A bewitching combination of bearded, tempestuous masculinity and sensitive, earnest pseudo-intellectualism, Pirlo is seemingly the antithesis to the moronic breed of asinine footballing oafs that we seem to favour in this stupid little country (see John Terry for proof of cuntism). Italians know the difference between good and bad wine, and the likelihood of them idolising a footballer who still uses Wella Shockwaves wet-look gel to create his circa 1992 matchstick-spiked hairtrocity is about as likely as them nipping to Spar to procure a bottle of lukewarm Gallo Chardonnay to drink with their dinner. Pirlo is a talented, dexterous, lubricious little package with an arse like a peach in a woodwork vice. GO ITALY!
(For Ryan Hunn and Will the sadsack – Pirlo stalkers extraordinaires. Xx)