If cheating is the cancer of sport, losing has to be its halitosis. I stunk out the joint in Amsterdam last week, and even managed to be thrown (a first) for my troubles. Winners, for some strange reason, never have an excuse. Losers tend to. Mine is that my opponent was born after the war, whereas I was in an age group that was born before it. The rules are that one fights opponents within five years of one’s birthday, either way. My opponents were double that, but I should have registered an objection before the matches began. Some did and stayed out. I did not. I arrogantly thought I could win, and suffered the consequences. End of story and of my career in judo tournaments. It’s sad but normal. Sportsmen don’t always go out on top. They leave after being humiliated. Goodbye judo, hello tiddlywinks.
My only solace — Amsterdam is a depressing place, full of tourists — was Tom Holland’s diary in the Speccie, Jeremy’s use of the word anthropophagism, and Melissa Kite’s search for a 1956-era cottage. Oh, yes — I almost forgot: Freddy Gray’s Lebedev story had me dying for more revelations, but I could feel the libel lawyers’ hot breath on our deputy editor’s shoulders. My unsolicited advice to this Russian social climber is to strip naked, put on a pink jockstrap and shove a few feathers up his bum, and then go and join the gay and lesbian parade in Greenwich Village, an event that is now more celebrated than the opening of parliament or a Papal visit. He will be a transatlantic star in no time.
The irony about this Lebedev father–son combo is the double standard that is applied where Nazism is concerned as opposed to communism.
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