'Off With His Head!' Tindall's Treason

Mike Tindall has promised that it is ‘quiet ones from now on’, as Zara Phillips arrives in New Zealand ahead of schedule to keep her newly-wedded husband in check. She has moved across the globe with the fearsome, sweeping diagonal movement of a valuable chess piece, threatening Mike’s weak defence of pawns and drunken dwarves.

Since the CCTV footage has emerged of Mike’s inebriated fumbles with a beguiling entity only referred to as ‘a mystery blonde’, it is her identity that has so far deftly evaded the despairing tackles of a media scrum.  It is as if she has side-stepped the entire Journalist Barbarian XI, coasting past The Sun at full back and gifting into the corner.  All eyes are now on the big screen and each one of us is suddenly in the position of video referee.  I am opting for ‘No Try’, as Mike’s actions appear far from any traditional courting ritual, unless wiping a girl’s face with a serviette is some ancient intimate act in the South Sea Islands. He seemed to be mauling her features at times, appearing as insensitive as Val Kilmer’s portrayal of a blind man in At First Sight, who attempts to draw a mental image of Mira Sorvino by pawing at her nose. Whilst dipping his head near her cleavage, Mike was probably picturing nothing more sexual than a claustrophobic ruck and a prop forward’s buttocks.

Much has been made of the dwarf-throwing contest at the Altitude Bar, probably as it is the activity second most alien to Buckingham Palace; the first being topless darts. A small fraction of the mind can imagine a sherry-crazed Prince Phillip jutting his jaw out in pleasure at a garlanded display of Honululuian Pygmy Limbo, only because there is something Royal Tournament-esque about it. The dwarf-tossing detail was what made Martin Johnson’s sober comments about ‘just a few lads having a beer’ seem even more absurd. When he implored that:  'You've got to have a balance in your life’, the billed Mad Midget Weekender seemed unlikely to provide much ballast and stability.

It wasn’t until the intriguingly groomed and camp nightclub bouncer, Jonathan Dixon, waded into the fray, that the whole affair gained a sinister, treasonable angle. Dixon publicised the CCTV footage and with it, attracted the police’s interest. But there was something comically lost and uncertain about Dixon’s appearances in front of press semi-circles, as if he had taken PR lessons from Murray Hewitt in Flight of the Conchords.  During one, he seemed to issue the shaky warning of ‘Don’t do a Tindall’, then became childishly obsessed with a ‘rude cat’ representing Radio New Zealand, before distractedly mumbling ‘where are my mates?’ Then he unsuccessfully attempted to blag a lift from an apparent stranger in a green Hyundai Estate.

Dixon had previously issued inflammatory statements as if in an effort to rouse Dominion rebellion, referring to all manner of Queenly items such as bank notes, national anthems and beheadings. In the light of these musings, Her Majesty suddenly appeared as threatening as the Queen of Hearts, absent for the time-being, but once disturbed, capable of meting out swift and disproportionate justice to disloyal subjects.

The upturned, hollow eyes of Mike Tindall’s blood-spattered head displayed on a spike would act as a lasting deterrent to other potential royal philanderers, but he is too vulnerable to befall such a mean fate by the press. Even if we are quick to condemn, there is some sort of affectionate connection to him; some humanity amongst sovereignty. He could be a likened to Falstaff, all brash, bawdy and slightly brutish, but balanced with a pathos and an unexpected RADA-trained eloquence. As he shambles around after Zara, holding her luggage forlornly and apologetically, his character comes across as even more condemned and marginalised; perhaps Tindall could be a battlefield extra in Kenneth Branagh’s Henry V, chain-mailed under the weight of a regal emblem, heavily and unfairly outnumbered and sacrificed under a hail of sniping arrows.

Bullying, Boo-boys and Benidorm: Sympathy for Sam Tomkins

It is 1984 and Queenslander Wally Lewis takes to the field as captain of Australia for the first time, with all eyes watching him. The Emperor of Lang Park tilts his head back proudly and links arms with teammates, as his tear ducts swell with national pride. His throat chokes as he tries to sing ‘Advance Australian Fair’ in a minor key baritone never heard before. The emotional moment is then somewhat punctured by an equally rousing, but distinctly unpatriotic rendition of ‘Wally’s a w****r!’ from sections of spectators. The reason behind this is purely tribal; Wally’s a Queenslander, born and bred, and the game is taking part in the heart of New South Wales.

