I blame the scapegoats (30 page)

The
origin of Fulham's nickname comes of course from Craven Cottage, by far the
most charming football ground in the country. But this week it has been
reported that the club's owner, Mohamed Al Fayed, has already received a
£\S
million
down-payment from a property company seeking to build luxury homes on this
prime riverside location. It wasn't clear whether the cash was handed over in
plain brown envelopes.

Chairman Mo insists that this is just a
precautionary option that he is taking alongside his primary objective of
redeveloping Fulham's historic ground. Clearly there is no contradiction here;
property developers and football players will work alongside each other. The
team will play a normal ninety minutes except there will be cement mixers and
piles of rubble all over the pitch. It'll certainly liven up the match
commentary on
The Premiership:
'Oh
and a fantastic piece of improvisation there from Steve Finnan! The Irish
international jumped into the JCB, picked up the ball in midfield, steered it
round

the visitors' defence
and delivered it right into the box. But oh dear, Marlet's still missed it!'

Craven Cottage has been the home of Fulham FC
since 1896 and if ancient rights of way are still used by ramblers through the
estates of country houses, then this development should proceed only if the
historic right to play footy there is maintained. The new residents will only
be able to park their Porsches after Malbranque and Van De Sar have finished
playing 'three-and-in' against the garage door. In the lobby, the game of
keepy-uppy may have to be abandoned due to chandelier failure. Will the Jacuzzi
still be as inviting after eleven footballers have jumped into it wearing
muddy boots and sweaty football kits?

Former season-ticket holders must also have
some sort of rights as sitting tenants that would mean the incoming
millionaires having to share their living rooms with the previous occupant of
that particular space. Any purchaser who imagines herself curled up on the sofa
watching a period costume drama on BBC2 should realize that the charmer who
sits behind me at Fulham every week will now be sitting directly behind her
settee, swearing and shouting at her television: 'Oi, Darcy, you stuck-up twat,
tell Mrs Bennet to go fuck herself!' Dinner parties just won't be the same with
the squatters sitting there chomping on hot-dogs and burgers, with mustard and
red sauce dripping out all over the place mats.

But of course none of this will have to
happen if the local Labour council have the courage to refuse planning
permission for this development. Until now Fulham FC has been a great example
of what can happen under Labour. When Tony Blair became PM, Fulham were in the
bottom division. By the end of his first term, Fulham had been promoted to the
Premiership - what clearer evidence do people want of Labour's competence in
power? Of course, Al Fayed's millions may have also have had something to do
with it. But the club's chairman is in his seventies - in ten years' time he
may no longer be funding the club, Fulham will probably slip out of the
Premiership and the memory of a few seasons in the sun will not be adequate compensation
for being permanently homeless or having to travel out to the edge of some
god-awful industrial estate twenty miles away to watch the team.

Obviously,
as a season-ticket holder at Fulham I cannot pretend to be neutral on this
issue, but I would not wish the loss of their ground on any club. Well, except
Chelsea, of course. Every site in the capital is worth more as luxury flats,
whether it's a hospital, a school or an old football ground. But there's a
difference between price and value. What is it that gives our cities character
and charm: quirky places open to all and full of memories for thousands, or gated
private housing with CCTV cameras? Football fans from any club will agree that
Craven Cottage is special. I have watched hundreds of games there, often
followed by a reflective pint overlooking the river as the sun went down on the
Thames. The idea that this might be gone for ever fills me with such sadness
that it makes me want to top myself - or worse, start supporting Manchester
United. There is something wrong with our society when we are prepared to
surrender our sporting heritage for luxury apartments. And the only people
who'll be able to afford those sort of prices will be Premiership footballers.
It's a shame they won't actually have anywhere to play any more.

I
February 2003

This week the cabinet postponed a decision on
another British bid for the Olympics while they focused on the more pressing
problem of Saddam Hussein. The thinking is that bombing Iraq will make
Baghdad's chances of hosting the 2012 Olympics even slimmer and suddenly London
might be in with an outside chance.

Our recent record on landing major sporting
events has not been too impressive. For the 2006 World Cup we lost to Germany
without so much as a penalty shoot-out. And strangely, Olympic delegates were
more attracted by the prospect of a few weeks in Sydney than they were by sunny
Manchester. Now it's even looking touch and go whether London will get to host
the London Marathon. Despite all this, it seems that the government will
eventually back a British bid for the 2012 Games. Having had such a wonderful
experience with the Millennium Dome, they are keen to multiply that PR triumph
by a thousand. Why limit ourselves to being humiliated inside the sporting
arena when we can be humiliated outside it as well?

As part of the bidding process, each city has
to spend a week hosting the IOC Committee, showing them the very best of what
their home town has to offer. The suggestion that this occasion might provide
opportunities for a certain amount of corruption is grossly exaggerated. While
other countries will be laying on high-class prostitutes, cocaine and suitcases
crammed with $50 notes, in London the delegates will be surreptitiously slipped
two free tickets to see David Essex at the Labatt's Apollo. There will be a
chance to see all the sites, of course; a coach will set off from Tower Bridge
en route for Trafalgar Square - so that should take up the first three days.
What greater treat could there be than being stuck in a traffic jam with
Sebastian Coe? And while the international committee search through their
pockets to cough up for the congestion charge, they'll be given a running
commentary on London's sporting heritage: 'The British people love sport and
find many ways to get involved; notice that chap on the corner holding up a
sign saying "Massive Golf Sale". And as you can see, our young men
are already in practice for the relay race, grabbing mobile phones and running
off at great speed!' Then it's a traditional London tourist's slap-up lunch -
wandering down Oxford Street eating a warmed-up slice of pizza saying, 'Pleeze,
where is Penny Lane and Ze Cavern?' as office workers hurry past presuming
they're being accosted by a drug addict.

