Of all the things which are irrational about human beings - irrational fears, irrational desires, even irrational hopes - there is one irrationality which surely burns on with a singular satisfaction: the irrational hatred of people you do not know.

In the 1980s, the focus of my dislike was Paddy McAloon from pop goons Prefab Sprout, a supposed "genius" who was, to me, the definition of faux-clever, winsome weediness, yodelling "hot dog, jumping frog" to zero poetic affect. Similarly, an inexplicable howl of horror would rise from my dad whenever twittering 1960s songbird Petula Clark popped up.

But these irrational bouts of fury provide an essential social purpose, a bottomless repository for the excess bile the world inspires. Otherwise, we'd possibly say what we really think about people we actually know and then where would we be? Unemployed, with very few friends and a considerably smaller family.

And this bilious siphoning, for some of us, is the only truly worthwhile aspect of footballer Cristiano "Twinkle Toes" Ronaldo, who was last week named Fifa's World Player Of The Year 2008, which did nothing, naturally, to wipe the triumphant smirk off his infinitely punchable mug.

But for those of us who hate him, it's as if, irrationally, the more we hate him, the more brilliant he becomes, because he is undeniably brilliant, possessed of the fancy footwork of a flamboyant matador with his ballet pumps on fire. Yet this makes no dent whatsoever in the other undeniable fact, that's he's a profoundly diabolical sportsman: a cheat, a diver, a so-called "winker" and a manipulator.

His very name conjures a knee-jerk spasm of wrath: like a combination of some haute couture fashion designer who carries a Shitzu around in a serviette and a different footballing giant of yore, "The" Ronaldo (whose name Cristiano nicked for himself, having been given the middle name Ronaldo in honour of the considerably less fabulous Ronald Reagan).

This Wrong Ronaldo is a joyless, sleazy, megalomaniacal braggart whose teeth have been cosmetically perfected, who waxes his chest and says: "I am a bit vain, I've had a few cosmetic things done. It would be hypocritical of me to say I think I'm ugly."

Ronaldo's £200,000 Ferrari crash the other week was another example of his stratospherical conceit, purring out of his driveway the next morning in his £140,000 Bentley Continental GT Speed and claiming no responsibility at all for the crash, which he blamed on "a patch of oil". At least now he's Ferrari-uninsurable, according to an AA spokesman. "We cannot," he bugled, "find anybody who would touch him with a barge pole" (nor me, mate) citing a minimum hypothetical sum of "around £100,000". Which is less, of course, than the £120,000 a week Ronaldo is paid.

And football's financial absurdity continued with last week's £103 million and £500,000-a-week salary offer to AC Milan by Manchester City for the Brazilian striker Kaka. Seemingly football is the only billion-pound business immune to the global crisis, and surely the financial idiocy of the modern game is the most "rational" hatred of them all.

In the future, when we look back at this decade and examine the folly of our abundant ways, Cristiano Ronaldo will be remembered less for those twinkling toes than as the living embodiment of an era which looked so pretty on the outside and couldn't be uglier at its core, a gifted sportsman who wouldn't know inspirational team-playing if it stamped on his golden boots.

"Children all over are mad about me," he once smirked. "Not just poor children, all children. We mean so much to them." As opposed to "them" meaning anything to "him"?

Let's hope he comes back, in another life, as a 5ft 2in winger of a Ballachulish shinty team and only then, perhaps, as the opposing defenders prepare to play golf with his ears will he understand the words the rest of us have been hearing all week as the jobs meltdown continues: "terrifying", "truly awful", "frightening", "alarming", "particularly ominous".

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