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I like Gary Neville's football commentary. But his political commentary, like his Dennis the Menace haircut, needs a lot of work. In case you missed it, the Manchester United legend whipped up a storm after admitting he ripped down a Union Jack flag on one of his building sites.
Then, with all the logical coherence of one of his infamous goalgasms, he blamed "angry, middle-aged white men" for dividing the country… says the 50-year-old white man, angrily and divisively. He must sense irony about as well as United's recruitment staff sense value in the transfer market. Middle-aged white blokes have become the Harry Maguire of modern Britain: eternally dorky, forever the easy punchline and ridiculed by everybody. Blaming them is like Paul Scholes' punditry – it's lazy, overly-simplistic and misses some pretty key talking points.
For instance, the rise of Islamism in the UK – the radical ideology, that has nothing to do with ordinary Muslims but everything to do with fanaticism and hate, was behind the recent horrific Manchester Synagogue attack. In response, flags were erected as a gesture of solidarity, not division. But Neville was too consumed by middle-aged white man rage to notice.
It's no surprise. Gary's a walking contradiction, which, to his credit, he's admitted before. He calls himself a "champagne socialist," a phrase that makes as much sense as "diet kebab" or "Wayne Rooney: master tactician."
This is the same Gary Neville who pocketed Qatari money after months of moral grandstanding about the ethics of the World Cup. A man who preaches about worker empowerment while paying staff at his luxury hotels minimum wage. A man who'll lecture the masses on unity while literally tearing down the country's flag.
The flag isn't some fringe emblem – it's on Gary's passport, the number plate for his Bentley and the England shirt he wore 85 times. Now it's somehow too controversial for his building site? You couldn't script it better – although if you did, he'd probably rant about how divisive the colour of the paper is.
Neville may think the Union Jack has been co-opted by the wrong crowd – fair enough – but that doesn't make it radioactive. If anything, it makes it worth reclaiming. Symbols don't lose meaning just because a few silly sods have misused them. Just look at United's badge – still an image of prestige and dominance despite the club spending the last decade like Thomas Tuchel's hairline: receding alarmingly.
But instead of engaging with that, Gary's taken the easy route: the self-important moral pose, the "look at me, I'm above all this" routine. It's as pathetic as his spell at Valencia was.
If he genuinely is above all this, he'd either keep schtum or he'd do what Ruben Amorim seems incapable of doing at United and that's be consistent, calling out dodgy behaviour wherever it appears.
Neville treats the culture war like it's one-sided, that problems are only coming from one end of the spectrum. Anyone who does that is as blindly self-absorbed as Jamie Carragher commentating on Liverpool games - and more out of touch than Nicolas Jackson when he's through on goal.
And that's the tragic irony: the lad from Bury who once fought for every inch on the pitch now lectures the people who buy the tickets. Gary Neville has become everything he once despised: a Grade-A snob who has betrayed his working class roots for the glow of moral superiority.
The fact that he tried to dress his position up as some harmless plea for the very middle ground his flag rant was bulldozing shows he's got the self-awareness of Richard Keys hosting a seminar about misogyny in the workplace – and a backbone as sturdy as Andre Onana's finger.
You can't be, as Gary claims he is, "a proud supporter of Britain" while treating British patriotism like Ange Postecoglou treats reporters after a defeat: with dismissive hostility. Neville built a legacy on defending for his country. But all he's defending these days is his hypocritical self-righteousness.
The sad part is, somewhere deep inside that wine-sipping, flag-fearing, virtue-signalling millionaire, there's still that scrappy right-back from Bury – sleeves rolled up, muddy boots, pride on his chest. Maybe one day, if Gaz stares long enough into the mirror, he'll remember that - and stop tearing down flags and the knuckle-down grit that made him.