Pick a side, any side will do
And now for something completely indifferent
Two battlegrounds have loomed large in the run-up to this edition. In one corner of campus, the local elections determined once and for all which political animals would seize control of York’s awesome can recycling and road-widening powers. Meanwhile, generous bucketfuls of Lancastrian blood were spilt out on the Astroturf, as the annals of history were ceremonially rewritten in the annual Roses competition.
Enthusiasm for both these events has run high in the Nouse office the last few weeks. The news team were giddy with excitement at the prospect of another chance to flex their pundit muscles, eagerly ambushing polling stations and pestering beleaguered candidates. More general, however, was the palpable desire shared by all to prove, once and for all, that this newspaper and its staff of sensitive bookish types could adequately cover a major sporting event without getting something catastrophically and embarrassingly wrong.
If I was going to don my battered and tattered cultural commentary hat, I might well opine that politics and sport represent the two last red-blooded activities left for those seeking release in our neutered, consensual society. What I mean by this is that the opportunities for a proper, old-fashioned fight – a real, gritty knee-in-the-ballsack bust-up, with a gloating winner, and a bruised, brave-faced loser – are few and far between these days. Elections and sporting competitions are two rare occasions upon which people can abandon all their pretences to co-operation or tolerance and really, truly hate their neighbour: be he a Tory stuffed shirt, a Labour apparatchik or a Lancastrian scumbag.
The coincidence of the two on the same bank holiday weekend, then, is something close to a dream ticket, particularly for the ravenous hacks of Grimston House: even the fabled ‘other paper’ felt compelled to cut their holiday sort and scamper back to their burrow, even if it was only to use the photocopier. Only one person was left feeling a little confused in the midst of this jamboree of good old-fashioned animosity. That lonely soldier, dear reader, that proverbial nun in a brothel, was yours truly.
I will confess a selective and casual interest in political affairs, in much the same way that someone who once watched Rambo might confess an interest in going to fight in a war. I certainly find it all very interesting, and even occasionally feel compelled to take sides, but the second it turns into something combative, with people staking out their positions and insisting I pick a side, I’m finished. Naked political ambition is the one thing I find truly frightening, and this applies no matter how much I like people personally or agree with their views. There’s just something about elections, and all they involve, that makes me feel uneasy around anyone who takes them seriously.
This lamentable apathy for the democratic process, though, this unfortunate lack of interest in who storms the citadels of power, pales in comparison to the way I feel about the sporting life. Come disbelief, mockery or spitting vitriol from the devout, I remain totally, unreservedly and unapologetically indifferent to the outcome of any sporting event. Football, cricket, rugby, competitive dancing – it doesn’t matter, I just can’t care who wins. It’s not that I hate sport, or even dislike it: I can see perfectly well that many people get a lot out of it, and I will happily sit and watch cricket on a warm summers’ day with a pint. I just don’t care who’s winning at the time, nor do I really understand why I should. And for that reason I will forever remain an intrigued but confused onlooker.
I’m aware this is an unpopular view, particularly on a victorious Roses weekend, and I’d hate to pour cold water on any celebrations, particularly since the rest of this paper is full of them. Personally, I’m delighted we won, because it’s a small reward for the boundless enthusiasm of everyone involved. True, I’ve no idea whatsoever where that enthusiasm comes from – but am grateful all the same that everyone else makes up for my obvious shortcomings, which will leave me forever bored on a Saturday afternoon and doomed to failure in every pub quiz in which I ever partake. I’ll leave it to you to decide who the real winner is.
rinky stingpiece
“flex their pundit muscles”
…wobbling their imbecile pot-bellies more like.