The name of the game | 23 February 2008

I’ve realised I don’t have a game, a sport. A man needs a game. It’s important. Says a lot about him; more than his car or his clothes. I asked the builders if they wanted to start a football team. ‘We’d have enough for six-a-side,’ I said. ‘Come on, it’ll be great! …Wednesday?’ But I could tell they lacked commitment. There wasn’t so much as a ‘Bagsy not in goal’ from any of them. They’ve all got their own stuff going on, I suppose. Blackham and Doe, the groundworks guys, are anglers. They’re always showing me pictures of barbels and roaches on their phones and telling me where and how. It’s involuntary, like mothers showing pictures of their children; and the rod squad’s missionary enthusiasm doesn’t come close to the physical and spiritual delight that Neil the chippy discovers while skydiving. He can’t talk about it without beaming and misting over.