Remember, remember…..

Remember when Guy Fawkes’ night was way ahead of Halloween in the opinion polls? Penny for the Guy, rockets in milk bottles and dangerous bonfires were institutions which celebrated gunpowder, treason and plot. How wonderful to have a party to remember the nearly-blowing up of Parliament. Now witches and warlocks, pumpkins and trick-or-treating have invaded our shores. Much less radical.

Remember when sportsmen didn’t cheat (well not much)? In those far-off days when sporty types were only rewarded with sweat and certificates, there wasn’t much point in bending rules. Now power and money have brought the reward of corruption. And it’s not the just the performers – coaches, governing bodies, politicians – so many seem to have noses in the trough. Oink Oink.

Remember when the Times and Sunday Times used to be newspapers rather than extended gossip columns? With bags of national and international news to report yesterday, the S.T. led with Footballers Face £100m Meltdown – a story about overpaid soccer players getting bad investment advice. The stunning sub-lines were: 1. Top players accuse advisers of mis-selling and 2. They feel aggrieved, they feel duped – humiliated.

So much for Remembrance, Aung San Suu Kyi, dead Russian tourists, dead Russian athletics reputation for that matter etc. Luckily there was a nice picci of David Furnish kissing Elton on the front of the magazine while Michael McIntyre was on the front of the Culture. About right. I avoided the 4 page investigative pull-out on the soccer story. The S.T. has decided that anything to do with the seamy side of sport is worth throwing megabucks at to ‘reveal all’. As a sporty type myself I offer the once estimable organ this advice: don’t bother.

Remember Remembrance? Well there’s a great deal of it about with VE and VJ Days and all the rest. The British Legion’s Festival of Remembrance at the Albert Hall on Saturday was the usual brilliant Huw Edwards,  stage-managed affair with Rod Stewart improbably but effectively crooning and Pixie Lott strangling a nightingale in Berkeley Square. The poignant individual stories, as ever, brought the house down with tears and trumpetry. The following morning things continued at the Cenotaph with muted pomp. The media spotted that JC – the Corbynator – barely bowed his head after he laid his wreath. He mumbled the National Anthem as would Wayne Rooney at Wembley. Corbs had similarly half-mouthed the Lord’s Prayer the night before. Jezza – either go for it or look respectfully indifferent. Either is preferable. Toffs know how to carry off hypocrisy so much better.