Mass Culture

Dear Diary,

I have let go of Tucker’s enormous box and he has gone off to stroke it lovingly before getting his hand on what is inside.

Meanwhile I am off to watch a game of Association Football in a place called (so I am told) Wigon. How very suitable for a Barrister. I would not like you to think that I make a habit of watching a game for gentlemen played by ruffians. On this particular occasion, I have been ‘comped’: I cannot imagine it is as a result of my support for the Toon Police, but it seems to me not to matter. Everyone should experience the pleasures of the many on an irregular basis. How else should I keep my finger on the pulse?

I have not been to a game of Association since my Aunt Godiva condescended to attend a match in Birmingham in the 1970s and was met with a mass request to “Keep yer tits in for the lads”. But I am sure nothing like that happens any more.

Having been to the aforesaid contest, I must say that it was rather a disappointment. Everyone was most gaily attired, in coloured favours and rosettes. However, the game itself was rather dull. The supporters seemed to know rather too much about the Referee’s  personal habits, and why anyone should want to sing about such things escapes me. Still, it was very Christmasy: every time someone called (I believe) Titus Bramble got the ball, the man next to me shouted “Jesus, look at that donkey” and called upon the Lord and the angelic host to assist him. I am not sure I understood everything though, because during the interval the same fellow asked me if I had a turkey on Christmas Day and, when I replied in the affirmative, he bet me that it was not as big as this one.

Still, Wigon won with a splendid free kick which fairly whistled into the net and, just to show that it is indeed a small world, everyone on Wigon’s side sang the song “We’re staying up” which I often hear Tucker singing when he is entertaining that young lady who, although she looks very little like him, is apparently his niece.

Update from Ruthie:

Ruthie is also “Wig-on” but at home practising before the new court dress rules for solicitor-advocates come in on 2nd January. Ruthie has tested the wig to see if it will withstand the rigours of Ruthie’s advocacy style. So far the wig has stayed rock solid through arm waving, desk thumping and jumping up and down in indignation. Whether it will stay put under my motorcycle helmet remains to be seen. A home for wiggy to reside in when not living on Ruthie’s head has proved more problematic: the Christmas period has divested a suitably sized tin, but since Ruthie’s surname is not “Rover” this may be misleading. VM has kindly offered hers, but neither is Ruthie’s surname “Maiden” and marriage - I am advised -is generally more expensive than a  new wig tin, even one from Ede and Ravenscroft.