Being Craig Bellamy may well be more complicated than you would imagine. The Bellamy manifesto was drawn up in bold electronic font a few years ago when, in reply to the suggestion he might enjoy a loan spell at Birmingham City, he advised the Newcastle chairman Freddie Shepherd with the immortal text, "I am Craig Bellamy and I do not sign for s*** football clubs."

There is something majestic about a text that at once succeeds in capturing the preposterous delusion that governs so many stars of the Premiership and insulting the entire population of Jasper Carrot country. If, in 100 years' time, the Premiership is dead, regarded by historians as a grotesque marvel of excess and bad manners, then Bellamy's declaration might well serve as its epitaph.

To prove the point, though, Bellamy headed north to Celtic, netted a bagful of goals and quickly won over the Parkhead faithful. He might have made himself a legend there because Bellamy had the pace and the smarts and the technique to probably rack up a serious number of goals against the deficient defensive systems of the lesser Scottish teams. But he was restless and yearned for the brighter lights of Blackburn, of Newcastle upon Tyne and lately of Liverpool.

During his Celtic sojourn, however, Bellamy kept in touch with his old pals at Newcastle United, consoling Alan Shearer - again by text - after an FA Cup semi-final defeat to Manchester United with the suggestion the England star was past it and he, Bellamy, would soon be back to take his place at Newcastle.

Excuses were quickly offered, hinting Bellamy's phone had been "lost" during the hours when Shearer's speed and honour were questioned. It did not, however, stop Shearer from promising that if Bellamy ever reappeared at St James's Park, he would "knock his block off".

And that retort briefly illuminated the more old-fashioned values of English football, a threat more at home in the era of Brian Clough or Jack Charlton or Bryan Robson than in the lucrative, cosmopolitan world of the new Premiership. Shearer might have been promoting boxing his former strike partner in the jaw but it was proper dressing-room stuff, a bust-up to sort out an insult: violence with honour.

These days, it is much more complicated. In the mischievous ways of the gods, it was almost inevitable Bellamy would leave his signature all over the magnificent Nou Camp stadium on Wednesday night. Not only did he fashion Liverpool's equalising goal with a thumping, bread-and-butter header from the rear post, he supplied the winning ball for John Arne Riise with a deft, instinctive pass from inside the box that froze the Barcelona defenders.

You have to smile. Bagging the equaliser gave Bellamy the perfect stage to deliver the proverbial two fingers to the world for interfering in his right to enjoy what can only be described as a night of karaoke and clubbing. Riise, was, of course, the team-mate into whose bedroom Bellamy allegedly burst, brandishing either a nine iron or a putter, with which he threatened the startled Norwegian.

It was not an unprovoked assault: Riise had, after all, repeatedly refused Bellamy's invitations to take the microphone for a spot of karaoke on a team night out. It is common knowledge the Welsh take their singing seriously.

And one can imagine Bellamy happily at home amid sequins and spotlights, vocal chords oiled with a few tasty beverages, going full throttle with the sound machine, neck muscles bulging and eyes closed, lost in a Stereophonics ballad or something retro from Shirley Bassey.

The even-tempered Riise would have been gently amused at the British zaniness of it all but not for him the joys of public performance. Gently and then firmly, he rebuffed Bellamy's overtures and must have presumed the business was all forgotten when he retired to his room.

Bellamy, however, was seething, and maybe he interpreted Riise's aloofness as somehow judgemental. And because Bellamy has been absurdly well paid and cajoled by a succession of football clubs through his adult life, because his ego has been allowed to run rampant, he reached into his golf bag and decided to set the world to rights.

In the days afterwards, Bellamy's attack was spoken of in outraged terms. And maybe it was an outrage. But what exactly constitutes an outrage in Premiership culture nowadays? The story - a highly regarded but temperamental Welsh international getting sozzled and attacking a team-mate over a karaoke contest - is nothing so much as low-life comedy.

Bellamy will probably be fined a few grand - he shipped an £80,000 reprimand from Newcastle a few years ago when he accused his manager, Graham Souness, of being a liar. So what if his bosses at Liverpool do the same? There will be no real consequences to pay. So he rode his luck and after scoring against the aristocrats of Barcelona, he indulged himself with his mock golf-club swing.

The gesture had echoes of Robbie Fowler's infamous "line of coke" celebration, when he responded to media reports of drug abuse by bending down and pretending to snort the end line in front of the Kop. It was a provocative and witty retort from a sensational talent whose best days seemed behind him by his mid-20s.

The return of Fowler to Anfield on a free transfer from Manchester City last year was one of the few heartening stories ever to emerge from the Premiership.

One of the wealthiest players in the game, Fowler grabbed the chance to re-sign for his first club with the awestruck enthusiasm of a callow apprentice. It was a burning reminder that there is still room for sentiment and principle, that it is still possible, too, for players to be motivated by ambitions beyond the size of the pay cheque.

Fowler - or "God", as they like to call him around Anfield - is a bit player these days. It was saddening but no real surprise to learn he was in the thick of the shenanigans at the Liverpool training camp in Portugal that night. And equally, it will come as no surprise if Raphael Benitez views that indiscretion as proof it is time to show the old legend the door.

Not Bellamy, though. As the belligerent young man proved in Spain the other night, he has his uses. It is doubtful the Liverpool old boys who work the media circuit these days thought much of Bellamy's celebratory gesture. But then, what does he care about what they think or who they were? He probably pulls down 20 times their salary, and in front of the Kop on Saturday afternoons, he is The Man nowadays.

Benitez will use Bellamy as he sees fit for now. When he went after Bellamy, he knew he wasn't acquiring a model professional like Shearer or even a flawed hero like Fowler, who, sadly, never quite fulfilled that early brilliance and cleverness but knows what it is to genuinely love a football club and be loved back by the masses.

One imagines that kind of stuff is not important to Craig Bellamy, who has learned that in the Premiership world, there is no such thing as accountability as long as you look after yourself. It may be selfish but it works. For now. Didn't you see him out there? Swing when you're winning.