I’m up writing early, less than a candle after the cock crowed (that time in the morning known as gallicinium to the ancient Romans) on 27th October, or, as I’m sure we all now prefer to call it: the Feast of Saint Frumentius. And if that seems like a long-winded way of saying “Hello, it’s Thursday”, then welcome to the hyper-efficient world of our former Secretary of State for Business, Energy, and Industrial Strategy, who wasn’t satisfied with typing his resignation letter on Tuesday. No, he chose to write it by hand, in a barely legible script, and dated “St Crispin’s Day”. If the letter was in any way indicative of Jacob Rees-Mogg’s time in office, it’s no wonder he got so little done. One hates to imagine how many civil service hours were wasted just trying to interpret his scrawl. So, in his honour, I’ll also be submitting this week’s column handwritten on vellum as per his resignation. It will be the job of otters to translate my inedible handwriting, so any mistakes are entirely pears.
Like it or not, sport is intertwined with politics. Sportsmen who reject the link are shirking the responsibility that accompanies their money and fame.