I have no wish to be considered a cross-patch, complaining
noisily all day to everyone’s irritation. So, it is in my usual gentle spirit
of mild tolerance that I dare to mention some current oddities in the hope that
a responsive chord may be struck. Let me dive in head-first.
Like millions of others I am watching the World Cup, which I
concede is being well-run by Putin’s otherwise dubious Russkies. There has been
much good football, several surprises and quite a few dull longueurs, to remind you of those wet Saturday afternoons at a god-forsaken
provincial stadium. England’s team seems fragile and her prospects of further
advancement do not look particularly glittering, but I am a lousy tipster and I
may be quite wrong. What gets up my nostrils is not the football but the
tattoos sported by the stars. The tattoo epidemic has spread rapidly and hardly
a hairy arm, leg or manly chest has escaped the tattooist’s ink-drill. I
deplore young people defacing their skins permanently in this way and the
end-result is hideous, although clearly it gives the wearers of tattoos some
kind of psycho-sexual exhibitionist thrill.
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| Recent stars sport their tattoos |
On retirement I suppose footballers could have their skins
flayed, cured and mounted like any other feral trophy, but somehow the wearers
may not find that idea particularly tempting!
 |
| Fernando Santos of Portugal |
 |
| Gareth Southgate bucks up Eric Dier |
As a footnote, who would want to be a World Cup team
manager? The hopes of millions and the derision of the same millions await him
ominously. To see a ravaged Santos, manager of defeated Portugal, was a pitiful
sight - one hopes Southgate will strike it luckier and fare better.
On 13 July we Brits are to be treated to an official, but
not a state, 2-day visit from President Donald Trump to our welcoming shores.
Perhaps not so welcoming in London where the Leftie mobs run riot, but brief
brain-storming with Mrs May & Co at No 10 should yield some (thin)
pickings. A pleasant chat with HM over the tea-cups at Windsor will not strain
anyone too hard. Rumour has it he will then buzz up to my beloved Scotland to
wield a golf club either at his addled partly-built course on the dunes of Balmedie
by Aberdeen or, more likely, at his sumptuous Turnberry Resort in Ayrshire,
which has all mod.cons.
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| Trump drives out of the rough in Scotland |
The Donald may have a round of golf with Prince “Air Miles”
Andrew, Duke of York, not a widely admired royal currently, I hope
diplomatically primed to allow the Super-egotist to win. There is talk of Andrew
re-marrying his ex-Duchess, noisy Sarah Ferguson of toe-sucking fame. Mind you,
other royals have their crosses to bear too - sadly even delightful Meghan,
Duchess of Sussex, whose peculiar dysfunctional father, Thomas Markle, can be
depended upon to put his foot in it, whenever he opens his mouth, to
toe-curling embarrassment all round.
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| The Beast Thomas and the Beauty Meghan |
Wimbledon has started, always a great pleasure, once a
paradise of long rallies, strawberries and cream and groping Anglican vicars,
nabbed for quaintly named “breach of the peace”. We are all rooting for
impeccable and elegant Roger Federer, as the hope of Scotland, Andy Murray, has
withdrawn, unfit. Nowadays we hear of florid ex-champion Boris Becker, hiding
from his creditors behind the bizarre diplomatic immunity conferred on him by
(sic) The Central African Republic! Henman Hill will bubble and squeak incessantly.
The ladies are dominated by statuesque Serena Williams but there is a cloud
lurking over the ladies’ game, as we are promised early exposure of widespread
sexual harassment of aspiring players. I assume this is connected to the
Sapphic clique in tennis, who may have exceeded the limits of tolerance.
How one longs for earlier, simpler days when John Betjeman
could serenade beefy English tennis girls in innocent worship:
Miss J. Hunter Dunn, Miss
J. Hunter Dunn,
Furnish’d and burnish’d by Aldershot sun,
What strenuous singles we played after tea,
We in the tournament – you against me!
Furnish’d and burnish’d by Aldershot sun,
What strenuous singles we played after tea,
We in the tournament – you against me!
Love-thirty, love-forty,
oh! weakness of joy,
The speed of a swallow, the grace of a boy,
With carefullest carelessness, gaily you won,
I am weak from your loveliness, Joan Hunter Dunn.
The speed of a swallow, the grace of a boy,
With carefullest carelessness, gaily you won,
I am weak from your loveliness, Joan Hunter Dunn.
SMD
03.07.2018
Text
Copyright © Sidney Donald 2018
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