With many of the Dallas boys unlikely to make it all the way to professional level, when would the chance to share a pitch, even a training pitch, with a genuine global superstar come around again? The answer for nearly all of them is undoubtedly 'never'. The only thing that needs reporting here is that some young hopeful footballers were able to meet and 'jam' with some very famous other footballers.
If you find the alleged score-line funny, try learning the facts, step into the 21st century and just plain grow up. To continue the discussion on Twitter follow jamiespencer Visit www.
Jamie Spencer 07 Apr Of course, we are far from alone and that is some comfort. All teenagers think their parents are stupid.
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When my son teensplains the causes of the first world war to me a modern history graduate , I remember the conservation biologist whose son teensplained the need for renewable energy to her and her alternative energy consultant husband, and another acquaintance who was treated to a lecture on menstruation from her year-old son. First, it can be comforting to think that there may be a degree of karmic comeuppance involved: you did it to your parents and some years hence, your children will suffer in turn.
As a teenager, I was certainly convinced of my vast intellectual superiority over my parents, Professor Beddington and Professor Baldwin, in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary. My father has a mathematical model named after him, but I spent six years believing him to be the stupidest individual ever to walk the face of the earth.
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So outlandishly stupid did I believe him to be that I walked 10 paces behind him in the street, a punishment now regularly meted out to me by my own offspring. As ye sow, so shall ye reap. I look forward to watching any future grandchildren I may have trail my sons at a surly, disgusted distance.
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But what, if anything, can we do about it? There are two schools of thought. You know how cats are attracted to the people who give them the least attention? Teenagers are basically cats children aged four to 10 are labradors, obviously, and the under-fours are the product of some unholy union of howler monkey and honey badger. Stories of your partying or your festival-going are revolting: they do not care that you saw Radiohead in before they were famous or once shared a urinal with Bobby Gillespie.
Plough your own austere, consistently adult furrow. If you follow this approach religiously, you may occasionally be rewarded by a languid advance: a head laid on your shoulder as you watch television or an off-hand request to be shown how to make chocolate chip cookies or solve a quadratic equation.
You may not. The key thing is not to care too much one way or the other. Alternatively, you can prove them right. Ham it up: wear a cagoule in public, say you really love that new tune from Asos then start singing it loudly and ask them if they still like that nice Floella.
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The thing is, I love teenagers — mine and others. For all the scorn and the ridicule and the galling refusal to listen to my excellent advice, they are wonderful company: funny, intensely alive and exploding with ideas, the most vivid distillation of what it is to be human. I truly feel lucky just to be around them except when I want to kill them.
My friend Barbara recently asked her teenage daughter if there was anything she could do to stem the flow of adolescent scorn coming her way. Words to live by, fellow idiots.