Le Sulk

Sulking. What is it about sulking that is frowned upon by those of a self-styled superior standing? "Grow up", "Act your age", "Stop sulking!" are just some examples of the derisive commentary a semi-professional sulker has to endure on a daily basis. Sulking is an art form that is honed throughout one's life and is not confined to the temper tantrums of toddlers who spit out their dummies at the least little thing, (temperamental little bleeders!). Why should they have all the fun?

Various dictionary definitions use words like silent, morose, bad-tempered, sullen, and ill-humoured to describe symptoms of the condition. But what is it that causes one to sulk in the first place? Is it the side of the bed that one arises from? Is it provocation or is it a sense of injustice? For me, I abhor injustice on any platform and on any scale. I don't mind going without chocolate, I can take it or leave it, but if everyone else in the house has had some then it's only fair that I should have my equal share. But it's all gone, it's been eaten, my share has been eaten, not by me, but by someone else! You can see where I'm going on this one. It's the same with wine. I like to drink a full bottle of wine just for myself. I buy it for me, and only me. I don't like sharing. If anyone else wants wine I've no problem buying them their own bottle. But my bottle's for me and me alone. I can't seem to deal with it if anyone sneaks a sly glug on the side, often, as I see it, just for provocation.

Sulking is a universal condition not solely confined to us, ordinary mortals. Take President Trump for instance and his reaction to what he terms as 'fake news'. Judy Garland, the famous Hollywood actress, was famed for her sulking tantrums behind the scenes, often holding up production for months on end. In the world of sport, perhaps the most famous current proponent of the art of sulking is the one and only Diego Costa, the Spanish international centre forward. And let us not forget that nearly half of the country could be labelled as 'sulkers' as 'Remainers' find it hard to come to terms with the result in the Brexit shenanigans.

For me though, most of my 'Majors' have come about during sporting misdemeanors and injustices, (or as others may wish to describe it as when my team loses). Being a Leeds United supporter I've had plenty to sulk about over the years believe me! But 1973 was a particularly bad year with Leeds losing the FA Cup against Sunderland and England failing to reach the World Cup Finals in the 1-1 draw against Poland. I cried on both occasions and was inconsolable (sulked) for days after. Soon after (1975) and Leeds were swindled out of the European Cup glory. Not good, and I'm still not over that one!

I've never been a good loser, in fact, do they even exist. Whether it be golf, football, or tennis. If I won I was happy, If I lost ... well. A series of broken golf clubs and many a mangled tennis racquet bear testimony to that outcome. On many occasions after losing a football match, by default of course, and I've found myself sitting on my own in the bar, in a corner, facing the wall, absolutely devastated.

By 1990 I was a grown man. Sulking was beneath me. I was a mortgage payer, I helped run the family business, I could vote. There was no place in my life for the triviality of a good sulk. That was until England went out of the World Cup Semi-Finals on a penalty shoot-out against the Germans. I didn't take it well. Once Chris Waddle blazed his penalty over the crossbar the armchair went tits-up, the giant England teddy with his England scarf on was hurled thirty feet through the open patio doors. How I got through the next week without talking to a soul I'll never know, I might have well as glued my lips together with superglue. Yes, I was sullen and morose but I was entitled to be. The injustice. How dare anyone else beat my team in a World Cup Semi-Final on penalties! That was a 'Major' indeed and there have been few 'Sulks' to match in terms of intensity and duration. However, even this was usurped by the massive injustice inflicted upon my fragile system some twelve years later.

It was February 2002. The country waited with bated breath but the injustice which followed shook me to the core. I perspired, I palpitated. I shook uncontrollably. It was the single most unjust decision I have ever had to endure in my entire lifetime. It was like a cold knife been pushed through my throbbing heart and twisted with malicious venom! Will Young from Berkshire was voted winner over Bradford's Gareth Gates in the gripping Pop Idol competition. How could the public get it so wrong? And it wasn't just because Gareth Gates was a Leeds United supporter, although that was a large part of it, in fact, most of the part of it, but I was so confident he was going to win. But he didn't. The armchair went tits up and I stormed upstairs to bed, red-faced and angry, not surfacing until the following afternoon. I was incensed for days! How could they vote against my boy? How could they? I'll never forgive them! Ever!

Yep, I know there are many more important indiscretions in the world today than sporting injustices and Pop Idol results, just think of the fate of the innocent George Floyd over the pond as an example. There are wars and Covid-19 and social injustices the world over. But we all have our little crosses to bear. So all I ask is to let me and my sulking compatriots work our own way through our little periods of silent, morose self-contemplation. We'll get there in the end and start acting our age soon. I Promise.