Being booed by your fellow countrymen is not a new phenomenon; ask just about every England footballer. The bottom line (or at least the small print) dictates that the sportsmen is paid by the punter. They are therefore prone to the odd waved fist and expletive, much in the same way a greyhound is after chewing up your betting slip with its rabid, slobbering jaw.  But the beasts themselves are purely innocent, barking and joyous; the poor things only want to play. Wigan’s Sam Tomkins is such a puppy, feet pattering and tail keenly wagging. However, onlookers seem so affronted by him that they feel the urge to stab out their eyes whilst he’s a speck in their peripheral vision. The root cause of this unbridled hatred is not entirely clear; some cite an incident when Sam abused an injured player, others refer to an arrogance, a nasty streak or a diva-like exaggeration of the opposition’s foul play.

He is not helped by looking like Liam, the hapless ginger kid in ITV’s Benidorm; both have the kind of face that is a magnet for minor acts of bullying, such as an extreme wedgie, an inked microscope or having their PE kit dipped in the sceptic tank. You can picture a callow Sam being the last kid standing in a game of British Bulldog, evading posses of intimidating 6th formers and sour, red-cheeked fat kids. Exhausted into submission, Master Tomkins is finally set upon as if he is a quivering gazelle, his limbs spread-eagled like the bristles of a bog brush and smeared into the crud. And older brother Joel never seems to be around to protect him on the field, instead giving the impression that he is more focussed on sneaking in a crafty woodbine behind the bike sheds.

To reinforce these schoolyard images, there is also the cheekiness of Lee Briers who has the demeanour of a scruffy kid in Kes with scabbed knees poking out of grey school shorts, always picking his nose and flicking it, smelling faintly of Marmite, with pockets full of worms and a tatty blazer harbouring carnivorous chicks. In the last Wigan v. Warrington match, Lee was taken to one side by the referee for bullying Sam. He replied with a distracted and eye-rolling ‘yes sir’, ‘okay sir’ and ‘will do, sir’, as if no stranger to the headmaster’s office. He stopped short of exposing his backside in a perfunctory and casual manner in preparation for an unavoidable caning.

Despite being a figure of ridicule, like his Benidorm lookalike, Sam Tomkins is a magnet for obsessively protective females. An online forum has evolved with the wishful moniker: Sam Tomkins’ Girlfriends. It is unclear whether these are actual disenfranchised exes (partly explaining the number of boos), or hopeful Wigan suitresses. Judging by some of the wild and lurid declarations about Sam’s anatomical dimensions, it is highly probable they are the real McCoy. A shielding wife would plead with the tormentors at Sam’s England game and explain that his head-down, oblivious, response to their jeers wasn’t down to arrogance or even an unflustered, professional reaction. In his own forlorn words: 'I didn’t understand it when I first got out on the pitch. I ran over to the side and heard some boos. I genuinely thought: "I wonder who they are for."’

As the codes compete for attention over the coming weeks, rugby league might offer up a niche crowd chant about Kevin Iro as sonic competition for The World in Union symphony in New Zealand. Tomkins himself has bemoaned a lack of progress and popularity in his sport in comparison with its esteemed relative. Perhaps being unfashionable provides the unique appeal. Maybe rugby league should be played with a black ball. It’s possibly just a branding issue; union is usually endorsed by a dull, but powerful leading global company in either software or insurance. On the other hand you can imagine next year’s Grand Final backers to be something embarrassingly rudimentary or domestic, but full of spirit. Try saying this in a stirring, thick Yorkshire accent: ‘Super League – sponsored by Alphabetti Spaghetti’. We can only hope that Tomkins associates with being an ostracised brother and doesn’t turn his back completely on the boo-boys, flicking a ‘V’ as he goes.

Pundits and pushers: Lawrence Dallaglio and the ITV team

There is an upbeat, plucky approach to ITV’s coverage of the Rugby World Cup. Gone are the gloomy, autumnal Twickenham internationals on BBC accompanied by bickering match commentators and a pundit team consisting of a hip headmaster in John Inverdale, a red-eyed and vaguely threatening Jeremy Guscott, the exasperating Welsh cadence of Jonathan Davies and an absurd Keith Wood. In bright contrast, ITV have a neon-highlighted studio which seems to have incorporated a few of Sky’s touch-screen gizmos, without retaining the same overtone of male-chauvinism.

