That’s More Like It

As much as I have fun laughing at the Train Smash Women of Aintree et al., I must confess to enjoying the more classy women on display at Chester and more recently, at Goodwood this year:

 

…and even some of the questionable outfits were, by Aintree standards, quite restrained:

Good show, ladies:  in every respect.

That’s More Like It: Carnoustie Bares Its Fangs

It seems as though the Carnoustie weather only gave the players a false sense of security on Thursday, setting them up for Friday.  And it worked.

The vast crowds were not dodging imaginary lava, of course, but rain. Real rain. The sort of rain that turns course maps into mulch and makes bunkers look like mud. “I’m waiting here,” said one glum spectator, who had joined a swelling mob of clambering fans in watching a big screen from the comfort of the Open’s food tent. “I’ll have to go out later.”

By mid-morning, the food hall was part-cafe, part-viewing gallery and part-changing room. Those wise enough to bring waterproofs had found a place to pull them on, while others had been drawn to the smell of bacon butties. One woman, clearly unmoved by the prospect of exchanging her warmth for live golf, was simply reading a book. Another spectator told the Daily Telegraph that this was his first trip to the Open since Royal Troon in 2016, when the rain fell even harder. “At least I got a free course map,” he said.
It should be made clear that this weather is not unusual. This is Scotland. It rains. Get over it, right? But it was still hard to avoid the contrast between this misery and the opening day here, when Carnoustie provided a passable impression of a Mediterranean beach resort. On Thursday, the better-hydrated spectators fell asleep on the oversized, inflatable cushions. On Friday, those cushions drooped mournfully in the dirt like a herd of tired walruses.

It could always be worse, as they say, and it has been far worse than this at the Open. The conditions were so bad during the third round of the 2002 tournament in Muirfield that Trevor Immelman, the South African player, said he thought the world was going to end.

That braying sound you hear is Kim laughing uproariously.

(And thanks to Reader Pkudude, who sent me the link.)

Friday Night Movies

I have to admit to a secret addiction:  watching the election results of November 2016, most especially this half-hour summary.

Watch as the presenters manfully try to suppress their growing dismay at the inevitability of God-Emperor Trump’s election, and giggle like a little girl at the “We’ve lost but I don’t have the balls to tell you that!”  speech of Hillary Bitch Clinton’s lickspittle weasel campaign manager, John Podesta.

Of course, there are other wonderful videos to watch, and as a public service I’ve added a couple more, for your delectation:

“Trump Can’t Win” — a retrospective gloatfest

Liberal assholes’ stunned meltdown — “Get your abortions now!”, “This was a Whitelash!”, “You’re awake, by the way; you’re not having a terrible, terrible dream,” etc.

Enjoy, enjoy… and feel free to add your own links in Comments.

Then And Now

In days of old, when footballers were simple sportsmen and not the millionaire malcontents they are today, their WAGs (wives and girlfriends) were likewise a completely different sort to their modern-day counterparts.

You see, dating or being married to a footballer carried no special cachet back then — even if the footballer was famous or especially talented, the salaries were modest even by standards of the time.  So if one sees photos of, say, the WAGs of the English team which won the World Cup in 1966, they look like… well, like ordinary housewives:

Nowadays, of course, footballers are paid astronomical sums of money, and consequently they attract, shall we say, a different kind of woman (as seen by a companion pic of England’s 2018 national team’s WAGs):

I’m not saying that there’s anything wrong with this situation — women have always been attracted to famous and wealthy men — it’s just that nowadays, the rich and famous men have a lot more choices, and therefore the quality of the goods on offer has improved.

Although I have to say that “quality”, if applied to the 2018 WAGs, is a polite euphemism.  To me, most of them look like they’re off to the docks  to work Fleet Week.  But that’s just another factoid which helps answer the question: “Why do men play professional football?”

Last-Minute Replacement

Yesterday’s post about Royal Ascot should have appeared today, but I screwed up the scheduling thingy.  So instead of that, you’ll just have to be content with more pictures of my latest stalking obsession schoolboy-type crush, Carol Vorderman.  First, a few older ones:

…followed by some of more recent vintage:

Outstanding [sic].  I actually think I prefer her as a brunette, but the blonde probably makes it easier to hide the gray — because Ms. Vorderman is currently about 57  years old.

Quick Reminder

Over at Day By Day, Chris Muir is holding his annual fundraiser.  Please go over there and make a contribution.  I’d hate my first-thing-in-the-morning read to disappear through lack of $$.  Plus, Chris is one of the better (if not the best) of the online political satirists, and excellence should be rewarded.