My oath. It’s bloody hard enough getting the blokes ready for the tango tussle without Lord Ted trying to stay relevant in his dotage.
Here I am packing a couple of dozen Maketu Butter Chicken and several jars of jolly juice for the long flight to Buenos Aries, and the Maestro of Grump throws a spanner at my head. Reckons we might do better in next years Coupe Mondiale if we lose the winning tune along the way.
Can’t say I remember him being so sanguine about the possibility of a shambles when he was running the Sumfony. Au contraire, his lower lip would scrape the dirt at any mention of the idea. His growl would drop so low you’d feel it rather than hear it. Time to change the grundies.
I won’t say that it might have crossed his mind that my record in charge is putting someone else’s record in the shade. I won’t say it, but I might think it in the wee small hours. We’ll just keep it between you and me, Dear Diary.
Yours in constant anxiety