Different takes from different tastes

Ah, that old chestnut. Which would you rather?

The

Atkins diet - dull, chewy, meaty, hard to swallow but with a nose for controversy and success. Some days you will get bored of the same thing, over and over. But until you become tired, it gets results. Mostly. If the results do not come, the diet is pointless and critically panned. When all said and done, history is kind. If you make history, you are remembered, no matter how ugly or wretched the victory.

or the

Johnson diet - fun, food scattered unevenly on the plate, bursting with colour and mouthwatering ideas, but with so many creative combinations, it leads to mixed results. Some days your taste buds tingle with serene satisfaction; others overwhelmed by oddities. Never far away from culinary perfection, or delightful disaster. But at least it wasn't drab, or dreary. Yet when all is said and done, there is frustration etched on the brain. To entertain is to please. But pleasure cannot be written down on records. All that lingers are the facts. They could have triumphed. They should have triumphed. But they were too greedy. They wanted it all.

Though some say it's still possible....

4-3. 3-2. 3-4. 5-3. 1-4. 6-4. 2-2 2-5 Gosh, those numbers look delicious.

0-0. 1-0. 1-1. 1-0. 0-0. 1-0 1-0. 0-1 Gosh, how boring.

But in this game of pressure, points win prizes. Panache is rarely a route to perfection.

And then there's the 4-4-2. I am simple. I am a man. A macho man. I drink a nice, strong bitter. The one that's always on. I drink it straight down.

But why be a macho man, when you can be a man to everyone? Don't be afraid to show off your femininity, it takes a brave man to walk into a pub and neck a pint of Fruli. I am the 4-3-2-1-6-8-anynumbericaretobe. I sip slowly.

The truth is, this conundrum has never yet been solved. Perhaps, will never. Some would rather lose with grace and dignity than win with tenacious, theatre-less thuggery. Some would prefer to be liked at any cost, than never to be liked at all. We are all different.

And this perfectly encapsulates the reaction to today's defeat.

Some turned, forgetting action, as stern eyes fixated on scoreboard simplicity. They booed.

Some scratched their heads, indecisiveness leading to indifference. They shrugged.

Others applauded artistry, as they watched through intellectual frames, looking for signs of intelligence and entertaining stimulation.

Then there were robots, who's hands seemed to move angularly together, yet never make a sound. They stood as statues, waiting for Saturday afternoon to come-by again. Never leaving, always supporting.

Of course there were those who had seen it all before, they briefly sighed, then more quickly chuckled a familiar chuckle. They would recognise both the beauty and the beast, but both would be put to bed upon an experienced exit.

Perhaps, you know, whilst so many of us are determined to be right, we are always wrong except for our own reaction. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and some folks like different strokes.

Today reminded me of that.