Tony Grist (poliphilo) wrote,
Tony Grist

More Like A Diary Entry Than Usual

Ailz says she thinks she heard it raining during the night. I haven't seen the signs of it this morning, so it must have been a very light sprinkle if it happened at all. We've had a day or two of overcast and now the sun is shining and the heatwave- which never quite went away- has re-established itself.

I hesitated before using the word sprinkle. It used to be an entirely innocent word but then the artist Annie Sprinkle took it to herself and it acquired connotations.

Ailz and I watched Isner and Anderson slug it out- after which we had no energy left for Nadal and Djokovic- which we'd been looking forward to. I had an odd experience with Anderson; I heard he was playing Federer and immediately thought, "Whoops, that's Federer finished." But I hadn't seen Anderson play and knew nothing about him at the time- he was just a name with reputation for serving big. So what was that- precognition? If I was someone who placed bets I'd have money on Anderson winning the tournament.

I like Anderson now I've seen him. He looks Scottish. And his distress on behalf of John Isner in the post-match interview was attractive. As Boris Becker said, you don't see much empathy in high level sport these days. Isner and Anderson are both older guys with finite chances of glory and it was more than usually harsh that one of them had to lose. Sport isn't all fun and games; there's cruelty too.

We took some bags of stuff to our favourite charity shop. "Last thing I want," said the superviser as I handed him books, but his hand was held out and I pressed on with the donation. Not everything we were getting rid of was books; there was a nice tray in Sheffield plate and all sorts. I came home with a scale model of a 1930s railway engine. In another shop we bought four glass paperweights.

Trump has done with England, leaving a great deal of froth behind him. Committed republicans (in the British sense of the word) have been leaping to the defence of the Queen- whose self-determined protocols he is said to have trampled on- because that's how much they hate him. He's now in Scotland where a braveheart in a microlite breached the security cordon, dragging a mildly uncomplimentary slogan. Trump ding-dongs between autocracy and anarchism and I've been racking my brains to think of a precedent- real life or fictional- but none of them quite fits. Berlusconi? There's a difference of scale; Shakespeare's Richard II? Richard was an aesthete and a hereditary monarch; Ubu Roi? That's the closest- but really Trump is one of a kind- a disfunctional ruler for disfunctional times- an Emperor with no clothes who is only too happy for us to look at his dick...
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