In Italy for 30 years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder,
bloodshed - they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci and the
Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, 500 years of democracy
and peace and what did they produce? The cuckoo clock. Orson Welles,
The Third Man
Last week, Paul Gascoigne was sectioned under the Mental Health Act as a
danger to himself or to others. This prompted a great wailing from the
sports-writing fraternity. This in turn prompted an intriguing piece on the
comment pages of this newspaper on Monday from Melanie Reid. She said that
Gascoigne was not so much a fallen hero as a sad drunk.
This week, I attended a funeral of a lady who was kind and caring and decent
and God-fearing. One tiny example: in her seventies, she cycled about town
to visit and help a number of old people, most of them younger than she was.
The Methodist church was filled with friends and relations, and we sang out
the hymns with fully appropriate enthusiasm. A good life.
Gascoigne has not led a good life. It is not over yet, though he seems to be
doing as much as he can to hasten the end. He was good at football; hopeless
at anything else. Reid said that women %26ldquo;don’t perceive Gazza as a shattered
genius at all, but as an alcoholic predictably ruined by his own addiction%26rdquo;.
With devilish insight, she interprets much of the tendency to forgive or
ignore Gascoigne’s alcoholism as a - very male - eagerness to ignore, excuse
or justify one’s own drinking. (Has she been secretly observing some of the
more extended dinners favoured by the sports-writing profession?)
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