Tuesday 25 June 2013

Yesterday morning the ‘top blokes’ on XFM were already having a go at Andy Murray for being miserable. Ah yes, the magical spirit of Wimbledon has begun.

What is it about unimaginative presenters of breakfast radio that means that unless someone acts like a hyperactive attention seeker they have to describe them as miserable? Of course Andy Murray IS miserable. But that’s not the point. Oh..it was the point? It was kind of the point. But the point should have been that he doesn’t have to be the life and soul of the party: he has to be good at tennis.

Also, he’s Scottish: it’s not his fault. Dourness is a national trait, nay Scottish heritage. The Krankies aside, I can’t think of an upbeat Scot. To be fair it is hard to tell what they are saying so they might all be saying ridiculously optimistic things we just wouldn’t be able to tell because of the constant gravelly low-pitch growl they all emit before taking heroin. That’s a horrible stereotype to perpetrate and I’d like to the 26% of Scots who aren’t heroin addicts (the homeless drunks).

As boring as accusations of dullness is the debate that he’s British only when he’s winning and Scottish when he loses. He’s nothing when he loses, nothing.

**I did wonder whether there was a joke about 15-0 and fifteen love and that teacher who calped his student. There might not be though**

My favourite point about normal British players is the amazing atmosphere created by them losing-less-badly than people expect. The roars when someone saves a match point is amazing given that all they are really achieving is prolonging the gap between losing and having lost. When I were a lad it was all like this. Jeremy Bates losing and being posh was the British angle.

Then came Tiger Tim – who was good and everyone quickly forgot that he smashed a ball in ballgirl’s face in his first year. He had a lot of pressure on him to win it; people were never satisfied that out of 6 billion people he was (for a time) one of the best 4 or 5 at playing tennis. Then everyone’s favourite Brit was a Canadian with an infeasibly big head. And people probably empathised as much with a Canadian with a smile the size of a double bass as they did Tim, who was – at least – English. Well, the public did, maybe. The people at Wimbledon probably did empathise with Tim still.

But who gives a fuck? Let’s get behind Muzzza The Misery.

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