There’s a lot of ‘reflection’ going on today. And yesterday. Will be tomorrow. Definitely Monday. Everyone’s favourite, go-to, pop-psychological word has, in just 10 days, gone from a term used infrequently on a therapist’s couch to being the guiding concept to help us through our trauma over the death of a very old lady. Charles had a day of ‘reflection’ with the body. Everyone is queuing up for their 5 seconds of allotted ‘reflection’ with the coffin. The news is full of it, the papers riddled with it. There is so much reflection occurring that I’m wearing sunglasses full time now. Polarised ones. Because no-one is ‘thinking’ any more. No-one is pondering, considering, remembering or deliberating. We’re all fucking ‘reflecting’.

So I want to take a moment here to do some reflecting of my own. Because it is terrible when things die. We are forced to consider what those things meant to us, directly or indirectly, the effect of their stopping and how we feel about it.

Thus with Roger Federer announcing the death of his professional career. He retired this week as he feels his 41 year-old body simply can’t compete any longer. Welcome to my world, Rog. Yet as I reflect…

He entered the public eye (this pair anyway) when he first won Wimbledon as a gawky Swiss nerdy dude with a pony tail and a Robin Williams smile. But there was something about him when he played which was just a bit ‘different’. He never looked athletic. Never powerful or butch or aggressive, but he played with a style which was amazingly pleasing on the eye. So the sponsors got involved, as they do, lopped off the pony tail, made him the ultimate gentleman, gave him a white blazer and a stupid ‘RF’ logo so they could sell more merchandise. And he went on winning. And winning. And winning. Just in a much more ‘corporate’ way. But what never changed was the elegance of his play. The beautiful style. The almost balletic way he moved to the ball. The absolute, text-book perfection of every shot made.

There’ll be players who win more slams. There’ll be players who annihilate opposition more convincingly. Tennis will undoubtedly continue. But there probably won’t ever be another who plays with such beauty. It’s now all about power and pace and 6 foot 7 East European serving machines.

And talking of style, David Beckham, in case there was any doubt, is an uber-mensch. A man among men. He queued for 11 hours yesterday to see the Queen. Just stood in line, spoke to people, I’m guessing there were a few selfies involved, and he paid his respects, 11 hours later.

This man sits at football matches with Princes. He joins royals on sporting committees. He knows everybody. Yet chose to just stand in line, rather than make what would have been a simple call to just get a ticket. Which was the path taken by the MPs, who all were happy to invoke their privilege rather than act like all the people they represent in parliament and just queue up.

Which is why we love David Beckham and all MPs are tossers who prove, time and again, how out of touch with ‘normal people’ they really are.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx