ONE look at Wayne Rooney tells you that he's a product of the Irish-vegetable gene pool, with a potato for a face, a turnip in his skull and a vermilion carrot in his trousers.
One look at Peter Crouch tells you that he is a true son of England, with a sheep-skull where his face should be, a mangel wurzel where most people keep their frontal lobe and a purple cucumber down below.
Both the turnip and the mangel wurzel apparently share separate blood systems with their owners' respective penises. These are not connected to the rest of their bodies, they are virtually autonomous. To be sure, both footballers also have thinking brains but these are not linked to their reproductive organs, for the latter are loyal citizens of the independent Republic of Priapia.
Just about all men are occasional passport-holders of the Republic of Priapia: but it is mostly footballers who enjoy full citizenship. They alone can afford the time and the money that enables their frontal lobes and the contents of their Y-fronts to secede permanently from their organs of sight, reason, aesthetics, decency and common sense.
This is a good time of year to consider the differences between the sexes. Firstly, the footballers' whoring season is under way again.
Meanwhile, the representatives of the female sex are also emerging from their off season. Yes, mothers everywhere are once again driving their children to school. I use the word 'driving' in the loosest possible sense. Maternally manoeuvred vehicles are the quintessence of a scalar force, which is energy without direction.
Mother drivers are usually possessed of a geographical tendency, rather than a clear purpose, which nonetheless ultimately causes them to gather outside schools like driftwood in a creek.
Here they ignore all traffic regulations. The good thing -- from their point of view anyway -- about this mass abandonment of the rule of law is that gardai are helpless in the face of it.
Mornings outside schools are mini-Baghdads, as whey-faced children, having seen death up close and personal throughout the journey to school, flee for the safety of the playground bully and the paedophile teacher, while their mothers unsuccessfully search for -- what do you call it? The thing that makes the car goes backwards -- what's its name? Oh, doesn't matter.
So they get out of their impossibly tight corner -- why, the next car's only 15ft away! -- by performing endless little circles and possibly, if they're very technical, by putting the car into neutral on a slope and letting it drift backwards.
Then, after an hour or so, they're finally clear of the school and it's time for the mid-morning coffee, girls!
The school-run mum is the complete biological opposite of the phallus that is Rooney. One has no sense of direction and the other has no sense but an erection. Two distinct species, which feminists have been trying to tell us for the past 40 years are merely divided by social conditioning. I'd love to see the social conditioning that could turn Wayne Rooney into the average Jemima Puddleduck, frenziedly meandering with her children towards school, every morning.
Of course, the school-run mum is not the only representative of the female sex. Ladies and gentlemen, I offer you exhibit B: the Williams sisters.
You see, they're human too, with their own human urges. But how can they satisfy them on the tennis circuit? Where can they find the headstrong lunatic who will allow his torso to be embraced by thighs that could snap an elephant like a pretzel? And if the gallant soul survives that initial embrace, he will then be expected to immerse his defining member deep within those surging she-entrails, even though those organs could probably draw a tank-engine out through its gunbarrel, like a fruit lozenge.
What the strapping lasses of today surely need is an essence-of-Rooney that is in absolute servitude to its permanent tumescence.
It surely cannot be beyond modern science to make the contents of both Rooney's forehead and of his underpants into a disembodied, phallic robot with its own box of super-sized Kleenex and its own phone number: for hire.
WAS it science's failure to create such a creature that gave English soccer Peter Crouch? Consider: no one has actually seen Mike Tyson since Peter Crouch emerged on the English soccer scene. Did Tyson have an assignation with Venus or Serena? Or heavens -- both, even!
So was the wan, gaunt, broken and trembling wretch that later stumbled out from the Williams boudoir, with all the physical co-ordination of a lobotomised baby giraffe, no longer Tyson but what we now call Peter Crouch?