This
initial bidding stage will cost
£13
million
- or twice that if they buy them lunch at Pret a Manger. But should we be
successful and beat off bids from Harare and the Lost City of Atlantis, then
the money gets really serious. The current estimate is that it would cost the
UK taxpayer
£2
billion
to stage the Olympics in London. Now I'm going to really stick my neck out here
and make an outlandish prediction.
The actual cost will
end
up
being more than the estimate.
There, I've said it,
and in 2012 historians will dig out this column and say, 'How could he possibly
have known such a thing? Was he a time traveller, some sort of mystic
visionary, a second Nostradamus? For he actually foresaw that the cost of this
major construction project would exceed the original estimate! And he also
predicted that there would be delays in construction. Yea, a true prophet did
come among us!'

The
question is whether the benefits of hosting the Olympic Games would be worth
three or four billion quid. Is London the part of Britain that needs this sort
of investment, or did someone decide that the 'Warrington-Runcorn Olympics'
didn't have the right ring to it? Imagine if that sort of money was invested in
sport at a grass-roots level all across the country. This was the policy
pursued by Francois Mitterrand in the 1980s and great national sporting
achievement duly followed, with a French World Cup victory and an impressive
crop of Olympic golds, far exceeding Britain's usual handful in the small-bore
rifle shooting and synchronized queuing.

Do we really want the whole world watching an
opening ceremony where the lighting of the Olympic torch is delayed because the
man from the gas board never turned up even though the sports minister waited
in all day for him? Do we trust our police to watch Carl Lewis's successor
breaking the 100 metres world record without pulling him over to ask him why
he's in such a hurry? And if the Olympic village was like any other village in
the south of England, all the foreign athletes would have to live there for
five years before anyone said 'Good morning' to them. No, instead Britain
should limit itself to bidding for the Winter Olympics. Now that would be
really impressive: 'We apologize that the skiing, skating and bobsled events
have all been cancelled. Apparently there's been a bit of snow, so nobody can
get anywhere.'

8
February 2003

Why
is everybody so quick to label Michael Jackson? Who among us can honestly say
we haven't gone shopping and bought things we didn't really need? Who hasn't
wished they could change their appearance a little? Who hasn't built their own
private funfair, zoo and fantasy park and got twelve-year-old kids to come over
and stay the night in their bedroom? Okay, so just Michael then.

Martin
Bashir's documentary was certainly compelling entertainment, especially now
those guided tours through Bedlam have been stopped. We learned that Michael
wants his kids to have a happier childhood than he had. So he calls his son
'Blanket'. Yup, that sounds fine to me; I can't see any school bullies or
sadistic teachers finding anything strange or laughable in that. In any case,
when they're older, kids with unusual names always have the option of switching
to their more conventional middle name, which in this case happens to be
'Duvet'. Michael Jackson's attempt to bottle feed the baby did not fill one
with confidence. There was an incredible amount of shaking going on, probably
coming from the baby who at that moment looked up to realize that this complete
weirdo was his dad. But young Blanket is rapidly growing up to be a normal
toddler and should be moon-walking any day now.

Another
great moment was the sight of Michael going shopping.

He
dashed around a boutique crammed with ornate gold vases and giant
jewel-encrusted urns, each costing tens of thousands of dollars, buying
everything in sight while the store-owner rubbed his hands like Uriah Heep
behind him. I wish this scene had been filmed in Britain.

'Ooh, no, sorry, that's a display model, I'm
afraid, and we won't have any more of those for another six to eight weeks.'

'But look, here's a million in cash - just
let me have whatever you've got.'

'Nah, sorry, you have
to order those in advance.'

Of
course the element which has grabbed all the media attention has been Jackson's
relationship with a twelve-year-old boy. The parents of young 'Gavin' are
apparently perfectly happy for their son to go and sleep in Michael Jackson's
bed. It's marvellous that such trust still survives in this world, that they
can confidently send little Gavin off with his overnight bag, his toothbrush
and half a dozen hidden microphones while a crack team of private detectives
and lawyers are parked in a mobile listening command centre at the bottom of
the lane praying that this will be the night they can hit Jacko with a
billion-dollar lawsuit.

'Did you have a nice
time at your friend's, dear?'

'Yes, Mommy.'

'Damn! You mean you didn't get trampled by
one of his pet elephants or anything?'

I wonder if Michael ever goes back for a
sleepover at Gavin's house? 'Hello, Michael, we've put up the camp bed for you
in Gavin's room, and got the oxygen tent down from the loft, and put up sun
screens and hired a few aardvarks and camels to wander about the place to make
you feel at home. Now, would you like some ice cream, dear - it's five million
dollars a scoop?'

Of course it is not normal or healthy for a
forty-four-year-old man to have twelve-year-old boys over to stay, but what is
it about our society that makes us so eager to scream 'paedophile' before we're
sure what is really going on? It seems more likely that Jacko, as part of his
rather tragic childlike behaviour, is having 'other' kids over to stay. Yet
since the film was broadcast there has been an almost tangible hunger to brand
Jackson as a pederast because in the modern Salem witch hunts it's been a few
weeks since the last public show trial and the mob