I was there the other weekend and, having reached a certain obsessive Victor Meldrewish
stage in life, I found myself counting the number of varieties of Cheddar in the cheese section.
So thatAEs my Victor Meldrewish
gripe out of the way.
Davies' 42nd book isn't his best - that'd be The Glory Game, his 1972 account of a season with Spurs which remains the greatest book about football ever written - or his worst (Dwight Yorke's ghost-written autobiography, anyone?) Instead, it's a collection of New Statesmen columns on football which contains plenty to admire, not least his easy, conversational prose style, but a few Meldrewish
Weaving his way across the floor of the Warwick Hilton bistro, deftly balancing a tray of hot drinks on the palm of one hand, Chris Swan has the Victor Meldrewish
look of a man who has come out on the wrong side of a dodgy financial deal.
There are times - increasingly I'm afraid - when I fear I'm sinking into a Victor Meldrewish
state of irritable incomprehension at the world.