I’ve met so many Paxman’s in bars. Viagra fuelled Alpha showboats sucking the oxygen out of the air to refill it with second hand wind from an unused punctured foot pump from old camping trips when men commanded their family troops by a hurricane of loudness.
Tough love types with a ‘you will do what I say I will talk over you’ mentality.
A relic of competitive hate filled squash courts and a middle class affair with a neighbours wife. The smell of a fresh Sunday Times on the nostrils with the sound of lawns being cut in the distance served with a red wine hangover and too much stilton from the dinner party which ended unnecessarily badly when the Mrs got upset after an ill advised comment on her abilities.
An early round of golf fuelled by the need to escape the domestic.
Exhausting and desperately hunting for an imagined narrative of how his orders demand respect from the minions that reflect back to him the losses of his overly keen gob. Trading on past glories like a badly carpeted British Legion, impotently unable to ask a single question of any majesty or class which should like an early to mid career Beckham pass open up the interviewee to a moment in which they are able to either transcend or plummet in the hot brilliance of the opportunity in front of them. Instead we get to watch and judge them on their ability to deal with the main meat eater consume his carcass.
A waste.
Elijah Wolf
