It’s hard to look on the bright side during these dark, wet days; even if Kim the Jong-Un is on the hotline to the South again; and Don the Old ‘un seems to be in a downward spiral of self-destruction. There’s an unhealthy glut of Bliar stories in the meeja, suggesting he is still scheming to return to Labour politics. Please! Let Corbyn continue!
Down under – where 2018 arrived sooner (and more trouble has had a chance to appear), it’s hip hip but not hooray; at least if you are Our Andy or Almost-our Johanna. And in the Ashes series, the England hierarchy seems to have delegated decisions to the players – ‘No, I don’t need a nightwatchman,’ said Jonny; and promptly got out.
Back home, real people struggle to budget for train fares, petrol prices rise and cold spells make everyone feel low.
But hey! Ambrose at the DT says Britain will soon be great again, Europe will slide and the sun will shine on us all. So that’s alright innit.
Like Sheona, I need help with vocabulary.
Tennis fans yesterday witnessed our hybrid Brit hero(ine), Johanna Konta, beaten comprehensively by the elegant Murican Venus Williams. I wanted to say she gave Jo a ‘master-class’, but our other hero, Andy, would have disapproved on feminist grounds. So what is the right word?
You Huns! Accepting defeat with grace ain’t your bag, eh?
Lewis caught up with Nico and passed him on the final circuit but Nico didn’t like it, caused a little prang and kept on driving with a damaged car. The stewards penalised him, not Lewis.
German fans then booed Lewis on the podium.
And today it will be the yellow-clad Aussies’ turn to show decorum on Centre Court when their potty-mouthed hero meets Andy. Will Nick manage it? Cliff-hanging stuff.
For every match the players at Wimbledon are issued with two towels. These are the property of the All England Club. Post-match the deal is they are returned to the nearest ball boy. Not so. The players walk off court with them. Stealing in plain sight. The used towels are then given to friends, family or auction. You can never be too wealthy.
I’ve written before on the despicable practice of the players towelling off then hurling their sweat-drenched towels to ball boys between every point, passing on all their germs. I’d now like to chastise their manner when “asking” for the towel; they point at it: fetch. The slave children then serve their masters with this greasy piece of fabric.
Why don’t the players ask the child, nicely, to hand them their towel? Do they think our young are stupid? The bright young things are more multi-lingual than their ancestors were at that age. I’m sure they would know a smattering of Serbo-Croat, a slice of Swiss, a chip of Czech, and, naturally, be faultless at French.
Our ball boys are too nice but it would be good if at the end of the contest they employed their linguistic skills to volley abuse at the robbers. Stop złodziej oddać nam nasze ręczniki kurwa.
Write some yourself!
But it has to be said, there’s so much postable news these days, innit?
With the virtual certainty that our next PM will be a Tory lady, second only to our beloved Maggie, we can look forward to pragmatic gubmint, a phenomenon sadly lacking for many years. (Boris hums, ‘Can’t buy me Gove, yeah; everybody tells me so…’)
Meanwhile the Bremainers are still sulking, talking about second votes, about chaos, about Scotland, Ireland and Gibraltar. (Boris did say, ‘What part of Bleave don’t they understand?.)
But the ever-present Welsh are celebrating with a symbolic win over
Brussels Belgium, adding fuel to the flames of the English team’s funeral pyre. Their victory only goes to show: England have sweet FA.
And while I’m here, I should mention that Andy’s best chance this year is if his arch opponent loses the third set today to a Yank. Come on, the special relationship.
Nothing else in today’s news, sorry. Oh yes, it’s a peaky blinder. Stylish, huh?
It’s women’s tennis – a feminist force mustered by Navratilova. There’s now an ova in every final and (the younger) Maria* is their diva. Easy on the eye, persistently histrionic on court, equally successful off the court, she announces her own doping indiscretions, seizing the high pr ground before the authorities have drawn breath. Be sorry for me, I made a mistake (for 10 years!), don’t be harsh.
Serena is closing ranks. Another diva with a unique agenda. Why is she so quick to speak up? Just remember: Big girls don’t cry – they pack a punch.
I don’t expect any comments from the men.
It’s the pain, doctor.
Where exactly, Janus?
Just here (pointing to heart).
And when do you get it?
Whenever I watch English teams play.
So it’s home-sickness then, the call from home?
No. That’s a sweeter feeling, like hearing I’m to be a grandpa for the 10th time.
Congratulations then! But back to the pain?
Yes. What’s the cure?
Get rid of the sports channels. Watch Danish tv. You’ll feel no emotion whatever and sleep extremely well. That’s the true meaning of ‘hygge’ (pron. hew- ga)!
Here’s ‘Gorgeous Gussie’ Gertrude Moran, with her revealing outfit in 1949.
And Fred Perry daring to show his knees for once.
She’s the most unlikely athlete to look at. None of the usual wasp waist and slender limb. But she oozes determination with her shadow-shots – all double-handed and as ungainly as her play. But she wins – and might just spring a surprise today. And then she’ll do this again, I’m sure. Wimbledon, 2 pm BST.