Name a footballer who’s also the ultimate English gentleman: it can only be Bobby Charlton

As well as being football’s finest ambassador, the Man Utd and England legend was the manifestation of a certain kind of Englishness that is lauded around the world, writes Jim White

Manchester United’s Bobby Charlton, being slide-tackled by Bolton Wanderers’ Tommy Banks during the 1958 FA Cup final (Keystone/Getty Images) (Getty Images)

Yesterday, as thousands of mourners lined the streets of Manchester watching Sir Bobby Charlton’s funeral cortege as it made its slow progress to the city’s Cathedral, we were served up with a vivid reminder that true class is not a product of money or privilege, social standing or schooling.

Because Charlton, born into the most modest of circumstances in the Durham coalfield with silver spoons conspicuous by their absence, was the very embodiment of grace, dignity and decency. Never once in his life was his reputation compromised by scandal or inappropriateness. There was no caveat on his memorial. This was the ultimate English gentleman.

Everyone gathered along the route – and there were tens of thousands – had stories to tell and yarns to swap of the man who lays the most compelling claim to be England’s finest ever footballer.

These were not just tales of his prowess on the pitch, of the rocket-propelled shots he fired for Manchester United and England, of the way he used to glide across the turf, apparently floating. Many of the anecdotes were about encounters over the years, of how he would behave when stopped on the street or in an airport or at a football game, what his response was when invariably pestered for an autograph, a selfie, or maybe just to be thanked for what he had delivered. And they were all, invariably, positive.

My mate Jon had one such story. Fifteen years ago, he was coming out of Celtic Park after seeing Manchester United play there in a Champions League group game. All round the stadium, traffic was in a snarl-up. As he walked back into the city centre, he saw a Celtic fan approach a car which was stuck in the middle of the jam. As he neared the motor, he realised that in the back seat was Sir Bobby who, as he did for nearly 40 years, had just watched the latest incarnation of the team he once graced.

The Celtic supporter was by now rapping on the car window, and Jon thought for a moment he might have to intervene to defend this club legend.

But he was immediately put right: as the window was wound down what became immediately clear was all the bloke wanted to do was shake Sir Bob by the hand. Pretty soon, as others saw what had happened, the car was surrounded by those anxious to do the same, to thank him for the pleasure he had brought to the game.

It was not just his renown, it was not just the triumphs with which he was associated, it was not just his unblemished record they wished to acknowledge. It was more what he stood for. Because Bobby Charlton represented something that was universally recognised and universally admired. It is impossible to imagine any other Englishman, never mind one so inextricably linked with United, being so lauded.

It is an inevitable part of the human condition to disparage the present and to Iament the past. Things were always brighter then. Except, in the case of Bobby Charlton, it is hard not to think we have lost the irreplaceable. True, under Gareth Southgate, England’s current crop of footballers are fine ambassadors for us all: decent, diverse, committed individuals led by a thoroughly nice bloke. But Charlton was something more.

Much more. Indeed, it is possible to make the claim that now he is gone, only Sir David Attenborough remains as a manifestation of a certain kind of Englishness, one that was once lauded and applauded across the globe. Charlton’s was the Englishness that commanded a respect which has been systematically undermined by the behaviour of our governing class.

The old joke was about the fact when travelling anywhere in the globe during the days of his prime, the only two words of English required to smooth the way in Madrid, Mogadishu and Mexico City were “Bobby” and “Charlton”. Immediately on uttering them, the response would be a thumbs-up appreciation of the qualities he personified. He was admired universally.

But Jon saw something else that day outside Celtic Park. He said Charlton looked a little surprised. Not that he wasn’t about to be lynched, but that people, even in these most unlikely circumstances, wanted to commune with him. It was a look of astonishment: what made him so special?

Mind, if ever there was a person entitled to feel a little bit special, it was Bobby Charlton. He is the only Englishman to win the lot: FA Cup, league title, European Cup and World Cup. Yet he wore his achievement with extraordinary modesty.

The couple of times I was lucky enough to interview him, he was anxious to talk about anything other than himself. He’d talk about how brilliant Alex Ferguson was, or how delighted he was that Ryan Giggs and Wayne Rooney had overtaken his appearance and scoring records at United. About himself? He’d rather not go there.

Linger longer in his company and there was a distance about him, too, a detachment. Look closer in his eyes and in the slight quiver in his limbs, and it was not hard to find suggestion of darkness, the hint of pain and loss. And that the look of sadness in his eyes grew ever more distinct as he grew older.

We know why it was there. After being pulled unconscious from the wreckage of the Munich aircrash in 1958, Charlton was back playing for the club just a month later. What a story of recuperation. Physical recuperation, that is. What was going on in his mind in those days was never properly acknowledged.

The truth is, this was a man who never reconciled with his survivor’s guilt. Take a look at the picture of him lifting the European Cup in 1968. There is no hint of triumphalism or personal fulfilment. He is weeping. Not simply at the wonderful story of redemption and revival that that moment represented. But in recognition of those he lost on the runway, those he forever wished were there alongside him, tasting the glory they had died pursuing.

To ensure their memory was kept alive, to do them justice, to achieve what they were so cruelly prevented from doing was what drove him on, through his playing career and, latterly, as his club and country’s foremost sporting ambassador.

It was a mantel he wore without a trace of ego, forever certain it should have been his team mates, not him who deserved to become the international byword for United and Englishness. That was typical of him, underestimating himself and his place in the scheme of things.

Because of this, there can be no doubt: there was no one who could have carried the legacy of those lost with greater dignity and honour than Sir Bobby Charlton. We have lost a giant. An irreplaceable one at that.