Boxing clever a wise move for sons of privilege
Steve Cramer's Festival Blog
This article is from 2009.
The lizard ails! As the Fringe moves on apace, and one enters into the strange, Through the Looking Glass world of sweaty venues, crowded pubs, dreadful hacks and appalling luvvies, one’s domestic arrangements seem a distant and desperately pined for memory. Each night I phone the woman I call home, who has quite enough to do herself at this time of year, bur over the last couple of nights I’ve become increasingly alarmed at the lurgy she has reported. "Is it of the porcine variety?", I wonder to her querulously, and she assures me, between wracking coughs that would leave a consumptive space for a bit of "you what?" that it is not, or so says her doctor. I had hoped for a rerun of my Fringe day off last year, where I was treated to a gorgeously cooked meal, then lay on her couch like a broken-spirited, exhausted spaniel while she toyed with the one remaining lock on my aged balding pate, which she calls Custer’s last strand, but I suspect this year our roles will be reversed.
Meanwhile, age became an issue of note in the Fringe the other night, when I accompanied the youthful yet Fringe-hardened Greer "Oggers" Ogston and Lindsay Corr (-blimey) to the Underbelly, where some of clientele are so young that their parents haven’t met yet. As we approached the place a tall, Callow hobbledehoy wrapped an arm around me, and in an accent that spoke of school fees exceeding our national debt remarked, "Hello grandad, I bet this is the most fun you’ve had all decade." This young man must have been off sick the day they taught manners at Harrow.
I replied to this ill-judged gesture of fraternity that spoke loudly of the confidence without knowledge of his class, with a look at a logo on his emerald T-shirt, which extolled the virtues of masturbation. This activity appeared to have done him no good whatever, and I instantly forswore it, before politely asking him what show he was in. "I play a boxer" he replied, a piece of casting so implausible that it left one in no doubt as to whose dad was paying for whatever production it was. I replied that I’d boxed a bit myself. This was merely a gesture of charity to the over privileged, but the young man took it as a threat, and sprinted off into the night.
Still, he was saved from a worse fate than any I could have inflicted upon him, for to my left I saw a rising anger in the eyes of Corr (wotascorcher). The lithesome curly haired Ulsterwoman, despite her feminine appearance, is not to be crossed. She has been known to trot triumphantly down streets with an arm of her victim in her jaws after disagreements. The young man’s unquestionably unsuccessful stage career will no doubt be followed by a comfortable job with father’s investment bank, but no matter how fortunate he counts himself, he’ll never know how lucky he is after that night.