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What a week for sport 鈥 for a dose of sheer nail-biting, heart-breaking, poetry-inspiring emotional laxative, what could compete with the annual charity tug of war between the written press and the broadcasters?
The setting is pure history 鈥 the magnificent green stretching languorously along the banks of the Thames beneath the gothic bulk of the House of Lords is a Stadium of Light indeed. The myths are rich; the day the 成人快手 political correspondent John Pienaar nearly died of asphyxia after round three is spoken of in awed tones by the crowd at the Millbank End; and memories of the Humphrys team that wiped the floor still bring a smile to veteran lips (was it under Callaghan or Wilson? They argue the toss for hours in the Magpie and Stump).
This year it felt as if we had been here before. A little grace under pressure, and no amount of training can conceal the cruel chasm that separates the competent from the truly great. The Scribblers 鈥 how those affectionate soubriquets ring down to us through years of chants from the terraces 鈥 had trained hard, out once a week with a marine and a rope tied to a tree in Dean鈥檚 Yard. The broadcasters had been out once 鈥 and I missed it owing to a dodgy bouillabaisse in Marseille at the weekend. But our coach gave us one nice move, and that鈥檚 all it needed to get the fat lady singing; left foot forward when you take the strain, bring the right one up to join it when the hands drop.
Don鈥檛 try it at home, but eight magnificent broadcasters鈥 鈥渆mbonpoints鈥 suddenly became one 鈥 and every one had been shaped and sculpted by years of luncheon-rich summits and party conferences. Sarah Montague urged us on with the rhythm of the traditional soup ladle and saucepan from the Today kitchen (sorry, slipping over into the Editor鈥檚 fantasy for a moment there), Mariella Frostrup simply couldn鈥檛 match her pace for the Scribes, and it didn鈥檛 even feel like a game of two halves.
All that makes more sense if you imagine it being read out by Gary Richardson or Steve May.
Nemesis came the next morning in the form of Greg Wood, our business correspondent. He interviewed a man from Harris about the sudden demand for the island鈥檚 tweed from the firm Nike, and pronounced the name of the company without its 鈥渆鈥 throughout.
With Sarah鈥檚 encouragement I slipped a note in front of him with the correct pronunciation, thinking it was a kind thing to do. Greg responded by quoting the ancient Greek word for 鈥渧ictory鈥 from which the name Nike derives (thus currying favour with K Marsh, Editor of Today, Regius Professor etc) and then revealing that it is in fact 鈥渄e rigueur鈥 in teenage circles to us the e-less version 鈥 so cleaning up on the 鈥測oung listener鈥 drive as well. Sarah was generous hearted and wanted to know more about tweed sneakers 鈥 I just thought 鈥淓t tu, Brute鈥, et cetera.
Where have all those funny white flags with red crosses gone? Why did people have them on their cars in the first place? And why were the roads so empty when, pigeon-chested with parental pride, I drove back from watching my son graduate at Cambridge on Thursday afternoon. On Friday morning Jim said it had something to do with a Swiss banker, and then laughed. Apparently Liverpool is involved in some way too, and we had the famous Liverpudlian poet Roger McGough on to explain it all.
He had written what sounded like rather a good pastiche of WH Auden, but the line went all crackly and we had to say goodbye, so perhaps I shall never know.
Ed Stourton.
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