The Fiver | Talk of crisis is relative. Then again, this is Real Madrid

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Six months ago, Zinedine Zidane strode big-leggy back into town, a modern-day John Wayne returning to save the day. His wasn’t an arrogant strut: the poor man had no option but to walk in a preposterously mannered style because of the fruitbowl-bothering, midlife-crisis kecks he was wearing. The best-left-to-teenagers strides were also the reason he had to leave the Harley Davidson at home. Well you try mounting a hog in a pair of please-tell-me-those-shrunk-in-the-wash-and-you-didn’t-as-a-46-year-old-man-actively-choose-such-a-style tapered breeks! It was all he could do to stand uneasily at the podium, propped up like a half-squeezed tube of toothpaste by the bathroom sink, while promising to bring the glory days back to Real Madrid. So let’s give him a break, eh.

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