The Curmudgeon

Now I don't suppose anyone educated after 1960 has ever heard of this but, in 1739, Britain went to war with Spain because some damned johnny foreigners boarded a British ship in the West Indies and cut off an ear from the captain, one Robert Jenkins.

It sounded a bit of a laugh at the time (except for Captain Jenkins), a tiny skirmish in the far away Caribbean, but, as skirmishes have a habit of doing, it led to the full-scale War of Austrian Succession, which lasted a very unpleasant eight years.

And that brings us to the War of Mr Posh Spice's Toe.

Mr Posh, who in pre-celebrity days would have been better known than his wife, him being captain of the England soccer team and all that, might be out of the world cup because another Spanish-speaking gentleman stamped on his foot.

Now, for an £80,000 a week pay packet, I wouldn't mind someone stamping on my foot once every couple of years or so - but I don't suppose the Prime Minister himself would have expressed his grave personal concern if it were my metatarsal bone that was a bit on the sore side.

And that's what it would appear to add up to: a bit of soreness, according to a top sports surgeon I heard on the wireless. The man should still be able to kick a ball - but it might hurt a wee bit.

Dearie, dearie me.

Now I am far from being a soccer fan but do I recall correctly that this Mr Posh Spice is the same guy who was sent off in the last world cup for trying to kick someone who had had the insolence to tackle him, thus causing the poor little thing to fall down on that hard, hard grass?

In recent years, I am told, professional footballers have been unable to turn out because they have hurt themselves by dropping a jar of salad cream on their foot - or hurt an ankle when their foot slipped off the throttle of their Ferrari.

My heart bleeds...

There was a time when even soccer players were men. Many years ago, a German, Bert Trautman, who had been a prisoner of war in England, played half a game in goal for Manchester City in an FA cup final with a broken neck.

And little Georgie Best would come off the field - at the end of the match, not during it - covered in blood and bruises from toe to groin ... and go to the pub, not some expensive private hospital.

Now as far as I know, Mr Posh has not lost his toe, unlike the poor late Captain Jenkins. But the papers, and the broadcast news, are still full of almost daily reports on his miserable metatarsal.

But, at least, we have not gone to war over his toe: we have enough on our plate in that department when our soldiers, who really are the best in the world, are facing some real killers 13,000 feet up in the Afghan mountains.

They probably worry about their toes, too. They could lose them to frostbite, mines or grenades. I wonder how long it takes them to earn £80,000?

* The Curmudgeon is a satirical column based on a fictitious character in a mythical village.