It takes a brave man to admit he is wrong in these litigious times, but tonight I must be that brave man. Ok, I was wrong about Murray. Despite last posts’ right royal slagging, the boy put in a performance worthy of my humiliation, and despite being Scotch and ginger and bad-tempered and obscenely young, I have to admit I warmed to our great pretender, particularly at the end there when he did that blubbing thing for the telly. No kidding, I was welling up myself, my eyes filling with national pride as my heart burst. True, I had consumed three Babychams (in original glass) which I had been saving for occasions such as this, but the emotions were bona fide. Yes, they were.
I do, however, have a couple of reservations. Of course I do: It’s what I get paid for. The first being that Boris Becker on commentary. We forgave him back in the day for being the kind of boy you would have enjoyed bullying at school if you enjoyed bullying boys at school because he was quite good at hitting the balls. However, if it were me talking about other boys hitting the balls out of the school environment and actually on live television at one of the most prestigious sporting events of the year, I may well have avoided the Arnie impersonations. Just a thought, Boris. When you are catching your breath following those mesmerising dropshots conjured up from nowhere at championship point, the last thing you need is the aural equivalent of HASTA LA VISTA BABY coming atcha through surround-sound speakers or YOU SON OF A BITCH at each contested line call. Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer my reportage marinaded in barley water. As I say, just a thought.
Secondly, and possibly more disturbingly, I need to express some concern here as to the mental health of my brother. I had been made aware that he was holding a Wimbledon Retro party at the Idle Hour on Sunday which involved dressing up, boozing and unremitting carousal. No change there then. I almost consigned this to the dustbin of history until I discovered that he compered this apparently splendid evening DRESSED AS VENUS WILLIAMS. Not Andy Williams, which I would have considered the more appropriate approach despite Andy’s continued failure to dent the world of tennis. Not Andy, not Robbie, not Tennessee (although this I would have paid good money to see) and not RM. No, my brother, my own flesh and blood, in his infinite wisdom decided to host his big event attempting to mimic a strapping Amazonian American lady who could eat him whole before a game and has probably never heard of the Black and White Minstrel Show. What could possibly go wrong? Astonishingly nothing did, and the pub did record business for a Wimbledon final. We’ve come a long way, baby.
That’s it. You’ve had your pound of flesh, now move on please: Nothing more to read here…