Sunday, July 29

Frangipani for breakfast

Rangers 2, Chelsea 0. £135k/week for John Terry? Who am I to judge. I guess you’re worth as much as a body will pay; unless, like Government, they’re using someone else’s money. Then again, if you don’t ask you don’t get. I suspect a reluctance to pursue this strategy accounts for half the gender pay gap. That said, you should never confuse ‘ask’ with ‘demand’ - unless you’re prepared to gamble your livelihood. A willingness to risk the downside is what earns big bucks. It’ll grate with Lampard, having to settle below the line, even if he’ll still be earning the GDP of a small African economy. Should the lad let his pride get in the way he may well choose to play abroad, and most probably for less. LA Galaxy could probably use the muscle.

Another novel bites the dust. Three of my last five - Faulks, McEwan and Hosseini - have, in part, been a reaction to the several McCarthy’s I’d worked my way through during past weeks. The problem I have with these particular writers is the credibility of their female characters. Despite having sat though three episodes of Sex and the City I have absolutely no idea of what goes on inside a woman’s head, and doubt they do either. Whilst appreciating novels are works of fiction and that imagination plays a significant part, there has to be some level of authenticity for the story to succeed.

It remains bleak out there. Perhaps we should rethink our future? Biarritz sounds nice. Hilary Benn’s frequent appearances on TV don’t help. The poor lad bears an unfortunate resemblance to those post-war Labour ministers featured on black & white newsreels who were wheeled out to issue dour pronouncements on rationing or an outbreak of the black death. Still, better the grim reaper than another breakfast-time broadcast featuring the androgynous Yvette Cooper. Fair put me off my slice of plum frangipani.

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