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The Joey Barton guide to the moral high ground

HELLO, I’m Joey Barton, former City player, failed manager, and wife-beater, speaking to you from atop a mountain of righteousness. And you can too. 

First, establish yourself as the lone truth-teller in a world of liars. I’ve done this with a quote from some bastard atop my Twitter account. Haven’t bothered crediting them, I could have come up with it myself if I had time. I’m a f**king philosopher.

Next, it’s important you substantiate this by revealing some facts the media doesn’t want people to know. Mine usually centre around the oppression of white people, because I’m not racist.

To prove that I also have a sideline slagging off any and all women who dare to play in men’s sports. And by men’s sports I mean ‘sports I’m interested in’. All of which I’m an expert in, because I’m a man and I played for England.

What do you f**king mean it was one friendly under Steve McClaren and I only f**king came on for the last f**king 15 minutes of a one-nil defeat? I will twat you with a pool cue until it breaks then stab the broken end into your throat, wanker.

Which brings me to my next point: authenticity. Threats like the above are credible because I’ve been done for assault a few times. And I’ve risen above it, which makes me a better person than all these liberal twats who’ve never stubbed out a cigar in a teammate’s eye.

Showing your duality and knowledge of the greats like Nietzsche, Orwell, Morrissey and Tommy Robinson is also necessary. Proves you’re a thinker who makes their own moral choices. Call anyone who you disagree with a nerd and a virgin.

There you go, you’re morally unassailable. Your podcast is going to do numbers, like about 0.375 per cent of Lineker’s, the prick. I’d hold him by the ears and butt his smug face flat.

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Severance, and other bullshit shows you've pretended to understand to join in

ROLL up, there’s a new impenetrable TV show in town that looks fantastic and goes f**king nowhere. But you don’t want to be left out so you’re watching with the rest: 

Severance (2022-ongoing) 

After a mind-numbing day at the office, what could thrill more than someone else’s mind-numbing day at the office? With a grey colour palette, an eerie soundtrack and softly-spoken, abstract dialogue? Best show of the year though, you bullshit at the water cooler, because it’s an allegory for purgatory or capitalism, Everyone nods, thoughtfully.

Twin Peaks (1990-91)

Of course you understood Lynch’s seminal work: in a town somewhere in the Pacific Northwest, there were many, many hot people. They interacted in sexy ways. This made up for the lack of any plot that made sense, just as it does in all sexy hot people shows.

Lost (2005-2010)

A plane crash lands on an island and, within short order, many mysteries are revealed. The answers to these mysteries are further mysteries. By the fourth season all hope of comprehensibility has long departed, and after that everyone starts shuffling around in time. In the end? It ended. That’s about all its viewers can be sure of.

That Scandinavian murder show (2007-2018 approx)

Which one? It doesn’t matter. You claimed to be into all of them rather than be the workplace pariah, even though they merged in your head into one giant frowning-woman-in-argyle-jumper. You did try to watch, but it’s very hard to read the subtitles when you’re on your phone.

Succession (2018-2023)

The swearing was good. The rap was funny. But anytime anything remotely business-related came up you went as blank as you do during the financial bit on the news, and had to check with your partner ‘Is that good or bad?’ because you’re above such petty concerns as corporate mergers, share prices and money.

Only Connect (2008-ongoing) 

One day Victoria Coren-Mitchell will reveal this whole thing was a scripted dramatic experiment designed to fool the public by psychologists and thank you for taking part. How else would anyone get any of those pissing questions right?

In the Night Garden… (2007-2009)

Your pre-schoolers believed you found Makka Pakka’s stacking and cleaning of stones as relatable as they did. Instead you spent 15 minutes every evening gripping hard to each arm of your chair, convinced you were suffering an acid flashback and begging it to stop. Teletubbies is more your level. That’s a class B drug.

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