When you're sick of stale tripe recall the Fighting Pig

Yesterday I thought of Marc Wilmots. Wilmots played for Belgium from 1990 to 2002. He was the sort of bustling, courageous attacking midfield player that British commentators always used to say "had a style that would suit English football" - as if that was some kind of compliment.

Wilmots was nicknamed "the Fighting Pig". He scored lots of goals for Belgium and for Mechelen, Standard Liege and Schalke 04, but, as his soubriquet suggests, they were rarely pretty affairs. A typical Wilmots goal would see the No7 hurtle into the penalty area, bash over two opponents, stumble and then have a panicking defender's clearance cannon off his chin and into the net via the inside of the post. In the opening match of the 2000 European Championship, against Sweden, Wilmots delighted the home fans at the King Baudouin Stadium in Brussels by diving full length for a cross so low the ball actually got wedged between his forehead and the turf.

The Belgians loved Wilmots not because of his talent - which was greater than I'm letting on - but because of his ordinariness. Out to the east of Brussels in Limburg, a region routinely lampooned by the rest of the nation as being so behind the times that even the end of the world will arrive there 10 years late, people smile affectionately when you mention his name. "Marc is a down-to-earth guy," they say. "I see him often on the farm driving his tractor."

The reason I was thinking about the Fighting Pig was because on Five Live's 606 a Liverpool fan from Devon had phoned in to say that "Robbie Fowler is a natural goalscorer". Wilmots would not, I hazard, ever have been described as a natural goalscorer, but my experience of playing football suggests that his sort of bundling, deflected, shunt, shove and unexpected smack and hiss of leather against hip, wood and netting was more natural than a sweetly struck half-volley from 10 yards out.

"Robbie Fowler is a natural goalscorer," the caller reiterated with a degree of self-satisfaction that suggested he thought this old nugget was a thing so wondrous and fresh as to make Botticelli's Venus look like Barry Davies pickled in turps. "He will always nick you goals and his record proves that because it is second to none."

Such smug delivery of received wisdom is something of a feature of radio phone-ins - which are surely the main cause of the sudden lack of interest in democracy. I mean, one hour of listening to text messages from Dave on the M62 would have convinced even Robespierre of the need for an absolute monarch. But it is particularly pronounced when people talk about football, because for some reason they feel compelled to speak like pundits, players and managers. "I'm well gutted, mate," Oxford dons say when asked to sum up their feelings about a defeat. "But to be fair the Blues was different class on the park today early doors."

Strangely, this tendency does not extend to other areas of life. When talking about your home, for instance, you don't babble like an estate agent. Asked where you live you don't say, "On the fringes of desirable Duffstead close to all local amenities and convenient for East Midlands airport and the M6. A personal inspection is highly recommended to fully appreciate the flexible accommodation this well-maintained property offers."

The point about the "natural goalscorer" (What does it mean, incidentally? Somebody who was scoring goals from the cradle? A toddler who when handed his dummy nodded it between the two nearest uprights and pulled his T-shirt over his head to reveal a vest bearing the message "me no go potty" in crayon?) is that you never hear the flip side. You never hear a forward described as an "unnatural goalscorer". This is a pity, as I would like to see some unnatural goals every once in a while. I'm not sure what they would involve, though I imagine a goat and possibly the shadow of a wicker man might feature.

The lack of unnatural goalscorers points to a problem that needs addressing. The English language has antonyms and what the language of football is crying out for is anto-clichés. Wouldn't it be nice, for example, to hear commentators react to a sliced volley that sails over the bar like a helium balloon by saying, "Oh dear, and this boy certainly has got a savoury right foot"? Or rubbish an Adriano tap-in with the words: "And if he hadn't been Brazilian we'd have stopped talking about that long before the pub shut." Or explain events in Portsmouth with a quick "in the past fortnight the word coming out of Fratton Park is that Harry Redknapp has found the dressing room."

And while Steve Bruce's Birmingham won on Tuesday against Bolton, let's not get excited. Let's remember what has gone on over the past six months. After all, a bad manager doesn't become a good manager overnight. Clearly, as Steve would be the first to argue, you're only as poor as your last result.