Unspeakable

One of the few downsides to sitting here gambling like a loony day and night is the necessity of watching and listening to the gormless twerps and illiterate goons that populate the racing channels. I was intending to launch into a deconstruction of horse-racing speak, but my gay friends assure me that most people aren't interested. Hard to accept, but instead I've selected a few choice examples of football-speak that always appear when a group of bores get together.

'He always gives you 110%'(some supermen give a startling 120%). No wonder I didn't make it as a professional footballer. Lazy bugger that I am, I steadfastly refused to give any more than a miserly 100%. If only I hadn't held that little bit back then who knows what might have happened. I could have been the first Wayne Rooney(certainly ugly enough).

'Back of the net'. Where's that then? Where's the front of the thing? How about 'goal', something you hear remarkably rarely considering it is the object of the exercise.

'Finish'. Never shooting, or scoring or missing, but 'a nice/poor finish'. When did this become common, and why does every one of the bastards have to say it?
The only people entitled to talk about a 'nice finish' are plasterers or masseurs.

'For fun'. A centre-forward that scores a few goals is always described as 'scoring goals for fun'. Really? If that is what the moron does to amuse himself, then why doesn't he do it more often? Of course, what he really does for fun is to count his money and manipulate his furry parts at the same time.

'Result'. As in 'getting a result'. If you get beat 10-0, that is a result.

'Down to the wire'. This one drives me crackers. Why has everyone adopted this expression, used in North American horse racing?(I'm sure you knew that). If it didn't go down to the wire, it would never end. Others I can't abide are 'rookie', 'left field', and 'the whole nine yards'.

'Left foot'. As in 'lovely left foot'. Are left feet naturally more beautiful than right ones?

Strangely, football drones never talk about a 'level playing field' or 'moving the goalposts'. It seems these expressions are too embarrassing, even for them.

There are myriad other examples. Why does this happen? I'll tell you. People hear it from a semi-literate talking head on the box and this lends a sort of legitimisation along the lines of 'well, A. Pundit must be an authority on this subject because he's on the telly, so I'll copy what he says'.
Mr. Pundit, of course doesn't know where he got it from either, so the whole country ends up adopting the speech patterns of unoriginal, unintellegent non-thinkers. It wouldn't be so bad if the pundit was someone like Brian Sewell or Richard Dawkins, but that is depressingly unlikely.


If you find yourself coming out with any this brainless blather, lock yourself away with a copy of Apologia Pro Vita Sua, and don't come out until you can recite the whole thing.

Samantha has just cast her lovely eye over the above, and echoes my exasperation at the intellectual supineness of the average Briton. She has popped in with an antique she is restoring. She is gently dusting it while the world's worst punter scrapes varnish and wax off next to her. He is incorrigible.

Chester

Chester races. What an agreeable vista. Roman walls, magnificent Tudor oak buildings, 18th century English landscaped gardens, immaculate flower beds in full bloom, radiant ladies in summer frocks, gentlemen splendidly attired in Panama hats and linen suits. All at the heart of this ancient city, no ugly trains or buses and not a car park in sight.

Only a churl would find reason to complain, so here goes; For a start, its too bloody hot. Oscar Wilde agreed with me when he said the sun should be avoided because it impedes rigorous thought, and who would argue? It is no coincidence that the biggest khazis in the world are also boiling hot, whereas the most progressive, successful, and civilised nations are situated in temperate climes where it is usually bloody freezing. You don't have to be Edward Einstein to work out why.

Maintaining one's cool and dignity while standing around all day in blazing sunshine seems effortless to our European chums in France and Italy but your average Briton just can't be arsed keeping up appearances. As soon as two or more people have gathered, out comes a bottle and the race to get 'wasted' or 'slaughtered' or 'shit-faced' begins in earnest. Note the vulgar aggression explicit in the descriptions of inebriation. Not for the modern-day Briton the more mellow 'cheerful' or 'tipsy' or even 'drunk'.

It is not long before hysterical shrieking breaks out as once-elegant ladies, now with smudged make-up and broken heels, gallop in an ungainly manner to the one khazi available to them, gathering up their bits as they fall out of their disintegrating outfit.
Chester geezer has by now removed his jacket, his shirt is hanging over his corporation, and his rolled-up sleeves reveal decidedly unsophisticated examples of body art. Of course, the main reason for the swift abandonment of decorum is that the Briton has plenty of self-esteem(as we are told we all must nowadays) but no self-respect. Hence, any request to tone down the inevitable foul language is met with precisely that, as is any suggestion that bottles and cans are not biodegrable.

There is another, altogether more sinister reason to be wary of Chester at this time, and that is because it is inundated by men of the Mersey on the lookout for easy plunder. One certainty about race meetings is that large amounts of cash are waved around and your average scally is adept at procuring himself plenty of it. Removing purses from unattended handbags or wallets from lurching drunks is absurdly easy for these creatures, who consider the appropriation of other peoples' property a legitimate expression of working-class rage.

All this was confirmed to me by a horrified Samantha, who had joined sister Laura(the public face of Stan James) at the three day festival. She said she had never before witnessed such examples of beastliness. Me and the worlds worst decided to take her out for a traditional British lunch to show that not all Brits were sweaty vulgarians. After sampling some of the his steak and ale pie, she decided she preferred my tongue in cider. Good girl.