On Sportweek the story of Gascoigne and his life as a novel. Never banal. Never normal. Yesterday, as still today, eternally overspeed
If it is true that every self-respecting thriller demands a murder, that of Paul Gascoigne is a story out of focus and waiting for an ending: we are faced with an endless series of attempts – and luckily they have not been realized – of a man bailed out of life which, like a mad fly, has always flapped on the edges; a champion who shot himself in the foot, diving like a bomb into the sea of vices (alcohol, drugs, fights) letting himself go down, down, down, until he got lost, then went up again, pushed by who knows what current friend, and returned to the surface, fumbling and kicking and punching everyone, journalists, bartenders and policemen, women of a night and companions of a lifetime.
