I’m afraid that Pug’s Club ‘Turd of the Year’ award went unanimously to the ghastly Andy Murray, he of the centre court primal screams and primate fist pumping. Perhaps his mother, who looks straight out of central casting of a Hollywood stage mum, and then some, should file his teeth down a bit and make him look less like Dracula. Better yet, he should be forced to watch Federer in action and learn a thing or two about behaviour on court (100 hours of videos, and then 100 more). I know the hucksters who now run sport require announcers to be cheerleaders, but praising someone for acting like a bloodthirsty mullah extorting the faithful to kill infidels — and on Wimbledon’s centre court to boot — is simply pathetic. Dear old Dan Maskell, where are you now that we really need you? (My word, this is intolerable.)
Sport can at times resemble poetry. The infallible test of genuine poetry is that it forces us to recall emotions we ourselves have had. Sport evokes similar feelings. The split-second state of grace which brought victory long ago, as faint a memory as the scent of a girl long forgotten. And, of course, victory is more often than not followed by a low, a gentle melancholy, not that today’s professionals — in the extremely unlikely event that any of them would ever read this — would know what I’m talking about. That’s why I was happy to see Nadal and Federer play and act in the way they did in one of Wimbledon’s greatest finals.
Sport took second place last week, what with some wonderful parties being held, and not a small amount of gambling. Arki Busson’s engagement to the beautiful Uma Thurman made for one great night, and how nice it is to discover a genuine Hollywood star who is the opposite in real life to the roles she plays on screen.