This Sporting Strife...
Similarly, there cannot be many people, Alzheimer's sufferers apart, who cannot recall the glorious day in 1966 when England lifted the World Cup at Wembley. Although not yet hatched at the time, WASP has spoken to fans and neutrals alike who, despite the passing of almost three decades, remember it as though it were yesterday.
For the spectator, sport provides an experience that transcends the ordinariness of the actual endeavour, whether it be kicking a football, swinging a bat or simply running a short distance in a straight line. It unites and divides in the same way as religion; it kills and maims as would a disease; it uplifts and depresses with the efficacy of the strongest prescription drug. It permeates every level of society and provides an opportunity for different elements to mingle where no other may exist.
Those who have never been transported by a sporting occasion to a place far removed from 'the daily grind'; who have not had to endure the nail-biting climax to an epic encounter in a frenzy of nerves and with pounding heart; who will never shed a tear of joy or sorrow for an heroic victory or a luckless defeat...well, it is your loss! That is not to say that it is wrong to dislike sport, although I believe it is unimaginative to fail completely to identify with the Corinthian spirit that is still manifest in many games, rather that it cuts off a source of inspiration and pleasure.
When England beat Australia in the famous Headingley Test Match of 1981, productivity in workplaces across the country must have shot through the roof. For weeks, people strode about with pride and purpose; strangers conversed; good humour prevailed. It was all most unusual. Botham and Willis became national heroes; Dennis Lillee made a tidy sum at the bookies; cricket suddenly became the 'in' game.
But it is football that arouses the strongest passions, partly as a consequence of its tribalism; partly because it remains the 'people's game'; partly due to the game's inherent simplicity (Team A scores goal - Team B doesn't),which enables even the dimmest of gentlemen to debate the relative merits of the sweeper system or a new offside law with their mates in the pub. The local team is often the one thing in life to which a man will remain faithful: he may cheat on his wife and transfer his labour to his employer's deadliest rival, but suggest that he switch his allegiance from the Arsenal to Charlton Athletic and you'll probably get a thick ear!
All too often, sadly, this fervent devotion leads to shameful scenes of violence, as anyone who viewed the last episode of BBC2's excellent series 'Kicking and Screaming' will agree. It brought back most unpleasant memories of 1985, the year in which Millwall tore apart Kenilworth Road, Bradford City's old wooden stand burned to the ground with many fatalities and 39 Juventus supporters were crushed to death beneath a wall as they retreated from the Scouse hordes in Belgium. Perimeter fences went up, with lovable Ken Bates (pictured left) engaging in a fight with Hammersmith & Fulham Council for the right to electrify the fences at Stamford Bridge, in order, you understand to tame "the animals". Fortunately, on Health & Safety grounds, the proposal was rejected...when one considers what occurred at Hillsborough a few years later, it is just as well!
As a result of Hillsborough, the fences came down again. Crowd disorder, with the exception of the nightmarish outbreak in Dublin (which was, anyway, politically motivated), is at a much lower level than at the end of the '80s. Surveillance cameras seriously reduce the chances of the budding hooligan 'getting away with it'. The pressing problem facing most clubs today is that of hard cash. While Manchester United and Glasgow Rangers, for example, are never going to be short of a few quid, Southampton and Bolton always will be.
If a smallish club is to not merely survive but flourish, the unfortunate economic reality is that a 'Sugar Daddy' needs to be found with more money than sense. At Chelsea, just such a figure has appeared in the form of Matthew Harding. Cheery Ken, however, outraged at any suggestion that there is room in his personal fiefdom for two Chiefs, has banned Harding from the Directors' Box, all 'Executive Areas' (whatever they are) and, for good measure, the car park! He has instructed stewards to throw out Harding should he have the temerity to infiltrate Ken's inner sanctum. At the same time, an unseemly war of words has been waged via the back pages of assorted tabloids: for someone as notoriously litigious as Bates, he had better beware being hoist by his own petard.
With all due respect to Ken (and Ken's lawyers!), the long-suffering Chelsea supporters are very grateful that he saved the ground from becoming Hacienda Villas or Tesco, but the rest of his chairmanship has been little short of disastrous. The only trophies to wing their way to the Bridge have been the 'Neville Ovenden Football Combination' (for the reserve team) and the Full Members / Simod / Zenith / Mickey Mouse Cup, which was a competition scorned by most 1st Division/Premier clubs and thus utterly valueless. The appointment and dismissal of managers has been carried out seemingly on a whim, while investment in players has been risible. Harding has the financial clout to buy the best! There have been too many false dawns, too many 'new beginnings', for us to swallow the Bates line yet again.
So, Ken, don't sit on the (electric) fence: be a hero and go now!
So, finally, the 'Creature of Cromwell Street' has gone down for 10 life sentences, with the recommendation that she is never released from captivity.
I must confess that I find it hard to equate the plump and unattractive Rose, who resembles a bumpkin Bessie Bunter, with the descriptions of horrific, sadistic abuse and violence given at the trial. It seems scarcely possible that so much 'evil', as the newspapers would have it, could be concentrated in such a plain-looking and dowdy female. One would expect either an icy, emotionless automaton or a shrieking, wild-eyed lunatic, rather than a woman who would not look out of place gossiping at a W.I. Meeting.
Furthermore, from close scrutiny of reports from Winchester Crown Court, the actual evidence against Mrs. West is flimsy indeed. Had she played American Football at professional level, won a part in 'The Towering Inferno' and belonged to a minority group, she would have walked! The assumption of the jury appears to have been that there was no way she could have lived at No.25 without full knowledge of what was going on within its walls. Very likely she could not, but does that constitute the qualifier 'beyond reasonable doubt' when there is no forensic evidence and not a single witness to her murderous acts?
Another worrying aspect of the case is the apparent failure of the 'authorities' to notice the stream of young women making a one-way journey through the West front door over a period of twenty odd years. The Police and Social Services were unable to deduce that anything was amiss, despite the sundry convictions, repeated injury to the hapless children and, on one occasion, Fred's announcement in the local video shop that he could provide 'snuff' movies on demand!
As the saying goes, you need a licence to own a dog or drive a car, but not to bring a child into the world!
Nicholas, who purports to represent the upper echelon of society, has been waddling from one media outlet to the next in order to cast aspersions on Di's sanity and exonerate Charles from any blame for their marital discord. Unfortunately, Soames is to subtle diplomacy what necrotising fasciitis is to human flesh, and his stentorian efforts have merely reinforced the public's belief that the Establishment is 'out to get her'.
The result of this has been that Dear John, fearful that yet another mess will be laid at No.10's door, is obliged to issue a 'gagging order' to the rotund Soames. Given that it would probably take the entire menu at Le Gavroche to make Nick pause, let alone gag, I fear another U-Turn (or should it be U-Bend?) fiasco.
For the sake of the Party, Nicholas, keep it shut!
Nominations for æ***t of the WeekÆ to: WASP@londonmall.co.uk
In our search for the vanished stars of yesteryear, we pose this crucial question:
Whatever happened to the sinister leather-clad woman in 'Blake's Seven'?
Last week's most plausible suggestion, relating to the disappearance of Nana Mouskouri: "...opening an optician's in Athens".
Suggestions to: WASP@londonmall.co.uk
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