ITV has assembled a smooth blend of analysts to ease disoriented viewers through some early morning games kicking off at blank, single-figured hours. There is the offensive charm of Danny Care, palatable and groomed; the kind suitable for presenting Newsround or Blue Peter. There is Sean Fitzpatrick who, despite being a scary player in his time, now has a tranquil homeliness about him; he wears a suit well, but gives the impression he would be more comfortable in a pair of chinos with open-toe sandals, tending to a family BBQ.

Then there is the persuasiveness of Francois Pienaar, who, with hooked nose, looks slightly wizened like a shifty Lion King character that deliberately leads young cubs astray. The early starts seem to be affecting him, as he appears jaded and weary like a financially-troubled Ian Beale after a cafe health and safety scare. Perhaps fatigue was responsible for his peculiar announcement that the England players in the changing room would have ‘their hearts fluttering with steroids’. A pregnant pause followed, particularly from Lawrence Dallaglio, with his tangled past of substance-peddling tabloid allegations.  Either Francois meant: ‘adrenaline’, or was providing  a sinister insight into his 1995 meetings with Nelson Mandela, who may have instilled the ‘win at all costs’ mentality to the Springbok captain a little too forcefully.

What comes across most with Dallaglio is the sheer reasonableness of the man, as he lounges with angled head, poised on a cathedral of fat fingers. He fields gentle Steve Rider questions by narrowing his eyes as if sizing up an opposition no.8. His jaw line is still jaw-dropping and spectacular; the most impressive in world sport. His neck and chin are over-sized, square and powerful, making him look like David Coulthard with a goitre of the thyroid glands. In his playing days, there was a fumbling, wispy honesty about his work at the coalface. With his jutting, stubbly chin he would resemble Desperate Dan scrabbling around for a hidden cow pie with one hand and capable of lifting a full-size bovine with the other.

In the warm light of today, there can be no more far-fetched story than the one Dallaglio himself told to undercover News of the World reporters. He fabricated a distant past of drug dealing in a desperate bid to impress, probably talking street and term-dropping things like: ‘Whiz’, ‘Banano’, ‘Wraps’ and ‘Belushi’. But nobody can picture a youthful Lawrence peddling cocaine around Shepherd’s Bush from the boot of a suped-up hatchback, no matter how long ago; his accent would simply not allow it. ITV can relax; not even the unrealistic spectre of drugs, performance-enhancing or otherwise, could possibly frighten the family audience.

Gurnica: The Picasso Portrait of Iain Dowie

The imperfect face of Iain Dowie signifies all that is good and honest about ‘The English Game’. His visage emits the same ugly charm of a tight, pre-war, lower league ground flanked with Rainham Steel advertising hoardings, and with an obscured view of a Morrisons behind the stands. If Dowie were a taste it would be a lingering mouthful of gravelly mince meat from a Pukka pie washed down with metallic bitter. If he were a smell it would be an eye-watering bouquet of unaired polyester and BO, complimented by a peaty finish of Old Holborn.

For poor Dowie has had to endure a career full of cruel comparisons. In his playing days it has been said he resembled The Borg, Davros or Sloth in the Goonies. But as this mantle has now passed to Liverpool’s Dirk Kuyt, another flattering doppelganger is suddenly required: perhaps an inter-galactic mix of Star Wars’ Admiral Ackbar and Futurama’s Dr Zoidberg will suffice, as there has always been something vaguely marine and deep-sea about him. It may be true that Dowie is still no oil-painting and rather a Picasso portrait, but these days he holds an air of groomed respectability. This has been added to the upright demeanour of a proud and admirable figurehead tangled in the maelstrom of an endless, desperate relegation battle.

Dowie has always had an infectious energy and, like hooliganism, can never be entirely eradicated from the sport. As a player, he was a journeyman, hopping from one sinking stone to the other. As a manager he was a ‘relegation-zone specialist’ in the company of dogged names such as Bassett, Warnock, Pardew and Royle. Employing a relegation specialist is a sort of self-fulfilling prophesy: the club is certain to be relegated. This is despite stumbling upon immediate, inexplicable success, often attributed to an abstract, superstitious shift in culture or training methods, such as re-introducing the card school on the team bus, or the kit-man reading lesser-known Neville Chamberlain speeches at half-time.

