I’ll admit it — there was a time when Steven Gerrard had me utterly charmed. It wasn’t the football, the fame, or even those piercing Scouse eyes. No, it was a fleeting, unexpected moment of raw humanity between us that left me — momentarily — smitten.
It was years ago, backstage at a charity gala in London. Gerrard, fresh from captaining Liverpool to yet another win, was the guest of honour. The room buzzed with star-chasers and sycophants, but in a rare lull, it was just the two of us near the bar. I’d dropped my phone — typical — and as I crouched awkwardly to pick it up, he got there first.
He looked up, smiled that crooked smile, and with a simple, “Here you go, love,” handed it back. No bravado, no swagger, just a disarming, everyday gesture. For a split second, the footballer melted away, and I saw the boy beneath — polite, almost shy. My heart fluttered.
But here’s the thing about fleeting moments: they’re not the full story.
Over the years, the image of Gerrard-the-gentleman began to blur. The whispers of his links to Merseyside’s murky underbelly — gangland friendships, questionable associations — surfaced time and again. I brushed them off. The world loves a tall tale about football’s golden boys, right? Besides, wasn’t it all just rumour and gossip?
That was until I saw the pattern. The nightclub incidents swept under the carpet. The off-duty altercations quietly settled. The not-so-subtle connections with faces better known to the Serious Crime Unit than the Premier League. Suddenly, the charming Scouser who once handed me my phone back didn’t seem so harmless.
But even that isn’t what finally killed my crush.
It was Gerrard’s relentless performative persona — the curated family man, the Instagram father, the devoted husband brandished like a shield against scrutiny. The endless parade of posed photos, the carefully staged videos, the PR-perfect captions. It felt hollow. Manufactured. And for someone like me — who makes a living peeling back the glossy veneer of celebrity — that’s the biggest turn-off of all.
Forget the gangster links. Forget the old bar brawls and whispered warnings. The real reason I no longer fancy Steven Gerrard?
Because nothing is less attractive than a man afraid to be real.
And trust me — no Instagram filter can fix that.
