I don’t know why I watched the football last night. Well, actually I do, it was because Beckham and Owen were playing and so it felt like the good old days when I used to enjoy football and England weren’t appallingly bad.
You’ve got to hand it to Becks. All that pressure and what does he do? Just puts the ball where you expect him to. I don’t know how he lives with all the negative publicity and nasty things said about him. I was upset by a couple of losers writing mean things on their blogs about me. He has to look at his life (and even worse, his hairstyle) being torn to bits in the national press on a daily basis.
I wonder how he felt the moment before he kicked the ball to Terry? We all know that if he messed up the critics would have been thrilled to tear him to bits. I was so nervous for him. But he seemed cool as anything. It reminded me of the Kipling poem, which I know is a cliche but I still love it:
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise
Meanwhile it is official, I am a lunatic. “Mummy you’re quite the maddest girl I know,” Olivia told me this morning. So that’s reassuring. I’m now going to iron my straight-jacket and watch the football highlights.
Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007