To Saltaire and back from Cumbria I encountered gypsy hoardes on the roads, in ditches, crowded around grass verges, especially where access to a watering-hole. Their horses tremendous. These are the gypsy souls of yesteryear, even if they live in (posh) houses nowadays. This is their remembering, their clanning together, horse-drawn caravans a touch Wild Western, spirit of the frontier. They are on their way to Appleby in Cumbria for the biggest gypsy gathering.
Not since the wedding, not since the gypsy horse gathering at Appleby have I seen something so perfect to go public about. The Russians some their cheeks rosied others with their faces haunted look like sweeping to the Final and with it success via the big football tournament. The one I have missed. For them to win would be amazing for the country – not all in good ways. It would make the fascist element ever more sure of their hammer; it would make the weak quite nicely proud and flushed. The sexy football they played to beat the sexed-up Dutch was so encouraging. They have now to outdance and outhussle the leettle Spanyards. I will watch the latter stages on a screen at Glastonbury, joined by a throng with musical accompaniment.
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