Grant Holt scored twice at the weekend to see off Wolves, but nationally he is still somewhat of an irrelevance.

The cult of Grant Holt, the portly former non-league Norwich City forward, is much like the city he plays in: provincial and retarded. Holt has adapted exceptionally well to the challenges of Premier League football, making a similarly seamless step up to the top flight as he did to Championship football following the Canaries’ promotion in 2010.

However, the cult surrounding his modest debut season in the “greatest league in the world” is enough to provoke an intense vomiting fit. Holt is no superstar. Nor is he supremely talented. Holt’s game relies on intense physicality, the skewing of the spirit of the game to the maximum extent permissible, usually based on the referee’s inability to adhere to the rulebook, and opportunism. Now, you wouldn’t build a shrine to Dave because he managed to get a senior managerial job at EDF Energy immediately after quitting the humdrum of installing Virgin Media aerials, would you?

Of course not. You’d applaud, without veneration. Appreciate, without hero worship. Norwich is rather cut off, it must be said, and my love for the city in which I live cannot prevent me from acknowledging that a number of the stereotypes held about it at national level are indeed true. However, the cult of Holt is the worst “quirk” of all. To think that thousands of children, from Thorpe St. Andrew to Unthank Road, are learning that latent aggression and play-acting, accompanied by excessive physicality, are fair means by which to defeat your opponents, is quite saddening.

However, it is not the worst problem of all. The major difficulty with such a pervasive and widely-acknowledged cult is that, unfortunately, it will never die out. Norwich residents may dream of the day when they will cease to be stigmatised by Alan Partridge re-runs and somewhat unfair images of toothless, seven fingered simpletons, but with even Match of the Day running the most patronising and insulting previews of Canaries home games, how long can the tourist board permit this aberration to carry on?

Not long. So here is my advice, a solution, from 100 miles down the A11, and a city where we only worry about gun crime, teenage pregnancies and inner-city deprivation, plus Boris Johnson’s tendency to implode on the international stage. Ditch the No. 9 shirts, stop tweeting “Holt for England”, remember you have other forwards too (poor Steve Morison and Simeon Jackson), and start laughing at Delia’s drunken social awkwardness rather than lapping up a handful of goals from a former Shrewsbury Town heavyweight. Then, perhaps, we’ll all be able to take a step back and appreciate the incredible transition Holt has made from non-league to the top flight, without looking any less of a complete forward at any point on this remarkable journey.

The Holt debate has recently emerged at national level, with the European Championships beckoning.

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