However, such fragile plights would always end the same way: after blowing a half-time lead on the final day, an injury time goal in some far-away corner of the country would crackle into 20,000 sets of headphones and precipitate a tearful pitch-invaded farewell from the league.

The type of player that appealed to these manager’s sensibilities was inevitably not glamorous nor a record signing. Instead struggling managers operated in a world of hatchet-men, target-men and utility players. This explained why Iain Dowie was the essential choice for the Sky Sports pundit sofa on Transfer D-Day; whilst the rest of the panel gave a Gallic shrug of their shoulders at the non-news being reported and then made 'W' symbols with their thumbs and index fingers in response an obscure loan agreement, Dowie was bristling with vitality and as keen as a beaver.

The excitement he generated over Guy Demel’s humble transfer to West Ham was palpable, combining a furrowed brow with clenched fists in an intense mime accompanied with coiled, blurted descriptions: ‘Big, strong full-back. A real bolster to the defence. Powerful…POWERFUL. Fantastic acquisition.’

Dowie often provided clarity after hazy, distracted comments from Sky’s anchor, Natalie Sawyer, who could barely cover up an understandable feeling of listlessness with sudden swathes of faux-enthusiasm. Dowie then effortlessly plugged holes and then craters after increasingly blank announcements of another club closing in on a deal. Perhaps to him, the midnight deadline had a childlike Christmas Eve fantasy about it, where a sneak-preview revealed some of the presents were 7 foot long, worth £10 million and wrapped in Armani cloth.

The lamp-lit car park vigils of frustrated reporters and agitated supporters were in no doubt encouraged by litres of polystyrene-clad coffee or hip flasks full of Benedictine. These fevered throngs had a wild-eyed nature about them rarely even seen at Big Brother evictions. Perhaps they were capable of pitch-forking their way into a blockaded North London bunker and lynching Arsene Wenger for his spend-thriftiness. They, along with Dowie, embody the misguided, frenzied and blind passion of The English Game. And there was probably that same smell of pies.

I’m tense and nervous, can’t relax: the David Millar mantra

Being involved in cycling is like being in an 80s nightclub: even if you’re not on drugs yourself, there’s the foreboding feeling that a lot of the people are. The place is awash with bad mullet haircuts and gold chain accessories. There is an abundance of waggling and pumping limbs sheathed in luminous lycra, altogether giving the impression of some enormous spandex-clad millipede. The same light-headed clamminess experienced after dismounting from an unexpectedly gruelling bike ride to the shops and back can be felt in the otherworldly, weary walk home after an all-night disco, accompanied with rasping throat and an unnerving spate of heart palpitations.

Into this context steps David Millar with his retro, buttoned-up shirt and lapelled jacket; there being no better spokesperson for a sport accepted for all its highs, lows, dangers and joys. William Fotheringham labelled Millar’s appearance as ‘artistic grunge-chic’, author Freya North saw him more as a member of a student indie rock group. With his intense, dark eyes and fringe flopping onto a sweaty forehead, he resembles more a Talking Heads-era David Byrne. Each man is indefatigable, able to endlessly run on the spot and perform the flailing mime of a drunken cross-country skier. Both are also strangely angular and stiff with awkward upright postures, as if straight-jacketed or wearing drastically ill-fitting clothes.

When Millar talks about his past, it conjures a slightly seedy image of over-populated hotel rooms with curtains drawn, ice buckets everywhere and used syringes tossed carelessly under the chaise-longues. The motto on everyone’s lips is: ‘whatever goes on tour stays on tour’. For cycling used to be, like rock n’ roll, where drug-taking was as commonplace as having a cup of tea. So much so that this is now considered hopelessly unfashionable, and new, more dangerous methods of getting high are in vogue, evoking the same nightmarish scene, but this time someone's blood is hanging in translucent bags at the back of the cupboard.

Millar talks of a sport full of bad influences; from conspiratorial entourages to mysterious therapists and team managers acting like desperate, publicity-crazed Malcolm McLarens. A world of young and impressionable cyclists being encouraged to push the limits and act as self-destructively as possible, where instructions to ‘go and prepare correctly in Italy’ is a euphemism for having a black market, white-coated chemist syringe hormones into your body.

