Fifa is a cosy organisation which ? like Soviet Union party trusties ? looks after its own
?Years ago I went to Moscow, and was shown round one of the hard currency shops there by the Observer's correspondent, Mark Frankland. Only foreigners with real money were admitted to these stores, along with the nomenklatura, which meant Communist party trusties.
Mark suggested buying a box of chocolate covered halva ? ordinary Russians would kill for such a treat, he said. It was very pleasant, but there was nothing particularly luxurious about it; it might be on a par with Turkish delight for us. The point for the elect was that nobody else could have it. For most people the system brought nothing but shop windows filled with tins of pickled herring and cabbage.
A year or so later Ronald Reagan mused that he would love to get Soviet leaders to visit an ordinary supermarket in the States, where they would get some idea of the dazzling choice of everything, available to everyone. But they would have been appalled. When you had spent your life struggling up the horrible greasy pole of Kremlin politics, so that you could enjoy caviar, fillet steak and chocolate halva, the notion that everyone might share your good fortune would be intolerable.
I'm reminded of this when I read about Fifa, that other cosy organisation that looks after its own and ? in their case ? dishes out first class travel and accommodation, limousines to matches where Blatter's "football family" (as in "dat was bidness; dis is family" ? Godfathers I, II and III) enjoy the best seats, and in some cases envelopes allegedly filled with $40,000 in bills.
Of course they all vote for Blatter! And of course they nearly all voted against England, with its terrifying threat of reform. What possible interest could this lot have in spreading all that money to African villages where small boys kick around tennis balls, or even to Hackney Marshes, when it could be spent on them?
?Of course we don't have the cult of personality here, as they did in the Soviet Union. Except, perhaps, in Westminster, where I picked up a copy of the Westminster Record, an inaptly named four-page propaganda sheet published (not, they say, at our expense) for the Conservatives. "How our borough is safer under Boris Johnson," it proclaims. "Council tax frozen under Boris". Answers to the "Boris wordsearch" puzzle include Boris's multitudinous achievements, such as "street trees" and "booze ban".
In all I counted no fewer than 44 mentions of "Boris Johnson" or "Boris" ? 11 per page, plus nine photographs of the Great Leader. But, as I say, no personality cult there.
?Am I right in thinking that last weekend was the only occasion when Sir Alex Ferguson lost a football match and, instead of blaming the referee, praised the winning side? I am sure I will be corrected if I am wrong.
?Off to the Hay festival, which I still love even though the Guardian no longer sponsors it. I will be plugging my new paperback, A Long Lunch, which of course I thoroughly recommend. We are driving up, in what promises to be good weather, though in Wales the rain is always just over the hill. I only hope we can make Hay while the sun shines.
The great thing about Hay is that there are so many events going on that you meet the most surprising, random collection of people. I recall a four-way conversation involving me, Christopher Hitchens, Barry Cryer and the bishop of Edinburgh, who had come down by motorcycle and was still in his leathers. Or chatting with David Lodge and George Osborne, not exactly blood brothers.
Bob Marshall-Andrews, the former Labour MP, who is plugging his own new book, Off Message, even more ruthlessly than me, recalls in its pages a visit to the festival to take part in Any Questions with, among others, Jeanette Winterson. Bob was persuaded to stay for a dinner party nearby, where he ate well and drank copiously. Word came that Ms Winterson had gone home unexpectedly, and that he could have the room ? in a nearby mansion ? that she no longer required.
Pissed as a rat, Bob arrived there by taxi at 3am, to be greeted by a composed and very beautiful hostess. "I uttered the first words that came into my head: 'Hello, I'm Jeanette Winterson.'" Quite unfazed, his hostess said that he was expected and showed him to his room.
Next morning he had sobered up and offered an apology. His hostess said they had already found out who he really was. But she was a great Winterson fan. She had never seen a photograph of her, but she knew she was a lesbian. "I am sorry to say that when you announced yourself as Jeanette Winterson, I thought you actually were Jeanette Winterson."
If you've ever seen Marshall-Andrews on TV, you'll know this is utterly bizarre, like confusing Dennis the Menace with Kate Moss.
Source: http://www.guardian.co.uk/theguardian/2011/jun/04/simon-hoggart-week-fifa
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