NATIONAL treasures go a bit gaga as they get older. They start coming out with stuff that you would laugh at if anyone else said it. Sir Michael Caine claims to have been writing a novel and in the plot he had terrorists flying a plane into a skyscraper. Then, when 9/11 happened, the star of The Ipcress File and Zulu was so stunned by his own powers of prophecy that he quit writing.
Michael Caine a writer? Why hasn’t he written an autobiography, then? Oh, he has, and he is about to bring out a second volume. Not a lot of people know that.
I don’t think The Italian Job star’s claim qualifies as prophecy, because it had happened before he told us about it. Anyone could do that. Maybe Sir Michael made it up – just like his name. He is actually Maurice Micklewhite.
People with a little bit more savvy are predicting all sorts of things which haven’t actually happened yet. A ban on those tennis players who grunt when they are serving or returning serves at Wimbledon has been predicted for some time by some commentators, such as Martina Navratilova, who could win entire championships without as much as a little gasp escaping from her lips. I think a grunt ban is finally going to happen, which is going to be a lot of fun.
Scientists with too much time on their hands – or, perhaps, far too much research grant – have been studying the effect of a compendium of various grunts, groans and snorts on the opponents of those who emit them at the great lawn tennis championships around the globe.
It has been concluded that “extraneous sound” interfered with the other players’ performances. Whatever will arch-grunters Rafael Nadal and Maria Sharapova do? Can they just quit grunting after all these years?
They will have to. It is just not fair. And that’s official.
I am inclined to agree – and not just in tennis. From personal experience, I know the off-putting effect of noisy exhalations at a crucial point in a tussle that could go either way.
Although we hadn’t done it for a while, Mrs X and I got down on the Axminster the other night to play a little game of our own. I think she enjoyed it. I haven’t heard so much grunting and squealing from anyone since Giant Haystacks last had Big Daddy in a half nelson. With that racket going on, I didn’t know whether to carry on and use my squidger to pot the red or struggle to my feet and call a doctor.
Thankfully, concerned reader, I can report that she was fine. It was merely down to that fiery passion that comes from a closely-fought clash in the test of skill, dexterity and arthritic joints that is tiddlywinks.
Have I a prophecy? I predict that once David Miliband gets over the monumental huff he has found himself in for having lost the Labour leadership contest, within the year, he will be on the phone to Unwed Ed to ask for a job. He will do a Mandelson and say he has always respected his brother, has always been a bit of a red himself, anyway, on the QT, and will leak to the press that he hasn’t been in touch with anyone called Blair for years.
Look, my crystal ball’s telling me something else. If Ed doesn’t take his call, there is someone else in his address book that David will want to say “hi” to. It’s there under C. Cameron? No, silly. Clegg, N. That’s the one.
While my ball’s out, through swirling mists I see Matt Cardle and Rebecca Ferguson will be in the X Factor final. That lad’s voice has a strange effect on Mrs X, who comes over all unnecessary when he’s on. She goes all gooey on me, talking about him all the time. My voice once had a similar effect on her, but that was a very long time ago, obviously. I predict few plates will be washed at weekends in this house until the final at Christmas.
Ms Ferguson who, with a name like that, could be an elder’s daughter from Upper Coll, is actually a mother-of-two from Liverpool who speaks in a thick Scouse accent. When she sings, I am transported to the feet of the late sultry temptress Eartha Kitt.
That is because, when I was about 11 or 12, I went to a sale of work in the Bernera hall and the only unsold 45rpm records were Calum Kennedy singing the eternal love ballad A’ Pheigi a Ghraidh (Oh Peggy my dear) and the delectable Ms Kitt’s single Proceed With Caution. I invested my shilling.
That magnificent voice rose to a crescendo then fell away back into tonsils bathed in honey and I still shudder at the thought of those purring come-ons. They had a great effect on the pimply adolescent I once was. Eartha was OK, too.
I shall watch X Factor because there is no way that Strictly is going on in this house. I don’t care if I have already paid with my TV licence.
Promises of pensionable prancers like former MP Ann Widdecombe and clapped-out conjuror Paul Daniels preposterously pirouetting are enough to ensure that X Factor, and the lovely, fragrant, warm-hearted creature that the nation has taken to its heart, will always be turned on here.
But that’s enough about Louis Walsh.
Strictly? No, never.
And I’ll tell you why. If I wanted to see a load of self-important individuals who are well past their prime doing something so utterly inappropriate that it should be banned by law for the sake of a few votes, I would go and watch the Free Church caucus in action at meetings of Western Isles Licensing Board.
