my fists nervously at the dinner table and farting while I walk. Damn it, Robinho, leave me be!
It’s one of the more embarrassing sideshows of City’s recent changes in fortune. Kaka debacle – cringeworthy. Terry fiasco – oh, please.
But Robinho actually arrived, genuinely not knowing who he’d signed for. Hughes was a bit, ‘Oh, hello!’ about it, and had very little chance to factor ‘Robi’ into his plans before the season began.
But then factoring him into any kind of structured notion of what’s supposed to happen is a bit like trying to spread butter with an angle grinder. And as soon as he realised where he was, he started wriggling and had to be stage prompted. A lot. Which is why I wouldn’t be surprised if he walks into the arrival lounge, blows a massive raspberry and flies straight home again before anyone can suggest otherwise.
And who can blame him? He’s only being true to himself in a refreshingly naïve way. What can we really do about it, and would we want to? I think maybe he’s realised where his heart lies, and that trying to convince himself or anyone else that he really wants to be here would be a pointless exercise. He wants to move on, and everything we’re privy to as fans seems to suggest the club does too. He might want to milk the cash cow for as long as he can, but whose career will that affect?
He’s the 15-year old girlfriend we had for three days when we were 11. A faintly ridiculous, poorly timed and ultimately doomed fling. She could buy fags and had great knockers that made your mates go stupid, but had no other redeeming features whatsoever. You didn’t really know what to do with her, to be honest. And she was expensive.
Nothing to be ashamed of, by any means. And some fond memories. Just never really meant to be.
He’ll make someone a lovely wife.