Michael DEACON
MICHAEL DEACON
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Over the past three months, my facial hair has been the one constant in a changing world
After all, you can’t get rid of me – or my beard – that easily…
The easing of lockdown will require major changes to the way we live. Socially distanced tables in restaurants. Perspex screens in pubs. Visors for hairdressers.
And, most momentous of all, a new title for this column. After all, there can be no letters from lockdown if lockdown is over.
From today, therefore, the column will appear as “Notes on the New Normal”. Readers can be assured, however, that it will contain the customary mix of family anecdote, wistful reminiscence, and ever more unflattering photographs of the author’s lockdown beard.
Yes, the beard stays. Over the past three months, its unpopularity has been the one constant in a changing world. And so, with more upheaval looming, I hope the beard will continue to offer comfort, reassurance, and opportunity for ridicule. Recently, I wrote about the fanatical handwashing that is now required in schools. My son is already tiring of it. He believes, however, that he has identified an ingenious way to circumvent the problem.
The other evening, at home, he covered his hands in soap, rinsed them – and then did it all over again. And again. And again. And then again.
“There,” he said, drying his hands at last. “Now I won’t need to wash them for ages.”
At least he doesn’t have to wear a mask. But, just in case, Mama bought him one anyway. As you can see, it makes him look extremely intimidating.
If you happen to be passing through Gravesend, and a tiny highwayman ambushes Football just isn’t the same without fans. Their absence makes the action seem far less urgent. Now even the most important match feels like a friendly.
Still, there is one upside.
In I, Robot, the second of his entertaining books on life in football, Peter Crouch recalls a revelation he experienced while playing against Chelsea. John Terry, Chelsea’s then-captain, kept shouting encouragement to someone called Mike. “Yes, bang on, Mike!” he’d cry. Crouch was puzzled. Chelsea didn’t have any players called Mike.
Then he realised. “Mike” was the referee.
“Before you know it the ref ’s calling him JT,” he writes. “Now if Terry clatters someone it’s like yellow-carding your mate. Are you going to be as hard on him when you’re ready to start sending each other Christmas cards?”
Now, with matches being played in silence, we’ll be able to hear which other players use this subtle psychological ploy. “Martin? Big fan of your officiating. Love the blue top, by the way. Really brings out your eyes…”
Michael Deacon’s Notes on the New Normal returns tomorrow