And left-wing journalists are even worse, printing, dissecting, discussing his abhorrent catastrophes of speech – like some irresistible fetish – that they would do far better ignoring. Journalists cannot help themselves in reporting his every, usually stupid, utterance. Trump has long displayed that unusual knack of saying things, anything, that gains our attention. Like another natural, gifted populist that we all know: Donald Trump. They don’t need conduits to the public, or advisors they have a canny ability to connect directly. He doesn’t fit their agenda – he wouldn’t gush with the right appreciation and say the right things on stage (which is maybe the same reason Frankie Dettori, another gifted sporting – also white, middle-aged, male – genius, has never won Spoty). I wonder if this is somehow the reason he has never won the BBC Sports Personality of the Year award. Although, following the Masters final, seeing him pose for photos at the snooker table with his son and daughter, where he suddenly seemed settled, indicated that it is with his family that he finds his soul can pause and be calm and content.īut populists worry people because they are out of control. They are never enough, he never feels he is good enough, and one hopes that he can find peace, somehow. His victories seem to cause him a sort of sweet agony. He hides nothing, which is perhaps because he wouldn’t know how, or indeed why, to hide. And populism at its best, because he is authentic. So, when you combine this with his personality, you have something rare: populism. And there is his speed, often in match-play taking no more than 12 seconds, on average, between shots. He can position a cue ball as if he has guided it to the spot himself with an invisible hand. Of course, he can think several shots in advance, and can play right- or left-handed, but he also has courage to go for the pot where others might play a safety shot. He is fascinating to watch as he manoeuvres around the table, like a predator after their prey. He has a rare talent, of course, coupled with the hours and hours he has spent playing over the years. It’s mesmerising and we hang on his every word. His tone of voice is always understated there is no bombast, and like the greatest heroes of fiction, he walks off into the sunset in a blaze of quite extraordinary, self-deprecating modesty. In an interview for Eurosport following his triumph at the UK Championship in December, when asked how he would celebrate his victory, O’Sullivan replied: “Just a couple of Snickers bars, a bag of crisps and a Diet Coke in the car on the motorway on the way home.” They need to get their act together, because I’m going blind, I’ve got a dodgy arm and bad knees and they still can’t beat me.” This followed an interview he made on the BBC after his semi-final victory against Shaun Murphy in which he said of the younger players: “Their brains are quite slow. I haven’t spoken to him for 20 years.” Then, with the microphones of the BBC and others in front of him and the logos of the sponsors on a screen behind, he lifted his middle finger and added: “He can sit on it as far as I’m concerned.” He’s got to go and see a counsellor,” he said. This was his eighth Masters title, and in winning he became both the youngest and oldest person to have been victorious at this, one of snooker’s most vital tournaments.Īnd rather than flatter the effort or skill of his opponent, Ali Carter, he went into full assault mode. The comments he made in the wake of his recent victory at the Masters last weekend continue to reverberate. Which is one of the reasons why snooker player Ronnie O’Sullivan’s post-match interview style is such a tonic and is so invigorating in this cold snap. All they and their team want is a good and fair report on the actual result, no deflections with dropped clangers or Twitter rows, and then the focus can simply be on the next game.īut how frustrating this must be for the journalists aching for additional colour – and how dull it is for us. The skill is to say nothing, to utter little but hard-worn clichés, to pay the lip service of complimenting the hard work of the opposing team, to escape the whole experience and not have to face a dressing down from their manager/agent/family/other-half because they offered up some embarrassing gaffe. They are the interviews that send us to sleep, the post-match press conferences in which sportspeople display the skills they have learnt in media training.
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