I had a complaint last week from a reader who said that stories here were not coming fast and furious enough. He suggested I was getting lazy and urged me to get on to the case.
He is from the north of England and seemingly does not understand ‘The Season’.
Last week was of course Ascot Week and the reader complained on Ladies Day!
This really is not cricket. Ascot was an important week in my calendar. I used to live in a house called ‘Five Furlongs’ on the old course by the Golden Gate.
As I am now back within easy commuting distance it would be dashed boring if I did not attend. But no sign of Drew Noyes, not even in the Royal Enclosure; but then I’m not sure if divorced persons are still banned. I was at the bandstand listening to the Scots Guards.
Perhaps I might see Drew at Wimbledon over the next fortnight. I mean he was accepted for a while at the Polo Club of Thailand – er, until he was ejected.
I do not have tickets for Centre Court – but I do have a parking spot at a friend’s place less than 100 yards from the front gate – which is worth even more.
The last time I was at Wimbledon was to meet up again with Evonne Goolagong who the previous week at a hotel breakfast on the south coast had told me she was about to announce her engagement to some chap called Cawley.
This of course was heavily played at the Daily Mail whose shillings I took before realizing the News of the World had better ethics – long since lost.
After Wimbledon of course comes Henley Regatta week. This was an event I covered for the farmers’ newspaper the Berkshire Mercury which employed me in my first journalist job at the starting salary of a princely seven guineas a week.
My brother is going. He’s on a private launch, owned or hired by a friend of his. I hinted. He looked at my kids. Yep. These guys are terrors. God knows what they’ll get up to on Bucks Fizz.
My father, a pilot, had relocated to Sonning on Thames, or rather Playhatch, a few miles down the road just north of Reading, so that stopped me begging.
Ah memories and the sun is shining – and later I can take the kids to Henley – but I am not sure if my Berkshire Mercury car sticker will still work. It’s been through the wars a bit.
Do not be disabused into thinking how that there are no startling revelations coming on this site.
– There are.
My lines have been ringing red hot all week from south East Asia.
It’s just been a bit difficult to deal with them all while stuffing myself with scones with Devon clotted cream.
More reports of deaths of Bangkok boiler room bosses coming, also reports of fake deaths,
* The Flying Sporran is of course technically not an English gentleman but of course Scottish. But just as the Scottish earls traditionally kept pads in London and attended society events so too was the Sporran by circumstance forced to accept this annual round of jollies as part of his social diary. Regretfully he will not be carrying on his season in Nice or Monte Carlo.