“Celebrations ‘risk shutdown'” proclaimed a sports headline in The Times a couple of days ago. Elite sport has been given a green card to keep going through Lockdown, while the rest of us are vilified if we risk visual contact with another human, overdo our daily quota of exercise or venture more than a mile or three from our castles. With an inexplicable logic, or lack of it, the Government allows grotesquely overpaid and artless footballers to slide into six man embraces to celebrate the goal that might enable the manager to keep his job, while the rest of us aren’t permitted to walk round a golf course on our own for fear of catching a coronavirus mutation from the aggressive local fox population. But now, as Covid spreads more rapidly amongst the professional ranks, their licence is in danger of being endorsed, with immediate disqualification the penalty. Pep Guardiola, who could probably survive for a few months without any income, explains that his Manchester City charges feel compelled to “hug their teammates for two or three seconds” to celebrate the joy of scoring. This represents the wonderful liberal progress we have made over the last few decades. No longer the embarrassed jog back to the centre circle, feeling rather pleased with oneself, having left the oppo’s ‘keeper sprawling in the dirt, but not sure where to look, with any public displays of exuberance strictly infra dig; the upper lip remained stiff and the spirit that had made Britain Great was noticeably intact. What chance I wonder that the current necessity to avoid intimate contact might actually persuade our super-rich heroes to proceed with a little more decorum in future? Not great I suspect, sadly.
On a slightly connected note, there have been a couple of instances this week that exemplify how times have changed. In America, Justin Thomas, one of the very best golfers, disappeared up his own backside in a volley of heartrending apology for calling himself a ‘faggot’ when he missed an easy shot. This raises two questions. Is he an awful person for such self-flagellation and is it right that television’s microphones are so intrusive that sportsmen can’t berate themselves on the field of battle without the serried ranks of professional offendees chiming in with faux outrage and embarrassment? To the latter, I fear that is now the way of the world and it does often produce some interesting insights. Richly rewarded professionals just have to be aware of it and respond accordingly. The former is indicative of how we have become so precious and frankly ‘wet’. Meanwhile, in Australia, Tim Paine, captain of their cricket team, was obliged to fall on his sword and spew a torrent of abject apology for having the temerity to call one of his Indian opponents a ‘dickhead’. Can you imagine Sir Ian Botham and Ian Chappell restricting themselves to such innocent abuse as they faced off out in the middle before sharing a beer in the dressing room afterwards? I do realise I am a totally knackered old fart, out of touch with the modern world, but honestly, it’s pathetic.
One unforeseen aspect of Brexit, that would surely have swayed more people to vote in favour of it, is the revelation that we now no longer fall under the umbrella that allows European Beaks to chase us up for motoring offences on the Continent. The chances are that we can now happily be a bit too heavy with the right foot and avoid the long arm of the law touching our collars, unless you’re caught red handed I presume. That would have saved me a fortune over the last couple of decades! Time for a celebration I fancy.
ADayInTheStrifeOf 