Nick Jordan

I watched the first episode of Gareth Malone‘s latest exploits on BBC2 last night. In Gareth Goes to Glyndebourne, the ever-charming and delightfully enthusiastic Gareth follows the now-familiar pattern of taking a bunch of ordinary working-class kids and introducing them to a whole new world of music and singing, in this case by getting them to perform in a specially written opera at the world-renowned Glyndebourne opera house.

Yes, we’ve seen similar stuff before, and in the hands of almost anyone else it’d be quite boring by now, but somehow Gareth Malone manages to keep our interest. A great deal of this has to be due to his infectious passion for singing and his refusal to give up in the face of the kids’ initial indifference. It really is lovely to watch, despite a certain predictability. I’ll be glued to the remaining two episodes and to whatever Mr. Malone comes up with next.

It won’t surprise those who know me when I say that I hate football. This isn’t something new, I’ve always felt this way. To clarify a little, it’s not the actual game that I detest, more all the fuss and hype that surrounds it. Is it really that important who wins? Will your life never be the same again? Even at my most sports-fanatical I’d never claim that Valentino Rossi crashing out of a race could force me to take to my bed and spend the rest of the weekend wallowing in misery, so why do so many football fans behave as if their sport matters so much?

Anyway, the point of this ramble is that despite my loathing of the national sport and the consequent dreading of the World Cup that was my initial reaction, a thought has occurred to me. While the England matches are on, especially if the team make it through to the later stages of the competition, the streets will be blessedly, delightfully empty. I shall be able to amble around London without having to keep stopping or changing direction suddenly. I shall be able to get a seat on the Tube. As long as I’m safely off the streets by chucking out time I’ll be able to pretend that some sort of ghastly, Survivors-like plague has struck and I’m one of the lucky few who’s still around.

So, unlike my behaviour in previous years, I shall be cheering the home side on (mentally, at least) with as much gusto as the most excitable enthusiast can manage. And if they make the final I shall be utterly delighted.