The Curse of 32 Inches

I was quiet yesterday because I’ve ruined my back. Actually, it’s a muscle in my right shoulder and it happened when I was watching ‘Curb Your Enthusiasm’ on Sunday night. I might have been laughing too hard when Larry David joined a children’s game of ‘Chinese Whispers’ and corrupted the minds of many innocents. I prefer to think it was the result of my moving a 32 inch TV set earlier in the day.

The old TV had been sitting in the flat for weeks. Since Gabby bought herself a new 40 inch flat Sony Bravia, she’s been telling me to throw the old TV away. I’ve been putting it off, the weight making my blood run cold at the very thought of trying to lift it.

Ten minutes before the men’s final at Wimbledon was due to start, I tripped over the TV for the dozenth time and finally decided that it had to go. Foolish of me, I know, but I dragged it out of the flat all by myself. And I’m sure I tore a muscle in the process. I turned to pick up a book today and collapsed on the floor in agony. I’ve barely moved all day.

Which gave me plenty of time to think about Roger Federer.

The media seem to make so little of the things which in seem to mean so much to me in my life. When these tennis players get sprains, are they really as painful as my back? You’d never think so. The media like to portray stars in a different reality to the rest of us and Roger Federer seems to live in a stranger world than most. For instance, I’ve found myself obsessing over his crest.

Most big sportsmen and women personalise their equipment. Beckham has the names of his sons on his boots. Tiger Woods has furry tiger covers to his golf clubs. Federer has logos on his bags indicating how many times he’s won Wimbledon. Only, the current men’s champion doesn’t stop there. He also has his own crest.

When he won, on Sunday, Federer put on a pair of long white trousers and a jacket, emblazoned with his moniker. It’s actually not much of a crest, just his initials and the flag of Switzerland. Some praise the look for a return to traditional Wimbledon fashion. I can’t accept it as simply as that. It makes him look like some minor prince from a minor European royal family; the Crown Prince of the Grass Court, perhaps. It appears utterly gauche to me and I can’t help but think of Omar Shariff in those films of the 1970s where he usually drives around Monaco and the ladies swoon. I can’t see Federer getting the same reactions. Or perhaps he does and I don’t understand Monaco.

‘Who is that handsome devil?’

‘Why it’s Prince Federer of the Grass Court. The ladies go crazy for his sliced backhand.’

‘He looks so dashing. Is that his crest he wears so magnificently on his chest?’

‘I hear he also has a tattoo…’

‘Oh, do tell…’

I find it astonishing. What possesses a grown man, with such talent, to demean his success in such a cheap way?

Gabby told me to calm down and that he deserves to flaunt his success. And Wikipedia seems to agree with her. Of Roger Federer it says: ‘‘Many experts and many of his own tennis peers believe Federer may be the greatest player in the history of the game.’ Only I don’t remember Björn Borg being so pleased with himself that he had a suit made to celebrate his victories. Perhaps he should. Wikipedia also says that Borg is ‘regarded by some observers and tennis players as the greatest player in the sport's history’.

Ali proclaimed that he was the ‘greatest’ and many sports fans would agree. But with Ali, the showmanship was always cleverer than that. By calling himself the ‘Greatest’ he was also mocking the notion of greatness, playing the role of the champion at the same time as he was also lampooning it. By mocking it, Ali somehow made a greater claim to the truth that he was the Greatest.

Federer’s crest is something else. There is nothing that hints of lampooning success. It doesn’t prove that he’s the greatest. Quite the contrary. By lacking humility, it also lacks something else. Certainty. Belief. It smacks of bravado. It only reminds me that some day he will no longer be champion.

Bouncing Back

I had one of those bad days yesterday. There's nothing worse than when a thonglateer has a bad back -- I blame helping Gabby carry a couple of goats to her allotment over the weekend -- but when added to a bad mood, there can only be tears before breakfast. It explains why I sat around in the flat wearing a pair of Y-fronts.

Listening to Patti Smith kept me sane. I can't say enough good things about Ms. Smith. So enjoy it, if New York punk is your thing, while I sit down, contemplate another odd morning, and try to put it all into words.

(Edit: I forgot to mention, you should turn your speakers on full to really appreciate this...)

In Bed With A Pot Noodle

Can any sight give you more cause to feel pity than that of a ruined stripper with a painful lumbar region, lying in bed, having spilt a beef and tomato Pot Noodle down his front while trying so earnestly to understand the finer points of English poetry?

This sums up my Friday morning and it’s not the sort of life I ever though I’d ever blog about.

I know you’re only here for the tales of greasy thongs, the pole dancing, and my life among the aerobically sound ladies, and I can see why a few of you have dropped off, fearing that this blog has become the equivalent to a Samaritan drop in centre or those benches at the local indoor market that attract the madder kind of vagrant. Well, I’m only blogging about my life and at the moment, I’m forced to play the role of the invalid.

I still look bloody good in a thong though.

The doctor commented on as much when she came to see me this morning. She confirmed that I’ve aggravated my old injury caused last year by my lifting a nineteen stone traffic warden above my head. The good news is that she thinks that bed rest will bring about a quick recovery and she even thinks I might be dancing again in a week or two. I’m going to take it as my chance to get as much of my reading list read as I can.

Although the prognosis is good, this latest episode has only confirmed my doubts about the long term security of stripping as a career. I need another string to my bow, not least in order to earn a decent wage. I don’t see why a man with my skills can’t earn at least £100 a week, perhaps even more. It’s not much to ask for, is it?

To be honest, it was all put into perspective last night when I was watching the Comic Relief version of ‘The Apprentice’. The thought came to me again this morning when I discovered a wonderful new blog called Blockhead Magazine. Reading the Blockhead view of the show prompted me to think about my situation compared with the kind of money being flaunted by super rich celebrities.

The money being given to charity was beyond anything I have known or could imagine. A friend of Trinny Woodall’s agreed to donate £150,000 instead of the paltry £100,000 she’d originally promised them. We also saw John Terry and Ashlie Cole give something like £5000 each to see Anne Robinson put in some stocks.

Now, I know what you’re thinking, and I appreciate the sentiment too, but no matter how good the cause (and can there be any better than the lynching of Anne Robinson?) the flaunting of that kind of money, implying its insignificance, is obscene. A nurse or a teacher would earn £5000 before tax in three months or more and though it does a charity some good to see wealth being distributed their way, the sense that we’re living in a country that’s gone slightly mad is all too apparent.

It leaves me here, as my painkillers begin to wear off, to quote this Auden poem I’ve been struggling over all morning:

It’s no use turning nasty
It’s no use turning good
You’re what you are and nothing you do
Will get you out of the wood
Out of a world that has had its day.