From passion to precision: the case against football clichés

Alex Westran applies George Orwell's critique of clichés to Sheffield United management speak.

Alex Westran

George Orwell’s critique of clichés was mainly aimed at political language, but his ideas apply far beyond Parliament and propaganda. Ever since I read Politics and the English Language, I’ve thought about how cliché-ridden language shapes not only politics but also social media, work, conversations with my wife (I never listen), and, most of all, football.

Football is a melting pot of clichés. They’re everywhere: in press conferences, punditry, and pub debates. At times, they add colour or drama. But used carelessly, they do something more dangerous: they replace original thought with ready-made sentiment. Orwell warned us about that.

Put simply, Orwell argued that clichés replace thought and mask meaning. They are lazy at best, deceptive at worst.

From a pundit’s perspective, clichés offer a shortcut, a way to speak without really saying anything. Why explain a tactical shift when you can just say “he gave 110 per cent”?

From a manager’s perspective, they’re more troubling. If a manager relies on stock phrases to summarise a performance, rather than clear, original language, it raises questions. Have they actually analysed the game? Or are they translating vague emotional reactions into phrases that shield them from scrutiny?

We go again

In everyday football chat, or on Talksport (which isn’t always far off), phrases like “the game’s gone” or “we go again” often reflect the mental laziness Orwell warned against. In the pub, you can be forgiven for not wanting to analyse the second half too deeply, especially when “they didn’t show enough passion.”

“He gave 110 per cent”

Orwell would say these words stand in for genuine analysis. “The game’s gone” is easier than articulating what’s wrong with modern football — whether it’s VAR, commercialisation, or shifting values. These phrases feel familiar but mean little.

“We go again”

What does that even mean? It might suggest resilience or just fill a silence. It evokes something but explains nothing. If I ever ended up on the TV version of Room 101, that phrase would be my nomination. If I ended up in Orwell’s Room 101, I’d be surrounded by people using it to explain away their own failings as the world fell apart.

“Form is temporary, class is permanent”

Otherwise known as The Sunken Ship: fans of our porcine neighbours, self-described as “the classy club,” might reach for this old line. It offers comfort in decline. Rather than confront poor performance, fans use it to polish the badge while the ship sinks. Eventually, the water’s too high for lifeboats.

Manager speak: prefabricated passion

Orwell’s critique of political language also applies here. Managers use clichés to deflect, distract, or deny.

“The lads gave it everything”

Translation: don’t ask me about tactics.

Instead, Orwell would urge us to describe what actually happened. Say: “The midfield was overrun after the 60th minute because they stopped pressing.” Replace clichés with clarity: “The team’s body language showed a lack of belief,” not “They didn’t want it enough.”

Clichés serve a social function, but Orwell would argue they weaken the quality of discourse – in journalism, in football management, and in fandom. Clear, specific language doesn’t just elevate commentary. It helps us understand the game.

Clichéd Blades

Which brings us to Sheffield United. Replacing Chris Wilder, a man steeped in traditional football culture and its accompanying language, with Rubén Sellés, a more analytical, modern manager, is more than a tactical change. It’s a shift in identity.

From the McCabe era to the Prince, the club was led by individuals who acted with good intent but often in isolation. They controlled the narrative themselves, simplifying complexity into slogans, just as clichés let us speak without thinking. Sellés represents a break from that model.

Wilder often used phrases like:

• “We rolled our sleeves up.”

• “He’s a football man.”

• “We’ve got to show passion.”

These are Orwell’s dying metaphors, once meaningful, now hollow. They appeal to emotion but say little.

By contrast, Sellés is more precise:

• “We need to control what we can control.”

• “We work with facts, not hope.”

It’s not flashy, but it’s honest. It reflects intellectual discipline over motivational noise.

The fan’s identity crisis

This shift unsettles some fans. Wilder spoke our language, literally and emotionally. His clichés felt familiar. They reinforced a shared identity rooted in grit, tribe, and romance.

Sellés speaks in cooler, more technical terms. To some, that feels clinical or detached. But Orwell would see it differently: not as a lack of emotion, but as a commitment to truth.

There is a tension:

Cliché-driven language reassures.

Precise language challenges.

But if language reflects thought, as Orwell believed, then shifting how we talk about football could signal a deeper shift in how we think about football.

From passion to process. From instinct to analysis. From “wanting it more” to being coached better.

What would Orwell say?

Sheffield United’s evolution is more than a managerial decision. It is a shift in language, culture, and thought. Some may mourn the loss of gritty soundbites and old-school charm, but replacing comforting clichés with clarity and analysis is a step toward something better.

Orwell would not only approve – he would see it as essential.