bored of excitement – the griefjunkie blog
Archive for June, 2010
Friday, June 25th, 2010
One of my favourite sporting stories concerns Graeme Souness, ex-Liverpool archetypal midfield general, and, by 1992, manager of Glasgow Rangers. In this latter capacity, he went to scout Red Star Belgrade, who were at the time one of the greatest sides in Europe, and who Rangers were due to play in the third round of the European Cup. Arriving back in Glasgow, the team, squad members and associated personnel were assembled for a tactical overview of the Yugoslav giants, and were somewhat surprised when this consisted entirely of Souness unveiling a flip-chart upon which he had written the words ‘We’re Fucked’.
Almost everyone I have ever traded with in any market in London had their first Souness-like moment of clarity shortly before realising that they were going to have to trade in a market in the first place, and has typically had several subsequent ones on an almost daily basis, leading to an outlook which, now I come to think of it, essentially consists of one long pep talk prior to an upcoming game with Red Star Belgrade, which never actually arrives. In fact, for anyone connected with this particular company, it is as if Graeme Souness is hiding behind every apron and leaping out of every storage box, eternally tapping his motivational flip-chart in a knowing manner.
Monday, June 7th, 2010
…or so they say. However, even if I had traded all day on Saturday with my eyes tightly closed, I would still have known that there was a framed Pac Man tube map prominently displayed behind the stall because of the relentless waves of highly excited people rushing up to the pitch and shouting ‘Oh my God! Space Invaders!’ at it.
This was, however, only one of several irritations on what was an annoying weekend. I had commenced it slightly later than I would usually like, a fact stridently announched by Jimmy who sells ho-hum artwork by the entrance. Jimmy is one of those people who is ‘a bit of a character’, and his voice and demeanour suggest a strict diet of Highland terriers and tartan headscarves. ‘Yes,’ I replied while hastily hefting storage boxes about, ‘but I would rather be late than Scottish’, which seemed to keep him quiet.