KP, John Terry, the Ferdinands - and Arthur Worsley

KP, John Terry, the Ferdinands  – and Arthur Worsley

It’s not been a good week for sports.  There has been the unseemly John Terry case that has made us all aware that fbc doesn’t just mean full blood count and a choc-ice may not come from Mr Whippy. And at a much lower level of offensiveness but equally demonstrating emotional illiteracy is our old friend Kevin Pietersen’s latest utterance.

Having recently announced his retirement from one-day international cricket, Kevin has now signalled his readiness to return.  Fair enough, you might think.  But he accompanied it with the observation that he had never been looked after by the England management.  This was like a man leaving his wife, then asking to be taken back but throwing in: “By the way, I think you’re a complete b*tch.”

And so my thoughts have drifted to the great Arthur Worsley.  Who was he, I hear you ask. 

Well, he was possibly the world’s finest ventriloquist, an English music hall performer who became a major hit in the States via the Ed Sullivan Show.  He had a brilliant technique and a very simple and powerful gimmick.  On stage, he never spoke.  His dummy, Charlie Brown, did all the talking, haranguing and abusing the always impassive ventriloquist.  “Look at me when I’m talking to you, son” Charlie would say, gradually becoming more and more enraged by the impassivity of the stony-faced Arthur.

What has brought Arthur into my mind? It isn’t that John Terry and young Mr. Ferdinand might have avoided a lot of trouble if they had hurled abuse without moving their lips. As the other Ferdinand proved, Twitter is an ever-present aid for idiots. My point is that, maybe, sportsmen should rely on the instruments of their trade rather than their voices or their Twitter account.  Just as Arthur let Charlie do the talking, KP should rely on his bat, John Terry on the football at his feet, tennis players on their rackets, golfers on their clubs – and so on.  It’s just unfortunate that, the more famous sportsmen become, the more they want to be heard.  They are encouraged by the media and the media are urged on by us, because, stupidly, we are an all-too willing audience.

So a bit of a forlorn rant, I fear.  But at least the mention of Arthur Worsley gives me the opportunity to re-tell my favourite story about him.  When he retired, he consigned Charlie Brown to the attic.  Arthur’s son recalls that, when Arthur died aged 80 in 2000, after the funeral, everyone returned to the family home.  Before they started the wake, Arthur’s son went upstairs, came back with Charlie and put him in the armchair.  Surely, Arthur would have approved.