Talking Point: Penises – This Weekend in the Premier League

This is probably an unpopular opinion, but hear me out: goals are worst thing about football. There were 27 of them in the Premier League on Saturday alone, turning a traditional day of relaxation into one of the most stressful events of the week. Following on from the defensive zenith of Serie A in the 1990s, world football seems to have decided that defending is now a bit passé, and the sport has subsequently become an endless whirlwind of mind-blowing efforts by lithe multi-millionaires; a sensory overload which – much like sex or class A drugs – nobody is actually enjoying any more because it's all got a bit too intense.

Football fans just don't have the stamina for this much entertainment; give us a scoreless draw in a tumbledown stadium which smells of Bovril over a goal-fest any day. Thankfully, this column isn't about "goals" and "tactics" and all that nu-modern bullshit, so settle in and get ready for an analysis of all the best bants™ and spiciest takes.

Alan Shearer, with his Geordie lilt and gloriously restrained one-armed celebration. Wayne Rooney, soft-spoken everyman, occasional tab smoker and Croxteth's rose. Gary Lineker, the goalscoring legend who has only half ruined his legacy by becoming a leftie luvvie. English football has produced many beloved forwards down the years. Jamie Vardy is not one of them.

Vardy's short spell as the Premier League's hottest striker was a surreal and extremely depressing journey to the heart of celebrity; starting with an incident of alleged racial abuse in a casino and ending with England's defeat to Iceland at the Euros, it was hard not to follow his progress with grim fascination. There were film offers, rumoured television shows and masses of tabloid gossip, as well as the small matter of him picking up a professional doppelganger, who he at one point labelled "an absolute full-kit wanker". Then his time in the limelight was over, and only an echo of the horrible profanities he once directed at Jon Moss remained.

Vardy was back in the limelight this weekend, however, with a wild performance in Leicester's 3-2 defeat to Liverpool. Having scored a goal, needled the opposition and generally got up to his usual antics, he won one of those clever penalties for which he has become known in a 50-50 challenge with Simon Mignolet. Watching as the subsequent spot kick was palmed away, memories of that bizarre and upsetting year of Vardymania flashed before our eyes. Thank god that's over now and everything is as it should be again.

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The metaphorical axe is not so much falling on managers these days as hacking through them with maniacal fervour, sending their blood flowing down the infernal altar of the Premier League and pooling on the floor of Richard Scudamore's office. From there it is presumably collected, bottled and used to sustain the waning life force of the FA. With Frank de Boer getting only four games at Crystal Palace before he was brutally dispensed with, there are several managers long overdue for the chop at this point. Leicester's Craig Shakespeare should probably be worried with his side hovering just above the drop zone, but there's a man just below him who'd be our best bet as the next one sacrificed to the axeman's blade.

Slaven Bilic has a bit of cachet as far as Premier League managers go: he performs in a rock band, plays guitar and identifies as a big old socialist. Unfortunately, the spirit of chilled-out insouciance has wormed its way into West Ham's game, which is one of the reasons they struggled to string a pass together for much of this weekend's 3-2 loss to Tottenham. Bilic supposedly has a strong connection with the fans because he played for the Hammers for a year or so in the late-90s, but even that bond has to be wearing thin after months and months of lackadaisical football. Then again, knowing what we do about the precarious nature of modern management – and seeing as Palace were beaten 5-0 by Man City on Saturday – it's possible Roy Hodgson will beat Bilic to the axe, despite having only just returned to the Premier League.

Before we even begin to discuss the Romelu Lukaku chant controversy, we should state in unequivocal terms that it is racially insensitive. The reasons for this have been explained very eloquently elsewhere, and are probably best summarised here. Of course, the modern world being what it is, the usual suspects have been frothing at the mouth about political correctness, cultural Marxism and liberals pissing on everyone's chips, lamenting the loss of the limitless fun to be had singing about a footballer's bellend. Those among the Man United fanbase who were minded to continue with the chant said they'd only stop singing it if Lukaku told them to, only to respond to his request to "move on" by doing it anyway, because obviously he didn't mean it.

While this is, in one sense, a sad indictment of our infantile society, it should be pointed out that it is also one of those rare occasions where – in the heedless pursuit of their PC-gone-mad agenda – angry right-wingers are advocating men being able to appreciate each other's penises. If we could only remove gross racial stereotyping from the equation, we might even be half way to yer da having a progressive opinion.

The last word on this weekend should be reserved for Jurgen Klopp, who most people would now agree needs to chill the fuck out when celebrating. It was endearing at first when he launched into a succession of perfectly choreographed Mortal Kombat moves whenever Liverpool scored a goal, but at this point you have to wonder whether he's actually, you know, OK.

As someone pointed out on Twitter during Liverpool's win over Leicester, he looked like he was fighting off an army of invisible spirits after his team's third goal at the King Power Stadium. Either Klopp knows something we don't about the afterlife, or he needs to stop celebrating with WWE routines where sometimes a simple thumbs up would do.

@W_F_Magee