High life | 1 October 2015

If cheating is the cancer of sport, losing has to be its halitosis. I stunk out the joint in Amsterdam last week, and even managed to be thrown (a first) for my troubles. Winners, for some strange reason, never have an excuse. Losers tend to. Mine is that my opponent was born after the war, whereas I was in an age group that was born before it. The rules are that one fights opponents within five years of one’s birthday, either way. My opponents were double that, but I should have registered an objection before the matches began. Some did and stayed out. I did not. I arrogantly thought I could win, and suffered the consequences. End of story and of my career in judo tournaments. It’s sad but normal. Sportsmen don’t always go out on top. They leave after being humiliated. Goodbye judo, hello tiddlywinks.

My only solace — Amsterdam is a depressing place, full of tourists — was Tom Holland’s diary in the Speccie, Jeremy’s use of the word anthropophagism, and Melissa Kite’s search for a 1956-era cottage.