Football sees itself as special, unfettered by rules designed for ordinary people

Steve Bruce’s grotesque contribution on Ched Evans shows how much is still to be learned from this squalid affair

IN a week of sound and fury, of passionate conviction and vigorous dissent, the voice of Steve Bruce soared out above the din. He was pledging his support to Ched Evans, and he did so in these words: ‘ When you look at the evidence, it is there for appeal... it’s a pity they could not have the appeal and get it over and done with... when you look at the case in detail, and I don’t think most people have really, because they have just seen Ched Evans as a convicted rapist, when you do look at the case and look at the evidence then certainly Ched has got a case... I think the events of the appeal, for me, will see Ched be allowed to play football again.’

So far as I can ascertain, Bruce has no legal qualifications, neither did he sit through the Evans trial, hear the evidence, study the faces of the witnesses; all those chores which are routinely undertaken by dutiful juries.

But those trifles did not inhibit him from deciding not only that the verdict was wrong, but that the Court of Appeal was similarly misguided when it concluded: ‘The court saw no possible basis which would justify their interference with the verdict of the jury which heard all the evidence and reflected on it following a careful summing up by the judge.’

Which may be all very well for some, but it cuts no ice with our Steve. For Bruce is a football manager and, as such, he believes that his views carry considerable weight.

So when he delivers a line like: ‘When you look at the evidence, it is there for appeal’, he actually expects to be taken seriously. Equally, when he declares it ‘a pity’ that such an appeal could not be given precedence, he is stating a case for special treatment. And it is that grotesque delusion which lies at the heart of a deeply divisive week.

Football at large sees itself as special, exalted, unfettered by rules designed for ordinary people. At its most sordid level, the one inhabited by Ched Evans, it embraces what was brilliantly described as the ‘I’ve got a bird culture’, the notion that women are merely targets, trophies, notches on the bedpost of a cheap hotel.

The Appeal judgement, the one with which m’learned friend Mr Bruce disagreed, touched on a few telling details of the night in question; the two fine fellows who gleefully filmed events through the hotel window; Evans’ friend Clayton McDonald leaving the hotel in the middle of the night and instructing the porter to look out for the girl in Room 14, because she was sick. She was also alone, naked, and helpless.

It is worth recalling those details before we are swept along on a tide of selective compassion, the one which would see the rapist trot out to a burst of prurient acclaim, while cameras track his every move and bovine chants inform us that ‘Ched Evans, he s**** who he likes’.

In fairness, the case for redemption has been frequently and seriously put forward since first Sheffield United, then Oldham attempted to employ Evans. Sheffield United swiftly retreated in the face of public disapproval, while Oldham simply made themselves figures of fun with absurdly protracted boardroom negotiations and occasional pompous communiques from the chief executive. Then the sponsors bared their teeth, and the club promptly caved in.

But there is strength in the argument that Evans has served his sentence — or at least the custodial part — and should therefore be allowed to take up where he left off. There is, however, rather more strength in the feeling that such a return would send out all the wrong messages, that the restoration of a man who remains free on licence for the next two and a half years and whose name will remain on the sex offenders’ list indefinitely should not be instantly readmitted.

It would offer the most damaging evidence that football remains laddishly indifferent to violence against women.

CLEARLY, Evans has not helped his own cause, first by allowing the continuation of the slack-jawed website set up to proclaim his ‘innocence’, then by repeatedly declining to apologise to his victim. He was eventually persuaded that some expression of contrition might be in order, so he came out with a ponderous parody which fatuously invoked ‘mob rule’ tactics and unhelpful media reporting before apologising for ‘the effect that night in Rhyl has had on many people, especially the woman concerned’.

He sounded marginally less sincere than that announcer who regrets the late running of the 12.03 to Clapham Junction.

Given that he is unlikely to find a club in the foreseeable future, his course of action is limited. Ideally, he would find some form of employment away from the public gaze, while pursuing his approach to the Criminal Cases Review Commission, which has the power to refer cases to the appeal courts.

This would take time, of course, but if the process extended until the full five-year sentence were exhausted, then a kind of justice would have been served.

We should hope that, both Evans and the sport he has tainted will learn important lessons from the squalid affair. And, more fervently, we should hope that the victim whose life has been so viciously defiled will discover a measure of tranquility.

For there is only one person in this case who merits our sympathy. And that person is not the celebrity rapist named Ched Evans.