Look, all I’m saying is: if I were the greatest sportsman a country had ever produced, a gleaming, shimmering spectacle of genetic perfection and sporting dominance and a noted philanthropist who looked quite a lot like a Greek god – perhaps the Greek god of Ibiza nightclubs and pool cabanas – then I would probably like to have final sign-off on any and all bronze effigies unveiled in my honor.
Let it never be said that Cristiano Ronaldo would not shag himself to shreds if the opportunity so arose, so I can’t imagine that the reigning World’s Best Player would be dead pleased with this. It looks like The Head from Art Attack. It looks like a young geezer from Huddersfield who took too many pills and now he’ll never eat bread right again. It looks like his eyes have started slipping off his head. It looks like… It looks a bit like a commemoration to Raoul Moat – a kind of fever dream, rose-tinted Moaty, rebuilt in buff orange metal.
I never realised a statue could feel pain.
This sculptor might find himself floating off the Madeiran coast, but not before Ronny and the boys have pelted a few free-kicks at him first.
(Or, you know, Ronaldo might just think “lol fuck it – everyone knows what I actually look like. This is just a slip of the hand by a man trying his best. Come here, Sculptor Man: let me buy you a three-pack pair of grey-and-white CR7 undies to say thank you.”)