I like Gary Neville’s soccer commentary. But his political commentary, like Dennis the Menace’s hair, requires a lot of effort. In case you missed it, the Manchester United legend caused a stir after admitting to tearing down a Union Jack flag at one of his construction sites.
And in one of his infamous Goldgasms, he maintained logical consistency and blamed “angry middle-aged white men” for dividing the country…the 50-year-old white man speaks angrily and divisively. He must sense the irony, just as United’s recruitment staff see value in the transfer market. The middle-aged white man became the Harry Maguire of modern Britain. Forever stupid, forever an easy punchline, and everyone makes fun of him. Those who criticize them are like Paul Scholes’ critics: lazy, overly simplistic, and missing some important points.
For example, the rise of Islamism in Britain, an extremist ideology that has nothing to do with ordinary Muslims and everything to do with fanaticism and hatred, was behind the recent horrific Manchester synagogue attack. In response, flags were raised as a gesture of solidarity rather than division. But Neville was too consumed by the anger of a middle-aged white man to notice it.
That’s not surprising. Gary is conflicted, and to his credit, he’s acknowledged it for a while. He calls himself a “champagne socialist”, a phrase that makes as much sense as “diet kebab” or “Wayne Rooney: master tactician”.
This is the same Gary Neville who pocketed Qatari money after months of moral propaganda about the ethics of the World Cup. A man preaches about worker empowerment while paying employees at a luxury hotel minimum wage. A man preaching to the masses about unity while literally tearing up the flag.
The flag is not a special emblem and appears on Gary’s passport, Bentley number plate and England shirt, which he wore 85 times. Now his construction site is somehow too controversial? You can’t write a script better than this. Although, if he did, he’d probably go on a rant about how divisive the color of the paper is.
Neville may think the Union Jack was used by the wrong crowd, which is understandable, but that doesn’t make it radioactive. If anything, it’s worth getting back. Just because a few stupid lawns misuse a symbol doesn’t mean it loses its meaning. Look at the United badge. Even though the club has spent the past decade in Thomas Tuchel’s hairline, it still retains an image of prestige and dominance. It’s shockingly backwards.
But instead of working on it, Gary took the easy route. It’s a moral attitude of self-care, a routine that says, “Look at me, I’m better than all this.” It’s as pathetic as his spell at Valencia.
If he is truly above all of this, he will either keep Stumm or do what Ruben Amorim seems unable to do at United, which is to consistently denounce dangerous behavior wherever it appears.
Neville treats the culture war as if it is one-sided, as if the problem only comes from one end of the spectrum. Anyone who does that is as blindly self-absorbed as Jamie Carragher commentating on a Liverpool match, and as indifferent as Nicholas Jackson when he scores a goal.
And that’s the tragic irony. The young man from Bury who once gave his all on the pitch is now preaching to the people who buy tickets. Gary Neville has become everything he once despised. He became a grade-A snob who betrayed his working-class roots for a glimmer of moral superiority.
The fact that he tried to pass off his position as an innocuous plea for the very middle ground that his banner rants were bulldozing shows that he has the self-awareness of Richard Keyes hosting seminars on misogyny in the workplace and a backbone as tough as Andre Onana’s fingers.
You cannot be, as Gary claims, a “proud British supporter” while treating British patriotism with the same negative hostility that Ange Postecoglou treats reporters after a defeat. Neville built a legend of defending his country. But all he’s defending these days is hypocritical self-righteousness.
The sad thing is that deep inside the wine-drinking, flag-fearing, virtue-promoting millionaire, there’s still Bury’s grumpy right-back with his sleeves rolled up, his muddy boots on and his pride in his chest. Maybe one day, if Gaz stares in the mirror long enough, he’ll remember that and stop tearing up flags and clenching his fists that made him.
