Freddie Flintoff took to Twitter to say he found Ian Rankin’s latest Rebus Novel as boring saying:
“Enough is enough 30 pages In of the dullest book ever !” and “Sticking to Ben Elton from now on !”
Well thanks for that Mr Flintoff. Why is it Andrew “Freddie” Flintoff has become such an important figure in the last few years? Because he got drunk after winning a cricket match? He’s got the balls to talk about Dull things being a cricketer – possibly the only sport you can play for five days where you keep popping off for tea and it’s still a draw at the end. I don’t really think Freddie is my go-to-guy for literature reviews – it’d be like going to Jimmy Savile for babysitting advise.
I understand that he is a “bit of a lad” and is seen as amusing by some but I just don’t get it. If he’d rather read Ben Elton then that pretty much sums him up for me. The “Lad” image and commoner in a posh man’s world of cricket is patronising to say the least – he obviously can’t see that he is playing into a huge stereotype that the media are painting for him. Yes he played well in the Ashes a few years ago but he’s not a sporting icon or someone you would want to be like is he?
On “League of their own” again he’s the “thick one” on the panel where he is the butt of jokes and on Graham Norton he was like a competition winner who had won the prize of sitting on a sofa with two famous people. He has a rugged handsomeness that I can see would appeal to some girls and the personality that the men would like but there are dozens of more interesting people out there that could be on TV that fit that bill. Perhaps for me it is the cricket thing because it’s something that I just can’t take to. Nothing happens and it’s boring as sin. Lots of people say it’s a great day out but it doesn’t mean I want to watch it on TV.
Also he stands for the worst type of post-career celebrity by being paraded around as if he has something to offer the public when I’m afraid his talents ended with that Ashes match (if they ever started at all). So his thoughts on one of the most successful series of books from a British author are neither here nor there. He reminds me of the chancer we all knew at school who always seemed to be successful despite himself and was popular but no-one could work out why. Like most of these famous types he’ll be found out at some point, but until then I look forward to his next review of the National Opera’s next performance or the latest exhibition at the Tate Modern.