London Society 3
I suppose he has always had a combative side (as that pleb John Major found out), but I never imagined Norman Lamont wrestling. Did you? Yet wrestle Norman now does, with great frequency and intensity.
It was quite a while since I had last seen Norman and Julian Clary (Julian has become even more of a homebody in recent years, and is NEVER on the scene, although Norman still goes to some extraordinary bars) and I was rather missing them. So it was with great excitement that I heard we were all invited to join Roy Keane for dinner.
My heart sank when my man informed me that the invitation extended to sitting in the Directors’ Box at Roy’s new football club that afternoon. I loathe soccer, yet it would be too, too cruel to ever tell Roy that. Little did I think my heart could sink still lower, but when I was told that Roy now resides in SUNDERLAND OF ALL PLACES, it was veritably around my ankles.
What on EARTH persuaded a delicate soul like Roy to move voluntarily to such a Hell hole? I mean he may have been up in Glasgow with the Celtic Rangers, but at least that dive has the odd gallery. Not one native that we encountered in the North East was remotely comprehensible. And I strongly suspect that not one of them can read. I can only assume that they finance their visits to football matches through petty and not so petty crime.
However, it is pleasing to report that Roy seems happy, and by all accounts his unassuming manner makes him quite the leader of men. I must confess I had my doubts – footballers tend to be very rough boys, and they don’t take kindly to bookish types like Roy. But then it is easy to forget that he was, incongruously, blessed with phenomenal athletic talent. I suppose the lads respect him for that.
Most emphatically not an athlete is Norman. But he has lost about a stone in weight – despite living on wine and cheese – and all because of a new exercise regime. This seems to consist entirely of grappling, literally, with his negro personal trainer, a 6’8 inch American called ‘Felix’.
So inspired is Norman by Greco Roman wrestling that he has taken to challenging any man who looks remotely sporting, and any woman over 10 stone in weight, to ‘rumble’ with him. This has already become tiresome, and got Norman into a LOT of trouble at half time with the elephantine women who served hot chocolate, and with several of the Sunderland players in the bar after the game. Roy and Julian had to be at their most diplomatic.
Once again, everything above in this post is fictitious.
It was quite a while since I had last seen Norman and Julian Clary (Julian has become even more of a homebody in recent years, and is NEVER on the scene, although Norman still goes to some extraordinary bars) and I was rather missing them. So it was with great excitement that I heard we were all invited to join Roy Keane for dinner.
My heart sank when my man informed me that the invitation extended to sitting in the Directors’ Box at Roy’s new football club that afternoon. I loathe soccer, yet it would be too, too cruel to ever tell Roy that. Little did I think my heart could sink still lower, but when I was told that Roy now resides in SUNDERLAND OF ALL PLACES, it was veritably around my ankles.
What on EARTH persuaded a delicate soul like Roy to move voluntarily to such a Hell hole? I mean he may have been up in Glasgow with the Celtic Rangers, but at least that dive has the odd gallery. Not one native that we encountered in the North East was remotely comprehensible. And I strongly suspect that not one of them can read. I can only assume that they finance their visits to football matches through petty and not so petty crime.
However, it is pleasing to report that Roy seems happy, and by all accounts his unassuming manner makes him quite the leader of men. I must confess I had my doubts – footballers tend to be very rough boys, and they don’t take kindly to bookish types like Roy. But then it is easy to forget that he was, incongruously, blessed with phenomenal athletic talent. I suppose the lads respect him for that.
Most emphatically not an athlete is Norman. But he has lost about a stone in weight – despite living on wine and cheese – and all because of a new exercise regime. This seems to consist entirely of grappling, literally, with his negro personal trainer, a 6’8 inch American called ‘Felix’.
So inspired is Norman by Greco Roman wrestling that he has taken to challenging any man who looks remotely sporting, and any woman over 10 stone in weight, to ‘rumble’ with him. This has already become tiresome, and got Norman into a LOT of trouble at half time with the elephantine women who served hot chocolate, and with several of the Sunderland players in the bar after the game. Roy and Julian had to be at their most diplomatic.
Once again, everything above in this post is fictitious.
posted by Tom Greeves at 3:54 pm
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