We have all listened to Michael Owen's punditry. We hear it on the television, and we replay it over and over in our heads. It haunts our dreams, it rings in our ears as we go about our daily business. We hear it whispered on the wind, and it chills us to the marrow of our bones.
Michael Owen's punditry is not good punditry. That is the opinion of all mankind. Type "Michael Owen" into Twitter's search bar during a BT Sport game, and gaze upon the endless reams of vitriol, bile and atrocious rancour it inspires. Immerse yourself in the dark pit of mental cruelty, sink down to the subterranean depths of human spite. Here resides Michael Owen's punditry, chastised for all eternity by the razor-sharp tongues of Twitter's screeching multitude. Here resides Michael Owen's punditry, broken on the wheel of our pitiless judgement, and scattered to the darkest depths of Hades.
Michael Owen doesn't help himself, in fairness. Not only does he offer up meaningless cliches and truisms at every given opportunity, he also continues to say things that are patently and demonstrably wrong. While commenting on the Europa League final, he suggested that Liverpool are only behind Real Madrid and Barcelona when it comes to attracting star footballers. This is disproved by the fact that Liverpool were forced to start Kolo Toure in their resounding defeat to Sevilla, and that they've spent several years watching their best players depart to other Premier League clubs.
There is only one logical explanation as to why Michael Owen would say something like this. He must know the sort of reaction this will elicit on social media; he must know that he will be excoriated by a thousand diabolical barbs. The only explanation is that he actually likes the criticism. He revels in the online castigation, bathing himself in an ocean of pain.
Hence, we implore you, please stop abusing Michael Owen. You are only giving him what he wants. The public revile his punditry, and he takes pleasure from that cruelty. He is Kevin Spacey in American Beauty, but the rose petals that flutter around him are the mean tweets of an enraged horde.
Michael Owen's punditry is only comprehensible as an act of masochism. We are the crude sadists, whipping away at his inane platitudes with furious glee. We think we are in control, but we are merely indulging the true tormentor. In criticising Michael Owen's punditry, we gratify his insatiable desires.