FIFA needs Dr Chung to make it honest.
Man United is Rooney’s team and I wonder whether anybody great will join United while he is there.
Pedro is better than Perry Groves but….. hugely average. The lad isn’t good enough for Arsenal, so how can he start games for Man United?
My mischievous greengrocer John told me on Saturday morning that he’s waiting for LVG to sign another £25million name. That will give John better odds when he bets on United finishing outside the Top Four.
We’ve been away for the weekend so I haven’t seen the Community Shield game yet.
Went to an extravagant wedding in Kent and met more people in one day than I’ve ever met in a day before.
Talked about 50/50 with 30-somethings and 60-somethings and the young ones I didn’t know almost all said, “Oh……you’re Mikey’s dad!”
Everything fell into place on the day as 150 crammed into Knockholt Church.
Al Kipling is a gifted engineer-mathematician and a legend in our son Michael’s friendship group.
He works for Jaguar Land Rover.
Al played the hymns on the church organ, throwing in a little bit of garage and some drum’n’bass while the happy couple signed the register and then played the newlyweds out of the church with All You Need Is Love.
A jolly pregnant blonde in a leopard-printed dress was sitting next to me as the five adult bridesmaids swanned out together in long peach gowns.
Myles: “Hollywood’s got George Clooney but we’ve got Clayton King.”
Blondie giggled.
Her real name is Sarah but one of the lads started calling her Blondie and it stuck.
She was at Sheffield with Clayton and half the young men here.
Myles: “We need a lift to the Reception.”
Sarah: “We’ll take you.”
The whole weekend was like that, just flowing merrily.
On Sunday morning we drove a few miles down the road to Chartwell and stood on Churchill’s terrace overlooking his lake and a stunning English landscape reaching up to the Weald.
From that terrace, surveying the estate, I soon began to have delusions of aristocracy.
As we wandered through Lady Churchill’s rose garden, dozens of swifts arrowed back and forward from the roof of the great house, and down beyond the orchard we came past the end of the lake to bronzes of the indomitable warrior seated with his wife. Winston’s right arm was almost too hot to touch in the strong sun, while his left arm was only warm.
On the M25 I didn’t want to break the intoxicated mood of Saturday-Sunday.
But eventually, beyond the Dartmouth Tunnel, I switched on Radio 2 and found that Arsenal were winning 1-0 with 12 minutes to go.