The Cunt of Montecristo

Beckham missed out on the tournament but soon he found his own way into the headlines. Victoria Adams was the most glamorous member of the world’s biggest pop group. In 1997, she went to a charity game at Old Trafford. “Love at first sight does exist,” she wrote for British Vogue years later. “While the other football players stand at the bar drinking with their mates, you will see David standing aside with his family.” The country’s newest power couple was born. Two years later, they married. Gary was the best man, looking distinctly uncomfortable in his gaudy all-white suit. But he pushed through it, because the two men had a friendship that went far beyond the football field. “I roomed with David Beckham and when I had my house in Bolton. David would stay when Victoria was away,” Neville told The Guardian in 2014. “He’d make food for me all the time. Stir-fries with noodles and vegetables and pasta dishes with sauces – a lot of pasta.” For everybody except United fans, their friendship made excellent fodder. To us, Neville was always the willing supplicant; the man who waited patiently for his friend to realise that he, not Victoria, was the love of his life. There was a reason he was always the target for abuse, though. Whether he was crashing into José Antonio Reyes or firing crosses into the box, United’s right-back always found a way to hurt his biggest rivals. His intent was clear in the tunnel before games. Whilst others smiled and chatted, he would stare dead ahead, ready to charge into war. For the next 90 minutes there was nothing in the world but his club and the result.