although a bloke called Adolf from Germany, who was not properly wired up, is numero uno, Clarkson would be up there. Our Jez doesn’t mind getting stuck in and thinks most sportsmen are complete pricks … he certainly has a point.
In sport, we are well served for ranters, with Sir Alex Ferguson undoubtedly the doyen. The way he keeps these young, impressionable multi-millionaires in their place with a good clout around the lugs with a teacup or stray boot impresses me. To hell with political correctness for Sir Alex; giving the upstarts a good clogging has been his mantra. Reminds me of the discipline meted out by my mum with my uncle Harry’s belt when I was a nipper. Uncle Harry was ex-Navy and had the thickest trouser belt worn by man. He lived five doors down from us in Accrington and was secretary of Sydney Street Working Men’s Club. Whenever I got on the wrong side of Mum for such grave misdemeanours as talking to a Catholic girl, coming back from the butcher’s with stewing steak instead of shin beef or climbing on to the backyard wall to see if I could get a glimpse of my cousin Kathleen in the bath, she would send me down to Uncle Harry’s for his belt. Uncle Harry had no sympathy either and routinely declared: ‘Tell your mum to be quick. I have to open club up.’ Never did me any harm, though. To me the equation is simple: do wrong = thwacking. None of this behavioural profiling in front of a computer, in a centrally heated room, or assessment during a trip to an outward-bound centre. Call me old-fashioned, but there was nowt wrong with the birch.
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