Life has its little moments and I had one such a couple of days ago when I received my new Courteney Boots. Those are they on the left of the picture. The ones on the right have done me proud, but after carrying me down the Mighty Zambezi, they are showing signs of wear which the cobbling fraternity tell me cannot be repaired.
The new pair had their debut on the Moor the day before yesterday, but I will break them in very gradually and they should outlast me – unless of course I have another rush of blood to the head and head off to challenge myself again.
But I mustn’t – my Daughter will tell me off if I even think about it.
I have used Courteneys through most of my adventurous moments and they have to be the best thing coming out of Zimbabwe at the moment. Hand-made in Bulawayo, they are strong, light and comfortable in any conditions. In fact although I am not wearing them at my desk as I write, looking at the photograph above, I can feel those old familiar restless urges starting to ferment inside. My only problem with another adventure is what on earth can I do to cap walking the Zambezi?
All the same, with my new Courteneys I am already well equipped for the next one. Thank you Gale Rice and your wonderful staff.
I have played sport most of my life and still follow it when I can. As a boy I used to listen to Wimbledon on the radio even though I had not the faintest idea where Wimbledon was. Yet now as my dotage progresses, I feel very cynical about the whole almost hysterical nonsense. It is a tennis tournament damnit! Men and women playing in competition in what used to be a purely social and most enjoyable game.
I am all for equal pay between genders if men and women are doing the same thing, but tennis is different to other sports. Men play five sets, women only three. Why then should they receive the same wages? That has to be discriminating against the men doesn’t it? If everyone is to be paid equally, then put them all in together and let’s forget about men’s and ladies’ draws.
And then there is the behaviour of some of these overpaid pratwinkles. I can remember John McEnroe – who was a very fine player – shouting and screaming at umpires, now we have the Australian Nick Kyrgios – who is not in the same league as McEnroe – doing the same thing. Who do these jumped up popinjays think they are? Not only do they demean the image of their sport, but they make a mockery of the word itself. Oh that we could turn the clock back and have top class amateur sport again.
As for the spectators – no, ranting about their collective fatuousness would spoil a beautifully sunny day. Dartmoor looks at her magnificent best so I will give my new boots another airing.
Oh but I am a lucky man!