You may be familiar with a footballist called Joey Barton. Off the
pitch, he's a fighty sort of soul, and, in recent years, he's done a
bit of time for common assault. He has also been convicted of assault
occasioning actual bodily harm. And once he ran over a man at 2am in
Liverpool.
You might imagine that, on the pitch, things would be different. But
no. He has been done for punching an opponent in the chest, and then,
in the very last match of this year's thrilling Premiership, he took a
quick look at the exposed throat of an opponent and plainly thought,
"I think things would be better if I elbowed him in that". So he did.
He was given a red card by the referee, and he reacted to this by
kicking another opponent and trying to headbutt yet another. As a
result, he has been labelled as a nasty piece of work by most footy
fans. But I'm not so sure.
As a general rule, I will not hit anyone, unless they are Piers
Morgan. I went through all of my school years without getting into a
fight, and even when some Doncaster town boys put dog crap in my
school cap because I was wearing a Chelsea scarf, I remained calm and
polite. If a bit tearful.
However, while I am not given to punching James and Richard in the
chest, I do understand why the likes of Mr Barton feel the need to go
around hitting their colleagues and rivals.
It was explained rather well by the Labour MP Eric Joyce, who, earlier
this year, had a drink in the House of Commons bar, saw a couple of
Tories and hit them.
He says he's that sort of man. Some people settle their disputes with
a pen, some with a recourse to law. He uses his fists and reckons that
if two chaps want to settle an argument round the back of a pub,
that's up to them. He's right. It is.
What's more, it's vital that we have all sorts of different people in
Parliament, so that all walks of society are represented: toffs,
vagabonds, cheats, liars, vicars and pub brawlers. Because how can you
represent the people when you aren't representative?
In fact, I'd go further. We sometimes see foreign parliaments reduced
to a heaving mass of punches and sweat, and I think that, from time to
time, I'd like to see the same sort of thing in ours. So I say this to
Mr Cameron: the next time Mr Miliband is being annoying, leap over the
table and kick him firmly in the groin.
I'd like to see this sort of activity at Wimbledon too. You have
sweated your whole life. You have trained and trained, not drunk, not
smoked, and sacrificed all of the treats that life can offer to be the
best of the best of the best. It's match point. The serve is out. But
the linesman, an elderly geography teacher in a silly hat calls it in.
Your whole life has been wasted. So who could blame you, in the heat
of the moment, for running up to the official and hitting him with
your racquet?
Remember Nelson Piquet kicking and punching the useless Eliseo
Salazar? Remember Michael Schumacher charging down the pit lane to
'discuss' things with David Coulthard? We quite understand why. And
more than this: we like it.
They're moments we savour and cherish. Over in America, people go to
see a game of ice hockey not to witness speed and precision but for
the fights. And here, the rugby crowd is always cheered immensely when
two number eights start beating the living crap out of one another.
Especially when the rest of the team joins in.
The trouble is that today we are programmed to stay calm. To turn the
other cheek. And that's fine if you're me. I would hate to be punched.
But in sport and politics where emotions are - and indeed should be -
as charged as an equatorial summer storm, it's inhuman to take a deep
breath and carry on. Perhaps that's why so many top sports stars and
politicians these days are so robotic and dreary.
All of this brings me neatly to a picture we saw in the newspapers
recently. It was of a middle-aged gentleman trying to cycle along a
country lane while being kicked by a young woman. Apparently, he had
been going too slowly in the middle of the road, and the woman had
decided to teach him a lesson.
Everyone shared the opinion that the woman was a menace and should be
locked up for the rest of measurable time. Because, while it may be
all right to lash out in the heat of the moment on a sports pitch, it
is extremely not all right to behave like that on the road.
However, before we lock away the woman, let's ask a question: what if
she had received word that her mother had been taken to hospital and
didn't have long to live? And, what if, while stuck behind the
cyclist, fuming at his slow progress, word came through that her dear
old Mum had died? Would it then be acceptable to kick the man who'd
prevented her from having a last goodbye?
Very often, I am held up by someone who is driving along the A44 at a
speed that they consider to be safe. They are often elderly. Their
reactions are slow, and they do not feel confident going above 25mph.
Plus, they are in no particular rush and feel the world would be a far
better place if others were in no particular rush either. So they have
no sense of guilt about the tail of overheating metal in their wake.
Secretly, they may even feel empowered.
Mostly, I put up with it. If I can overtake, I will, and if I cannot,
I will put on a nice tune and relax. But what if I were in bomb
disposal and I had just moments to get to a terrorist nuke? What if my
wife were in labour? What if a child needed its Dad? Then the moment
is charged, and the rage will build, and it's only human to barge the
elderly couple and their infuriating Peugeot into a hedge.
Cyclists lose their temper all the time, and I don't blame them,
mostly. Because when a bus driver, fuelled by stupidity or arrogance,
turns left without warning and you are nearly killed by his rear
wheels, you become a skin bag full of dopamine, and serotonin and
adrenalin. You are as psyched up as a frightened rabbit. And, in that
instant, you can't really be held to account if you board the bus,
unzip your flies and relieve yourself all over the driver.
So, there we are. Violence. I loathe it. I'm frightened of it. I wish
the human knuckle was made from kapok. But sometimes? Hmmm.
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