WE HAD been talking at cross purposes. I had said that he was the worst and most wooden thing on the box and had spoiled the entire spectacle because he just wasn't up to the job of conveying the complexity of the unfolding drama.
She redoubled the attack with added venom and upped the ante by insisting he was bitter, twisted and evil and had never been right in the head. Hold on, this is the same David Platt we are talking about isn't it?
I mean, yes, he is one dimensional, drab and comes out with some frankly unbelievable dialogue in that monotone mock-Manc accent that would be banned from SatNav for fear of fatalities as legions fall asleep at the wheel.
And yes, he has never quite looked convincing in the far fetched role he now finds himself in. And yes, he does seem to take a delight in being paid to sneer and systematically rain on other people's parades. But come on, David Platt is not EVIL.
"He has been in the papers complaining that old ladies attack him in the street and that children burst into tears," she said. Well the water carrier who fell lucky and built an entire career on the back of one moment of unscripted brilliance was never the pin-up, it's true.
And, to be fair, if he walked through Pallister Park right now he may well get brayed by vigilante nanas. And rightly so.
"I'm glad he has been banged up," she said. "He had to be jailed before he killed someone." What, have I missed something? I'm supposed to be a highly observant, well informed football writer. You'd have thought I'd have noticed if a former England skipper had been sent down for being a threat to life and limb.
And, unfortunately, you can't be shot in Holmehouse just for being an ill-formed, supercillious pratt and shamelessly sycophantic glamour groupie or the government would have to embark on a new prison building programme to house all the recidivist star-struck myopic microphone men who have managed to perfect the art of talking out of their posterior, thus freeing up their lips for kissing big club butt.
Now, I'll be honest, I am spectacularly unmoved by England. In fact I am pretty much hostile.
Not so much to the football because I love the game and will stop to watch the gangs of Kosovan asylum seekers have a kick about in Albert Park and besides, with internationals it is always nice to see a well organised team of top talents at the height of their profession playing a crisp, incisive possession game based on an incredible level of technical skills. It would better if it was two teams but hey, England need a run-out too.
No, it is not the football that annoys me about England. It is the whole sick tabloid driven not-how-you-play-but-who-you-play-for celebrity cat-walk that the saturation coverage of Team England entails.
The national team reveals institutional insanity in the media, a schizophrenia that stems from the commercially driven frenzied need for the papers and sports broadcasters to big up the Premier League prima donnas as the best in the world all day every day then somehow square the circle when England flop pathetically on the big stage.
It leads to agenda scattered scapegoating, bitter in-fighting over which player to big up or knock down this time and the neurotic quest for ever more elaborate excuses for our heroes failure to sweep puny foreigners aside in their quest for their rightful world domination.
Anything other than make an objective assessment of the strengths and weaknesses that may leads to the conclusion that the Golden Generation may in reality actually only be eighteen carot plated crud.
Which brings us to David Platt. He may be a relative newcomer to the world of double-think and hypocrisy that is gantry sniping - he tried management but wasn't very good at it - but has already shown he has grasped the basics: by definition if you play for a big club you are very good and we will want to interview you later so won't say anything too critical no matter how poorly yoy play and if you don't play for a big club, well, you really shouldn't be here, we don't care, we won't be giving you any post-match airtime and if anything bad happens, well it is probably your fault anyway you loser.
David Platt has quickly and willing donned the media's blindfold of elective stupidity that prevents any form of constructive self-analysis and ensures England's future national failure.
His take on the game was deeply flawed, raised big question marks over his ability to judge the contributions of the respective players (although it also cast some light on why he was pedalled as boss of Nottingham Forest and the England Under-21s) and showed a big club bias that was embarrassingly transparent.
In his sycophancy for the Champions League elite he made Alan Green look the model of objectivity.
Platt's heaped praise for Ashley Cole's woeful positioning, inept crossing and repeated erratic overlaps that ended with him cutting inside and leaving big gaps that left England frighteningly exposed on the flanks was almost perverse.
To then blame those faults on Stewart Downing was just bizarre, if predictable. Tedious in fact. And an insult to the viewers.
Downing did more in his first ten minutes on the pitch than unfeasibly large headed playground favourite Joe Cole did in the entire first half.
The human Corinthian figure did a string of snazzy unproductive stepovers and the odd double reverse drag-back dummy but the combined force of gravity and the weight of his cumbersome cranium inevitably tipped him off balance before he could get a cross into the danger area.
Downing in contrast was unfussy in his approach, made himself available, retained possession nicely and several times beat his man and delivered the ball where it hurts, or would have done had the big club strikers managed to get on the end of them from their deep lying position beyond criticism. None of that was noticed.
What was noticed was the first mistake. After a string neat threaded passes, some good movement on and off the ball (movement incidentally that appeared to be as overtly ignored by the capital clique on the pitch as much as by the pressbox posse) and a couple of pin-point deliveries one went astray.
That gave Platt - who had manfully ignored the error strewn antics of the Hello! lifestyle spread heroes - the opportunity to get in a totally unneccessary dig about Stewy not being able to produce at this level.
No doubt he had done his extensive research and will have known that minute for minute Downing's stats are among the best of the current England squad, that he has only been on the losing side twice in his 17 games, that he has put in more assists than any other player in those games.
No, don't be daft. You don't need research. Downing doesn't play for a big club so by definition is rubbish.
I am far from being paranoid about the media picking on Boro. I am wearily resigned to that. But it is a breathtaking arrogance and a calculated insult to the viewers for the broadcasters to employ expert pundits who are so woefully inadequate.
They are there to spot tactical shapes that they lay-man may not, explain the dynamics of the unfolding game and offer insights as to why players are adopting particular roles and what can be done to counter it.
They are not there to regurgitate ignorant barstool bias and ill-informed poison pen prejudice. If I wanted ignorant half-baked vitriol I could have watched the game in the pub.
If Boro turn up at Chelsea with any freak foot injuries among the squad my money is on irate players putting their size nines through their plasma screens in fury at Platt's poor performance and the brainless bitching about their team-mate.
And if Stewy wants to get his revenge he can help provincial no-marks Boro ruffle Chelsea's feathers at Stamford Bridge. Not that he would get any praise then either - no doubt it would be the ref's fault - but we could all have a good laugh at the Cockneycentric media exploding with ingidnation and the thought of the evil David Platt being battered in the showers.
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