Beckham plays a blinder

Now consider the filth who follow England. They may be a minority among an army of decent, loyal, passionate fans. But it's not as tiny a minority as some would like to pretend. And for every hard-core hooligan, there's a dozen bird-brained dimwits who'll tag along with the racist chants, the scraps with foreign coppers and the use of Continental streets as outdoor toilets, once they've got enough pints inside them.

Beckham's plea to England's travelling pond-life is a microcosm of a far bigger struggle between the civil and disorderly sides of the country as a whole. For decades, thinkers and politicians on both the right and the left have effectively waged war against conventional morality.

From the right came the Thatcherite message that the only thing that mattered was money. Get it, flaunt it, and stuff anyone else. There is no such thing as society. We are all consumers now.

From the left came the anti-establishment assault on all forms of authority, traditional family values, or 'bourgeois' notions of deference and manners. Everyone was told about their rights, no one ever mentioned their responsibilities.

We've ended up with a country that is, as a matter of statistical fact, one of the drunkest, druggiest, most promiscuous and most criminal in the western world. England's football yobs symptomise a culture in which selfishness is triumphant, contempt for other people rampant, and victims are trampled in the dirt without a second thought.

Far from making us richer, happier or more liberated, this assault on moral inhibitions has left many people feeling disoriented, frightened and depressed.

Politicians ought to be leading the fight to restore some sense of order, or even sanity, on our behalf. But they haven't got the guts. Beckham, on the other hand, has.

I doubt whether he'll prevent a single moron from booing a national anthem or flinging out a Nazi salute, but at least he's had a go.

Some people may think David Beckham is a joke. But, for once, I'm not one of them.

A routine cock-up in SW19

Whenever I'm watching telly and Wimbledon's on, I always give a little bow - or, if I'm feeling frisky, a curtsy - to the screen. Well, it's tradition, like strawberries, cream, and John McEnroe politely pretending that Tim Henman has a chance of winning the damn thing.

At least it was, until Wimbledon announced that players would no longer have to pay tribute to the Royal Box. You can see the reasoning. Wimbledon has to move with the times.

Bowing-and-scraping looks worryingly old-fashioned.

Now, though, some players are objecting. Apparently they like all the royal palaver. And they're right, it's part of what makes Wimbledon special. My only feeling is that Wimbledon doesn't go far enough.

I think they should insist on the following routine in SW19. In future, all players must bow to the Royal Box. They should then get down on their knees and grovel to their sponsors in the corporate seats.

Then they can stick up two fingers to the paying punters. That should sum up the true state of affairs, all right.

Kanoute is so right for Spurs

Apparently, the only thing stopping Freddie Kanoute's move from West Ham to Spurs is that the two clubs can't agree on the money. Fair enough. It must be tough for the Hammers board to decide how much they'll pay Tottenham to take the lanky Frenchman off their hands.

Kanoute could be another Thierry Henry. He's big, fast, strong, great in the air and ridiculously skilful. But in three-and-a-bit seasons at Upton Park, he has only scored 29 league goals.

Last season he got a measly five, in just 12 Premiership appearances. You can't help feeling he lacks the determination, commitment and sheer guts to make the best of his natural talent. Kanoute is all sizzle and no steak. He's flash, he's fancy, but he's far, far less than the sum of his parts. Come to think of it, he should feel right at home at Tottenham.

Presumably these football connoisseurs are a bit like the art experts who try to persuade us that the Turner Prize is filled with masterpieces, when all we can see is pretentious, minimalist garbage.

Or the music critics who insist that what sounds like an atonal howl is actually a thrilling, contemporary composition. Call me old-fashioned, call me na've, but when it comes to football, I still reckon there's something to be said for the odd goal, every now and then.

Speaking of missed programmes, I'm furious I didn't tune in to the Beeb for Herbie Hide's big bust-up at the York Hall on Saturday night. But I don't think it was all my fault. I mean, Audley Harrison was top of the bill. Who'd have guessed that there'd actually be a fight?