Shar gets the boot - but it’s Darel who’s got the X-Factor

Miss Frank are no more - as in, they're out of the X-Factor. Which means City players can watch Strictly Come Dancing, Autumnwatch or, heaven forbid, the news, on their way back from Stockport tonight.

Darel Russell has been the man with the remote on away journeys since his sister, Shar, and her new band members got their 15 minuets of fame. But now that they've been voted out - instead of, I'm told, a set of twins who have “divided the nation”. Controversial, it seems.

So it's left to Rusty to fly the family flag, and I reckon if you were taking a poll for Player of the Year, he'd be up there with the best.

For my money, it's between the midfielder, Wes Hoolahan and Grant Holt.

Let's start in reverse order: Holt has it in him to become a genuine Norwich City hero. While fans bemoan the attitude of the game's prima donnas who cry off at the hint of a hang-nail, this man eats raw meat before games and performs like it's the last game of his career. He doesn't give up on a cause - and he's got a heap of skill as well.

In second place would be Hoolahan, a man of very different skills and a very different on-field attitude. Hoolahan isn't going to jump into a tackle, he isn't going to win the ball that's 60-40 in the favour of an opponent. Hoolahan wears ballet shoes to Holt's steel toe-caps. Remember the two awesome rugby players from Down Under, Aussie David Campese and Kiwi John Kirwan? One commentator said Campese could waltz around a brick wall - Kirwan just went through it. That's Hoolahan and Holt.

Stephen Hughes' comments about Hoolahan in the week were interesting in that he agreed that his team-mate could do a job for the Republic of Ireland in their World Cup play-off match against France - and perhaps at the tournament itself next summer. Why not? Is Andy Reid any better?

It might be just the stage Hoolahan needs to showcase his talents - and what better man to persuade Irish boss Giovanni Trapattoni than his assistant, the genius that is Liam Brady, who proved that you can be great even if you only use your right leg for standing on.

But I digress: World Cup call-ups are a sideshow: Norwich City is what matters. And that's why I'm going for Russell.

He started the season training with the youth team players, having been linked with a move away from Carrow Road. No one really knows whether he told Bryan Gunn he didn't want to play in League One or whether he was deemed to be a valuable asset, whose sale would enable the then manager to go out and buy two or three replacements. Was Russell an asset who, because City couldn't sell him, became a liability?

Whatever his situation, he was sidelined, out of the loop, unloved and unwanted: a good player going to waste.

Russell has made it clear he's not yet ready to explain what happened, but there are a few clues. All you have to do is take a look at what he's done since a quick word with Paul Lambert, who decided to bring him in from the cold. Instead of being shoved from pillar to post as he was under Glenn Roeder, who switched him from front to back to middle at the drop of a hat, Russell has been given a single job to do in midfield, and he's been brilliant.

Instead of moping, he's got down to business. He has spoken only of the positives, he has never courted sympathy, he has never been critical of the reasons behind his exile. He has been a professional.

Russell's bite in midfield is his own X-factor, he's walked the disciplinary tightrope time or two and got away with it, but he has never failed to give everything for the team.

He might not sing like an angel, but he's got my vote.

LET'S KICK THE SPITTING HABIT

Years ago, when my legs would support it, I used to actually play football. I was a kid, I had my role models, but mostly they wore hobnail boots and had names like Charlton and Law. I suppose I tried to emulate them, but I had neither the shot, the leap nor the desire to head a heavy football.

What I didn't do, if I could help it, was spit. Especially if family members were present.

Let's make one thing clear: if you're playing footy, you HAVE to spit sometimes. You just don't have to do it every few minutes by expelling a deluge of liquid from your mouth. Some mates used to spit yards, others would try too hard to show off and end up with something nasty hanging off their chin. Then there were others who would do the old one-nostril squirt: a finger one side of the nose, an enormous blast through the other nostril and, hey-ho, your tubes were clear for, what, five minutes. I couldn't do it if I tried.

I recall playing for Parson Drove youth team and noticing my uncle Johnny, who had graced their team as a lad, had arrived to watch. What with him and my parents there what could I do when I wanted that vital little spit? There was nothing for it but to use the sleeve - and we're not talking polyester and nylon, we're talking plain old cotton. It weighed a ton. My mum asked me afterwards if I had sore lips because I kept wiping them.

No - just half decent manners.

Today's players take spitting to the extreme, from the necessary to the vile.

The Health Protection Agency has told footballers not to spit because they could spread disease - and because they're not setting a good example.

“Spitting is disgusting at all times,” they said. “It's unhygienic and unhealthy, particularly if you spit close to other people. Footballers, like the rest of us, wouldn't spit indoors so they shouldn't do it on the football pitch.”

Too right.