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Giles Smith is a New Statesman columnist and previously wrote for the Times.
Dignity is thrillingly cast aside in this riotously entertaining book full of premium celebrity tittle-tattle.
I scoured my memory, but could not recall ever being protected digitally from the sight of spit in the men’s game.
He was at the centre of a storm of madness which was never entirely of his own devising and certainly not his own to control.
Seriously, Glenn? Who’s celebrating? It couldn’t have worked out worse.
The whistle would blow and on everyone would come, in a stampede, while the players dashed for safety. Not any more.
Trump isn’t the first commander-in-chief to acquire a reputation for bending the rules.
TV cameras had shown the incandescent Neil Warnock screaming in unmistakably salty terms at the fourth official, Chelsea’s manager and passing Chelsea players out on the field.
The Arsenal striker stood with his arms crossed in the “Wakanda forever” pose, honouring the Marvel character’s fictional homeland.
The insistence that statues of players actually look like their subjects shows the perennial conflict between visionary artists and the baying mob.
The proper record for getting thrashed in an official match is held by Bon Accord of Scotland, who were stuffed 36-0 by Arbroath in 1885.