I was settling down to my evening pink gin and crossword today when my wife let out what I can only describe as the sound of a stuck pig.
“Farringdon-Pincetripe,’ she said (we have always been close), “we’re scuppered.”
“What is it Philippa, my dear?” I asked. She was at the computer, serfing I think they call it.
She came straight to the point. A salty gal, P.F.P.. “Get your carcass over here, man!”
She had on the screen an article by your lad Mellor, casual sort of fellow that, judging by his picture, bit of mixed blood in there too I wouldn’t doubt. He’s been comparing Sir Simon Rattle to a cove named Ferguson, scotchman I’m told, using football analogies of all things.
Gentlemen, footballing analogies in the Gramophone! Surely not, even in this dark day and age.
I’m aware they have appeared from time to time on what you call the forum, which does not surprise me. Odd sorts of johnnies on there, ex-convicts, agents and remittance men by the sounds of them. But from the pen of one of your employees in your mainstream magazine?
If you must make sporting comparisons surely there are more appropriate sources than football. Whilst understanding that one or two of your readers might not understand references to polo, hunting or croquet, I think you will find that cricket is full of examples. Could not the pending resignation of Sir Simon be likened to the final hour of a day’s play at Lords, Cowdrey and Bailey at the crease, 300 to avoid the follow-on, the light fading, Miller bowling, England under threat as in 1940? Come, come, Gramophone, shame Mr. Mellor. Where is your sense of tradition?
J.R.Q. Farringdon-Pincetripe, Major-General, rtd.