Nobody goes boxing on my patch. Except on the occasional Saturday night when the footie results justify a dust-up invoving the locals. So I’m thinking that a pair of Muhammad Ali’s gloves would fetch a right few quid, or bucks, were they to be auctioned in these parts.
As it happens, the same gloves he wore to dispatch Sonny Liston in February 1964 come under the hammer in New York on Tuesday, just days after the 50th anniversary of the slaughter. They’re from the late Angelo Dundee’s private collection. Having met trainer/promoter Angelo here, I can vouch for his reputation as one of boxing’s gents.
Picture the bidding frenzy had these gloves been auctioned by Bonhams in Edfinburgh. Gloves. The word has vanished from the vocabulary. Like umbrella. Poor old Gene Kelly. Tried his utmost.
In at deep end
Is that you screaming ‘‘help me, I’m drowning’’? There’s a pool, an ocean, of water at the junction of Frederick Street and Princes Street, deep enough and wide enough to float the Royal Yacht.
It’s been there all week. Will somebody in the cleansing department or Commonwealth Pool or whoever dry it out? Good opportunity to shunt Britannia from Leith where it’s been breeding barnacles and moor it at Frederick Street where it could be used to flog women’s lingerie on the side, cashmere or tartan tat.
Afterwords . .
. . Jackie Collins frothing about sister Joan’s husband Percy Gibson: “Percy’s amazing. He loves women. Of her five husbands, he’s absolutely the best and definitely my favourite. He’s like the patriarch of the family although he’s younger than everyone. He makes Joan incredibly happy.”