About retirement – dispatches from the front line – World Cup special

Dear Philippa,

I have never been one for watching sport, (though I did years ago enjoy tuning in to Topless Darts on the telly until they banned it) but prompted by one of the many self-appointed counsellors who have emerged since I retired, I thought I’d give it a go on Wednesday. And what a day it turned out to be.

At three in the afternoon, England v Slovenia. With a population no bigger than that of Whitby, they shouldn’t give us any trouble; be nice to see England win something. I set my alarm. Two things I noticed, during the pre-match ceremonies; first, that the Spud-Faced Nipper was tight-lipped during the singing of the National Anthem, and second that one of the Slovenian players was wearing a hairnet, giving him the appearance of Nora Batty. In fact the entire Slovenian team to a notable degree lacked the physical beauty of our side, apart, that is, from the Spud-Faced Nipper.

We did win, as I had hoped, though Slovenia were no pushover, giving away only one goal and threatening to score against us several times. Our goal was scored by a tiny fellow whose name I cannot recall – I want to say Robinson Crusoe, but that’s not quite right – and whom I had not previously come across. Although not a soccer fan, I am familiar with the top players from close study of my wife’s copies of Hello! magazine, but maybe Crusoe has not yet found his WAG. To my admittedly poorly informed eyes, he was the best player on the field, reminding me of Nobby Stiles.

To celebrate, and to steady me, I cracked open a bottle of Toasted Head, a Californian number that is my new best friend, a wine that Americans describe as “oaky and buddery”. Not a sophisticated drink I know, but I enjoy it – it’s a bit like drinking sweets. And then I switched over to Wimbledon for the tennis where I stumbled upon an astonishing match, which had already been underway for several hours with the score in the fifth set 34 all.

There they were, a six foot nine American, good-looking in that sexless way of Hollywood matinee idols, and a relatively tiny Frenchman. To the American’s surprise, this was no pushover.  On and on they went, each holding his serve, perfectly matched. My sympathies were pretty much with the Frenchman on the grounds that no-one as tall and pretty as the Yank should be allowed to win anything.

At first it was exciting, watching these two slugging it out, but after a few hours I became increasingly uneasy. The pretty one could hardly stand up, though the tiny one still looked fresh, but even he must have been close to collapse. If this had been a boxing match, I thought, the ringside physician would have stepped in long ago and put a stop to it, but  it seemed the rules did not permit, even in these extraordinary circumstances (fifty all, I think), any outcome other than a win on points, rain stopped play, nightfall, or the sudden death from heat exhaustion of one or both players. It will take Wimbledon years of committee time to allow for such an eventuality in the future; forget a sensible decision on the spot. Darkness duly fell, and in spite of a lunatic suggestion from a commentator that the match be continued on the Centre Court under artificial light, play was suspended.

I’m setting my alarm again this afternoon. After more of the tiny Frenchman and the giant, perhaps there’ll be bullfighting.

 Best wishes

Howard

P.S. The lounge lizard won – the Frenchman went home. Gutted.