I’ll always remember the evening. Early summer, 2029. A beautiful early evening. My son, Simon, and I have just had a dip in the Med and now he’s driving me to our favourite Misada Mizrahit — a restaurant run by a family with roots in the Maghreb. Try the harira, you won’t be disappointed.
I say to him, “I’ve just put in a bid for £1.8 million for Roi Sela”.
He pulls the car over to the side of the road, which I’m pleased about because he’s the world’s worst driver.
“You’ve done WHAT?”
I ought to explain the implication here. His meaning isn’t, “How could anyone play £1.8 million for Roi Sela?”
No, it’s, “How could my father, who usually buys his strikers from some cheapo stall in Lewisham market for half-a-crown, brace himself to bid £1.8 million for anyone or anything?”
Well, here he is, all £1.8 million’s worth:
He gives us something extra up front. An aerial option. I just hope that as he grows up he becomes braver — and learns to concentrate.
Now every time Sela’s about to go out there, my assistant manager whispers, “No pressure, son”.
F*** that. No f***ing prssure? You cost us the best part of two million quid, son: f***ing perform!
