Laughing Boy

I've got the only cure for life
And the cure for life is joy
I'm the crying man
That everyone calls laughing boy.

(Clive James)

I may have quoted these lines to you in the past but I was reminded of them today by the news of the apparent suicide of Robin Williams. When I hear such dismal news a little part of me survives. Which may seem an odd thing to say but this is my warped logic: when I was playing rugby I worked on the rough calculation that I would play in one game per season which involved a broken leg; as soon as that first broken leg had occurred I played with the ridiculous certainty that it wouldn't be me, not that season. So with the public loss of a depressive. I don't pretend it makes any sense.

As for Williams, my favourite roles were as Mork, Aladdin's genie and in Jumanji. A great sadness. The cure for life is joy.

Happier thoughts. On my drive home from work I have taken to surfing my iPod. News is for the morning trip. For the last couple of nights I have been listening to some Elton John and the thought struck me that much of what I admire in his music would have been available in 1974. The good stuff is all early. Thanks to the rather dreadful Diana tribute version we have lost sight of quite how good a record Candle in the Wind was.

An example of malign sports politics. For the past six seasons I have relished a trip to the Heineken Cup Final in good company. The new revamped competition (begotten in response to the English and French clubs lobbing their Gucci rattles out of the pram) will have its finale earlier in the year and smack bang in the middle of my golfing pilgrimage to Ireland, made in equally good company. Something has to give and I'm afraid it will be the rugby. Pity, but I'll save a bit of money. What I will say is that they'd better not muck around with the timing of Cheltenham or there really will be trouble.