What a fabulous opening to the Olympics: the little girl in pink flying about, the fishes, the flame. My mother was enraptured. Briefly. Soon it was just cyclists' bottoms and swimming pools. More wall-to-wall sport. There are certain things in life that one likes to avoid: rabies, loud noise, Bruce Forsyth, food poisoning. With a bit of luck and effort, you can manage it. But not if it's sport. Once upon a time you could jump up minutes from the end of the news, snap the telly off quickly and miss the sport, but not any more. The news IS sport: this manager is leaving, that sports person had his hair cut, cried, took drugs/bribes, thumped his wife/ another player/the referee, earns millions, was transferred, failed a urine test, wore a new swimsuit.
Last week we had several chaps to dinner. Imagine the conversation. Football "is a soap opera, spectacle, live drama, ballet, competition, only the middle class can afford it/no they can't/yes they can and isn't Beckham handsome".
What a dull meal. I blame Gardener's friend. He came visiting specifically to learn about football. Then he can earn huge amounts of money making websites. He felt this was justification enough to set Gardener and Fielding blathering and bore his hostess rigid.
These fellows had forgotten that in our house the majority feel bitter about sport. My mother had a particularly rough time of it recently, bedridden and in need of distraction. All she could do was read or watch telly, which meant the European Cup or Wimbledon. Or racing, golf, cricket, eventing or snooker, hour after hour for weeks and months. As usual, Coronation Street was all over the place and my mother's routine shot to hell.
And for what? Sport is hardly pleasant, even to the enthusiast. "Look at the blood on that white horse," said Gardener, flobbed on the sofa. There were worrying red spatterings where the jockey had gouged away with his spurs. And little footballing boys of nine are now eyeballing referees, pulling their shirts over their heads, cheating and swearing, just like their grown-up heroes. But perhaps the worst sporting event ever has just arrived - an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical about football: The Beautiful Game. What an odd title.
