Is there life after football? One of the deep questions philosophers have pondered through the millennia. “I think therefore I don’t play for Chelsea” was Descartes’ early foray into punditry before he gave it up and invented graphs. Aristotle must have been a Liverpool fan to come up with “Happinessis is the whole purpose of life” because he never could have supported Spurs with that kind of attitude without risking suicide.

But as fans we have to endure the ‘close season’. Those arid, sterile, tragic months between May and August when there is no domestic football. And because the World Cup can’t be held until November because its in fucking Qatar, for whom Prince Charles apparently launders money, that tournament isn’t filling our lives now, as it should be.

So instead we have some cricket. And its good cricket. Against the New Zealanders. Who, for a nation with a tiny population, punch well above their weight in all sports. Not good at much else, but sport? Holy shit. The All Blacks are the best in the world at rugby, so are the All Whites great at cricket? Well not too bad, though hopefully, will lose the 3rd and final test at Headingly today if England can just…

And then there’s tennis. The sport I choose to play all year round but watch just once. Wimbledon. Starts today. Emma Raducanu is playing Andy Murray on Centre Court. I may have that wrong, not sure of either of their pronouns, but they’re both there today. In a ‘Brit-fest’ of our… only 2 stars. One of whom has rather faded a bit since we learned he’s actually Scottish.

Thus did we turn to Glastonbury for our temporary entertainment. Not actually go there, heaven forbid, but to watch in the sanitised comfort of my lounge. And I watched… well, just Paul McCartney really. Bit of Billy Eilish because she’s such a talent, a touch of Noel Gallagher because he opened for Sir Paul and as he’s the slightly least obnoxious of the Oasis Brothers, I can almost tolerate him for short periods.

Then Paul. His voice has gone. Well he’s 80 FFS, what d’ya expect. He can hit high notes like I can hit a cross-court, top-spin, backhand volley. Infrequently and not very well. But he is Paul McCartney!!! He’s a Beatle!!! And thus carries a musical statesmanship that few can match. And if they can almost match it, like Bruce Springsteen, they bloody fly over just to sing two songs with the man. And he brought Dave Grohl with him. And seeing fabulous Dave up there, wearing his fucking reading glasses, bless him, spoke volumes about the upwardly ageing profile of true musical stardom. That no-one born after 1970 can aspire to true greatness. Most (other than Adele) can’t even write a song you remember tomorrow, let alone in 60 years time.

Love, love me do.

A xxxx