I blame the scapegoats by John O'Farrell Page A

Onlookers were
particularly shocked when they saw him spit out Evander Holyfield's ear. He could
at least have popped it discreetly into a little napkin.
    Maybe
Tyson should redirect his energies towards a sport less likely to bring out his
violent side. Figure skating, for example, or synchronized swimming. Because
this week's ugly scenes probably won't be the last, and every time the moral
commentators become even more outraged: why, these boxers - they are behaving
in a violent and aggressive manner! In fact, Tyson's notoriety only helps
generate more interest and put up his price. I don't know, maybe I'm being a
bit cynical here, but it's almost as if somebody somewhere is more interested
in the money than the sport. No, that's probably unfair, I take that back. If
the boxing authorities had the long-term interests of boxing at heart, they would
have nothing more to do with Mike Tyson. It would mean resisting the immediate
prize of a huge multi-million-dollar fight, of course, so that's obviously
going to happen.
    But
his continued presence only gives ammunition to those who would have the sport
of boxing banned altogether. I can understand why some consider the sport to be
barbaric, but these are often people who have had more career choices than
those upon whom they would sit in judgement. When I was a young boy growing up
in Maidenhead, boxing was the only way out of the Home Counties ghetto. It was either
boxing or accountancy. Boxing, accountancy, law, medicine, the City,
journalism, business consultancy or becoming a database developer for one of
the emerging software companies springing up all along the M4 corridor. So for
us, sportsmen like Frank Bruno were real heroes. We saved up to get a ticket to
see him and those who were lucky enough to be there that night still talk about
that incredible performance he gave as Widow Twankey at the Theatre Royal,
Windsor.
    Perhaps a career in pantomime could be the
way forward for Mike Tyson; though it might be hard sticking to the original
script with the former world champion on stage.
    'Oh Buttons, my ugly sisters won't let me go
to the ball.' Buttons spots the ugly sisters downstage, grabs Christopher
Biggins and bites his ear off before punching Timmy Mallet into the orchestra
pit.
    'Okay, now you can go
to the ball.'
    'Oh,
um, but you're not supposed to knock them unconscious . . .' 'Oh yes I am!' 'Oh
no you're not!' 'Oh yes I fucking am!'
    And the audience would shout back as one:
'All right, yes, you are! Whatever you say, Mike!'
    It would be no more of a pantomime than what
we have at the moment.
     

God
Save the Queeeeen!
     
    2
February 2002
     
     
    On
Wednesday the Queen will have been on the throne for exactly fifty years, but
tragically this joyous anniversary seems to be regarded with widespread
cynicism and apathy. Unemployed single parents lie around the house saying,
'Why should I care about some old woman who happens to be Queen?' 'Because I'm
your mother!' she says to them. 'Now get off the couch and go and tour Canada
or something.'
    Social commentators are left wondering what
has happened to this unpatriotic society when so little respect is shown to our
head of state. How different from the happy innocence of Her Majesty's Silver
Jubilee back in 1977, they say. Back then, in village greens across Merrie
England, rosy-cheeked teenagers wearing black binliners and safety pins through
their noses spat and pogo-ed to the sound of the Sex Pistols and the Clash.
Yes, the whole nation came together in the unifying spirit of hate and anarchy,
the poet laureate Sir John Rotten penned his jubilee poem 'God Save the Queen,
the fascist regime that made you a moron', and thousands of young citizens with
mohicans had 'No Future' tattooed across their foreheads. Ah, happy days.
    In fact, the idea that Britain was always a
nation of monarch-loving loyalists who spontaneously celebrated every
anniversary is about as believable as today's royal wedding vows. Henry