But Millar is testament to a shift; a change; a redemption. Like David Byrne, he is now someone who is palatable, mature, and clean-living; someone who might wear the spectacle/cardigan combination of a familiar uncle; someone you would trust to look after your kids. You can now have a relaxed café conversation with both men, but don’t dare let them order too many double espressos, as their black pupils will dilate.

There is the sense that Millar, in his cycling dotage, is still subjecting himself to peloton punishment just so that the sport he loves can live on. The more he suffers and self-flagellates for his sins, the more we can accept that some demon is being been exorcised, forgive and respect him once again. We can feel pride when David Harmon continually refers to him as ‘Britain’s David Millar’. Scotland can entertain mentioning him in the same breath as his namesake, legend Robert Millar. For cycling has been resurrected. On the other hand, for cynics and critics of the sport, there is still the amphetamine-jittery Talking Heads refrain: ‘Same as it ever was, same as it ever was…’

Short back and many sides: Joey Barton’s head

Across the offices and magistrates’ courts of Britain, there is a united condemnation of Joey Barton.  Like a hoodied rioter, he is brandished ‘completely unacceptable’ and tarred and feathered as a delinquent dabbler in criminality. He is charged with irresponsible use of social networks and microblogging sites and quoting too many famous literary figures considered healthy for a footballer. We must hastily set up a kangaroo court for our little Joey. Let us sentence him swiftly and ruthlessly. His Dalai Lama re-tweets alone warrant a lengthy sentence.

Before passing judgement, we must also wrack our brains for some behavioural cause, for there is the nagging feeling that we are somehow collectively responsible for how Barton has turned out. We need C4’s Krishnan Guru-Murthy to chair an immediate meeting of varied social strata, garnering the opinion of awkward Goths, menacing hip-hoppers, jittery parents, belligerent shop-owners and hounded councillors. We know this will only descend into a dreadful row, but it a reasonable step to take in admonishing ourselves from guilt.

But, in the words of the Confucius: ‘One tree that stands alone bears the most fruit and is less likely to be chopped down’. Or something similar. So it is a fresh assessment of Barton that is the most rewarding. There are plentiful descriptions that have been offered: he is a hooligan, a hardman, a pocket dynamo, a ‘dangerous player’, as labelled by Fabio Capello. He is a play-actor or critic of play-acting. Nobody seems to know exactly what to make of him. Even his agent, Willie McKay offered a complete mis-read by suggesting he had the ‘easiest job in the transfer window’ and had already been inundated with interest from top European clubs. One can imagine a one-way conversation: ‘You need a midfield enforcer, Arsene. Now, before we talk turkey, a drop more Tennents Super?’

After falling out with the powers that be at Newcastle Utd, Barton referred to himself as ‘persona non grata’, shocking the public by demonstrating he can speak Latin. Presumably he has picked up the local lingo of a number of affiliated barristers, particularly as his ‘previous’ doesn’t read well in English: Gross misconduct - one count. Assault - two counts. Breaking a pedestrian’s leg (gallery murmurs). Jabbing a lit cigar into someone’s eye (gallery erupts). The CCTV footage advertises Barton’s street fighting prowess and leaves an indelible, yet grainy, image. It resembles a deleted scene from the film, Scum, awash with sullen youths in starched collared shirts, sporting mod haircuts and brutally attacking each other with cries of: ‘Where’s ya tool?’

However, in the words of Desmond Tutu: ‘Resentment and anger are bad for your blood pressure and your digestion. Repentment is better.’ Thusly, Barton has reformed, addressed addiction, patronised charities, visited clinics, consulted the scriptures, analysed his entrails. He is now better known for his witty Wildean jousts with a gaggle of bullying sports reporters on Twitter. In return, they treat him like an idiot savant without the savant. He frequently engages in an acute love-hate, macho-gay mental tussle with Piers Morgan. There is an endearing bridging-the-class-divide quality about these exchanges last demonstrated by Lord Ralph and groundskeeper Ted in The Fast Show.

