When was the last time one cried for having to leave London at a weekend for two days on a beautiful sailing boat in the south of France? Actually, last week, when the mother of my children gave me an ultimatum to come down or else. Why, oh why, are women so unreasonable? Just because I was having a grand old time and going to all the parties during the last week of June, I suddenly had to do penance and spend the weekend like some American husband who failed to wash up in the kitchen. Sitting on a boat and dreaming about what I was missing back in the capital made Taki a very dull boy. But truth be told, never had I seen London more pleasant. Beautiful weather, lotsa parties, wonderful tennis and an important football match coming up, and I had to sit on a boat surrounded by horrible vulgarians on the Riviera. I would have been better off going to Belfast on a rainy Sunday evening in November.
But come first thing Monday I was back. In time to see the Greek Cypriot Baghdatis teach a sharp lesson to Andy Murray of ‘anyone but England’ infamy. What amazed me was the Centre Court crowd of elderly ladies and men screeching for the Scotsman. Let’s put it this way. Had Baghdatis said ‘anyone but Greece’ two years ago, when we won the European Cup, he would never have got a Greek to cheer for him ever again. But here we had a full Centre Court urging on Murray as if he were Saint George and the Cypriot a dragon. Mind you, it could have been a joke, and even if it weren’t, Murray is still very young; my only wish is for him not to open his mouth like a hippo every time he hits a winner. He simply looks awful, with those Dracula-like fangs on each side; not that he is a great looker to begin with.
Having watched Rafael Nadal from up close, I now think he can go all the way. He certainly has the right temperament for it. He fights for every point, never gives up, no matter how far away he is from a ball, and plays extremely ugly but winning tennis. Federer has to be the favourite, but Nadal is a certain future winner. And if Wimbledon or the BBC grows the grass some more, and deadens the balls further, they might as well hand him the trophy and not go through the charade of actually playing. I had a large bet that Agassi would never threaten the Spaniard, and for once I was proved right. The only way to beat him is by rushing the net on his backhand, but, as there are no net-rushers on the tour, Nadal is the man of the present and the future until another robot comes along.
And speaking of robots, my only hate at present is Maria Sharapova. This humourless, pumpkin-faced Russian grunts so loudly she would have been banned chez Madame Claude for waking up the neighbours. But Sharapova grunts for a purpose. To put off her opponents. Were I the tsar of tennis I would ban it immediately, just as I would force Nadal not to stall between points in order to unnerve the man across the net. I would also ban towelling-off after every point, receiving three balls, inspecting them, then throwing one back, and all the other little quirks tennis players copy from each other and do as if they were programmed by a computer named Stall. (I would also give the Helen of Troy trophy every year to that charming and Botticelli-faced Severine Brémond; what grace, what sex appeal, what suffering on my part.)
And speaking of prizes, that other great looker, Wayne Rooney, is a natural for the Gazza trophy. He looked like a crazy man, hysterically running up and down the pitch, sometimes with a purpose, others not, so it was only a matter of time before he did a Gazza and got thrown out. Hasn’t anyone thought of showing this moron films of Eusebio, Pele, Beckenbauer, Haller, Puskas (same build as the moron), Bobby Charlton (same build as the idiot), Platini — non-swearing, balletic ambassadors of the so-called beautiful game? The greats move with grace, make it look effortless; Rooney makes it look like mud-wrestling.
The World Cup is a natural because it appeals to men’s nationalism. Yes, nationalism. Not patriotism. It is the common man’s two-finger response to Brussels and the hideous kleptocrats who run our lives. I wanted Germany to win, and I was extremely happy that the four semi-finalists were all from Europe. Screw Africa and screw America. And screw Asia. This is our game, and it is only right we are the ones left in the tournament. And bravo Portugal, a tiny country which fought so gallantly to keep her empire in Angola, Mozambique and the Cape Verde islands, and which beat England fair and square with a little help from the moron.
I’m off to Rome for my son’s wedding, on which I will be reporting next week.
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