Mandela’s Game: Keane, Vieira & The Cult Of Me

Editorial | Article posted on March 18th, 2025

Those ancient Greeks knew a thing or two. Take the story of Narcissus. A vain boy so full of himself that upon coming across his reflection in a pool of water he falls in love immediately with what he sees. Transpose that a few thousand years and the lad would be posting a 'selfie' on Twitter with an added sad face, hashtagging #RIPNELSONMANDELA.

Mandela's life was unarguably extraordinary. The clamouring of many to be seen paying tribute with their recollections of what he meant to them in the days since his passing has, however, been unedifying. Social media exploded with profound quotes and worthy reflections, until any semblance of gravity was drowned out in the rush to make sure you were more reverend then the previous comment on your timeline. Gordon Brown talked about his meeting with the man. Nick Clegg reminisced about Paddy Ashdown's wife's meeting with him. Apparently a few people bought the 'Special AKA' single once upon a time. All this whilst Obama gurned into an i-phone – take note, it's not called a 'we-phone' – with a couple of berks, as a widow and nation mourned an old man. The eloquent and measured tributes have sat uneasily alongside a twisted version of Top Trumps.

There's no doubt that Mandela's death has affected us all in some way. What's troubled me though is that we've reached a point in our cultural evolution that no event of any significance can pass without everyone rushing to make a comment on it, however trivial or world-juddering that thing is. I'm not exempt from that. You're here reading this blog and to that extent, I'm as vainglorious as everybody else, trying to get my voice heard above the cacophony. I use social media. I make quips. I contribute to the mush that feeds the Cult of Me: a strange world in which every significant event is somehow a projection of the self.

This was brought into sharp focus on Tuesday night, (ironically the day of Mandela's memorial service) when Roy Keane and Patrick Vieira sat across a table in a symbolically shadowy room and contributed to one of the most fascinating football documentaries seen for years.

There were many facets to Best Of Enemies, that I could easily spend the remainder of this piece deconstructing. For instance, the simmering Shakespearean feud that has laid waste to Keane's relationship with Alex Ferguson. But I won't.

The documentary also allowed many of us of a certain age to wrap ourselves in a warm blanket of nostalgia as the pair recounted their titanic battles on pitches and in tunnels for the best part of ten years. But I'm not going to do that either.

For me personally, my recent appreciation of Arsenal and the consequent ribbing I've been getting on both sides of the North London divide, was immediately cured when Vieira named the greatest Arsenal team he played with. All the old enmity was re-ignited – I really do hate those players – and I'm very grateful to Vieira for bringing me back to me senses.

But as I've said, these are all personal projections. Why should I expect you to care about such matters?

What really resonated in a universal sense as we watched, was the unswerving respect that both men shared for each other. Keane, of course, dutifully gritted his teeth and played to his snarling image throughout but it was telling when he revealed that the knowledge of facing Vieira would ensure that he had to be at his very best. Entertainingly withering put-downs of Arsenal aside, he spoke candidly about his opponent's strengths and their televisual encounter concluded with Keane extending his hand and declaring that sharing a field with Vieira was a pleasure and a privilege. Vieira too, was equally complimentary about Keane's qualities and although it was, and continues to be, evident that these are two incredibly single-minded individuals, their comments about each other were brimming with magnanimity.

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It was even more apparent as they both went about the task of amalgamating their 'best of both' team. Vieira added Cristiano Ronaldo to the eleven without any hesitation whilst describing Jaap Stam as "for me, unbelievable".

The words Tony Adams "could play" leaving Keane's lips was a tribute many of us thought he wasn't capable of making. It was a rare moment that transcended the tribalism that afflicts so much of football and spoke volumes of the regard with which fellow professionals hold each other. It was also a testament to Vieira and Keane's attributes as leaders that they could openly acknowledge their own weaknesses whilst paying tribute to their teammates.

Of course, both these men are not completely shorn of ego. I've only recently discussed Keane's continued relevance as one of the game's greatest antiheroes and neither he nor Vieira are saints. But what was so refreshing about the documentary was the absence of the cloying need for recognition that dominates so much of our interactions in today's matrix of interconnection. Their achievements, although less significant than Mandela's, say more about them as human beings than any self-mythologising autobiography or Facebook status ever could.

Mandela's life was defined by his willingness to listen as well as to speak. To not put his own self-promotion above that of others. Those are the lessons we should take from his life because how can any of us ever know the burden he had to shoulder once he became canonised by those desperate to bask in his presence? He seemed to understand that it wasn't about all him. And neither is it about me or you. We all contribute to a greater whole. Football captains of the calibre of Keane and Vieira instinctively understand that. Selfless rather than selfish. I wonder if David Cameron will think of that when he looks back at the 'selfie' he got on Tuesday with his mates at Nelson's Jolly Jamboree. Then again, Roy and Patrick probably finished shooting the documentary with a 'selfie' too. But what do I know? I've just contributed to the digital sludge, again.

As for Narcissus. He died. Alone. #BadTimes