Barton’s tweets have so provoked the FA and the media’s fury that they risk lashing out and reducing themselves to ten men. Journalists are incensed that not only does he read Nietzsche, but he can quite effortlessly spell his name, which was impossible before the advent of Information Technology.  It's as if Barton has a Twitter ghost-writer who is embarking on a huge practical joke. Critics have lambasted references to non-picture books and use of ‘multi-syllable words’. Barton might have countered with: ‘It’s poly-syllabic, shitlips.’ For the underdog has blasted away writer Oliver Holt, describing him as the ‘journalistic equivalent of holding a digestive biscuit in a cup of tea for a second too long’. He has treated politics too, informing that he cannot abide Ed Milliband’s haircut or his lisp, signing off with the hilarious: ‘…obviously he shouldn’t be banished, just not the front man,’ Barton must be aware that there haven’t been singers with speech impediments for g-g-generations.

The duality that exists within Barton’s head has manifested itself on the outside in what can loosely be described as a ‘hairstyle’. He insists his savage short back and sides pays homage to murderous New York cabbie, Travis Bickle. The violent psycho suddenly resurfaces in Joey. However he has ended up looking more like he has been clippered in a dimly lit trench, alongside Private Baldrick. A comic vulnerability is restored.  

Can't see the Woods for the Giggs?

 

Tiger and Ryan canter onto the turf once more this August and try and look convincing and concentrated, puffing out their cheeks, stretching and maybe even doing a star-jump with a serious, furrowed expression. Polite and slightly incestuous interviewers will ask sensible questions about driving accuracy and fitness levels, all the time secretly wanting to acknowledge the crash of elephants in the room with questions such as: ‘Have you been treated over the summer for sex addiction, because in my day it wasn’t considered an illness?’

For these two former squeaky-clean-imaged sporting bores have both taken on the Frankenstein features of a Tabloid Monster, only to be safely viewed through the browned glass of a man-sized bell-jar or from the back row of a panoramic 19^th Century operating theatre.

But on closer inspection, the two are not peas in a pod, nor chips off the old block.  Yes, they are fine specimens of post-ultra-modern-man, with their cars, their properties, their worshippers, their casual sexual liaisons. However, we need to exhibit each individual facet of their lives to discover the quintessential difference between men at each side of The Pond. The awkward, slapstick, smutty postcard of Giggs suddenly appears dog-eared and absurd in the light of the slick, bleach-blonde, blurred lens, blue movie shoot of Woods.

Put their sporting accolades side-by-side, like Top Trumps: Woods is the highest earning athlete ever. Next to this fact, Giggs’ OBE and Sports Personality of the Year seem embarrassingly English; as twee and obtuse as a BAFTA is to celluloid superstars. Giggs has a fine property in Worsley, Manchester, but this is dwarfed by Wood’s complex in Jupiter Island, Florida. Woods has a $20million yacht mockingly called the Privacy; Giggs’ boat is modest in comparison and filled with gravy.

The mistresses themselves juxtapose all that is American and all that is British. Like roast beef and burgers, a beast can be skinned in an entirely different manner. For among Woods’ harem there exudes a flashiness, a sassiness, a frilliness and an ass-shakingness: a waitress, a cocktail-waitress (as if carrying a tray of Cosmopolitans is somehow more saucy than dirty plates), a porn star and, oh, another porn star. In return, Giggs offers up an all-brunette triangle of doppelgangers, including ex-Big Brother contestant and his brother’s wife to underline the small-town sexual frustration of provincial Britain – was there a drunken fumble in a bingo hall followed by mutual self-loathing, or were they planning elope to a chilly, wind-battered village for the weekend?

For Woods is the pectoral-pumping, arm-flexing equivalent of the ripped man next door doing the lawn with his shirt off in Desperate Housewives; the sort of man who stares impassively at himself in bedroom mirrors whilst doing the deed. In contrast, Giggs is a fretting Dev from Coronation Street, tangled in a complicated manage a trois-quatre-cinq-six, at the centre of an ever-expanding family, yet spending too much time in denial with solicitors and all-in-all bobbing around with the dark, curled hair and sideburns of a Player and the gaunt, devious expression of anything but a Gentleman.

But perhaps there is something helplessly boyish about Giggs’ predicament; a profound innocence that finds him cycling unflinchingly around to Natasha’s house with pockets clumsily stuffed full of twenty pound notes for her abortion. His blank admission to an ex-teammate, Andrei Kanchelskis, sounds more like a teenager at a school disco, or a child regretting his choice of ice-cream:

“I go out with three girls but just can’t choose which one is the best”

Woods, tour diary and pager in hand, would pour derision at such a haphazard way of handling affairs.