Summer Holiday
‘IF sex is the breakfast of champions, as motor racing legend James Hunt was wont to put it, we wondered if Sven Goran Eriksson been buttering both sides of his morning toast at the same time?
On Monday the Sun reported on claims that the cheating England football manager had been having secret phone chats with former mistress Faria Alam.
Given the speed of Svens oratory, we imagine him to be a slow and deliberate lover on the phone. Questions like What are you wearing, Sven will be met with a long pause, then the sound of rustling fabric before the telling answer: My top is 70 per cent nylon with some viscose blend…shorts are a polyester-cotton formation and my glasses are made of, well, you know, (little laugh) glass.
Oh, Sven! Youre really turning on me on, says Alam. Sven then sends Alam into raptures by easing open the dishwasher door and telling her how dirty the plates are.
Alam says that their conversations have been occurring two or three times a week and that hes even been trying to speak to her in person in a Manhattan hotel room.
Nancy DellOlio, Svens leading lover, was not best pleased. Fired up, she returned to the London home she and Sven share and waited for his return. A friend of hers tells the Mail that when he did, Nancy and Sven had a serious row and that Nancy was spitting blood.
But Sven took out his magic sponge, cooled his strike partners ardour and reassured her that the story was untrue. She believed him, and later, as the Sun says, she told reporters huddled outside their home: Were not going out. Were having dinner now.
And then maybe some breakfast…
While Sven was getting to grips with more rumours of his absurd love life – and on Wednesday checking into a hotel just outside the Watford Riviera under the name Mr Jones – on Tuesday the Rolling Stones were launching yet another world your.
Keith Richards wanted to tell us that Mick Jagger was able to wear those very tight trousers for a reason.
Said Richards: His c**k is on the end of his nose. And a very small one at that. Huge balls. Small c**k. Ask Marianne Faithfull.
The papers declined the invite that so many women have accepted, preferring to celebrate the discovery of Tony Blair. Finally, the Mail has spotted our bouffant-haired dedicated leader on his jolly holidays.
BLAIR BLOWS HIS OWN COVER, shouted the papers front-page headline, as after days of guesswork we learn where our fearless leader has been turning his skin a lively shade of pink.
Hard luck on those of you who guessed that Tony had been staying in Texas, trying on all manner of ten gallon hats for size and perfecting his Dubya Swagger. And more fool you for thinking even for a nanosecond that the leader of this country would be holidaying in it.
Tony is holed up at a pals place in Barbados. And the reason we know this is because undercover Tony decided to turn up to a VJ celebration on the island.
And having located dear Tony, the Mail couldnt take its eyes off him. And on Thursday readers were taken back to Blairbados to see Tone dressed in a pink shirt, sunglasses perched on his head and holding a ukulele.
The Sun said sunkissed Cherie clapped and took photos while the PM…sang from a sheet of handwritten lyrics.
Back in the Mail, we heard from George Hinchliffe, director of the Ukulele Orchestra of Britain, who said the instrument was a fine choice.
Its the ideal instrument to take on holiday, said he, over looking the merits of a grand piano or tambourine. We like to think of the instrument as the instrument of the people…so maybe Tony Blair is playing up to his Everyman image by being seen with one.
What Tony sang we may never know. And if we know the name of the song, would we sing along? Problem is, as Andrew Marr, the BBCs outgoing political editor, pointed out on Friday, its almost impossible to understand politicians at the best of times, let alone a singing one.
They need a translator. Thats why people like me are used in bulletins, said Marr. He then said that many politicians are unable to speak in fluent human.
Hes right. This Government seems incapable, or unable, to speak in clear English. As John Prescott displays every time he opens his mouth, using long words and speaking at length do not make you look smart or clever, even if you have made up some of the words yourself. Neither do they get you understood.
Is it any wonder the Deputy PM responds to an egg-throwing farm worker with his fists?
And are we surprised that Tonys reign has thrown up so few sex scandals. Can you imagine the chat-up lines? Crikey! The pillow talk could go on for days…’
Posted: 30th, August 2005 | In: Broadsheets Comment | TrackBack | Permalink
