"Might I have punnet of strawberries old boy, what-what?". Yes, this is how the posh folk talk at ThatWimbledon. The All England Lawn Tennis Championships each year are one of the last bastions of the British Empire. While we no longer control Wooga Wooga land and exit in the quarter-finals of every World Cup (like Aerial Tellydone told you) you can rely that Wimbledon remains a tennis tournament like no other. With its archaic traditions and strict dress code it retains a sense of history and timelessness that the American players can’t get enough of as they come to annihilate our boys at the net.
"While we no longer control Wooga Wooga land you can rely that Wimbledon remains a tennis tournament like no other."
In a reversal of the World Cup Budweiser adverts it’s a question of: you do the tournament, we’ll do the tennis. Although this year, no Americans made it past the 4th round in either men’s or women’s tennis. Pah!
"Murray spent his childhood dodging bullets from spree killing paedophiles so he may have a psychological edge having faced death so early on."
Andy Murray is the current British tennis sensation. There’s an episode of Blackadder where Blackadder’s insane Scottish cousin MacAdder comes to town. Also played by Rowan Atkinson, he is an exact replica of Blackadder, only Scottish. That’s pretty much what Andy Murray is – a Scottish clone of Tim Henman. Murray spent his childhood dodging bullets from spree killing paedophiles so he may have a psychological edge having faced death so early on. Mind you, I never saw any of those women who survived a tumble with Rose West in the Olympics so this could be balls.
Just like Henman, Murray plays like a world-beater one day and a wife-beater the next. True to his role, he blew away third seed Andy Roddick in the third round only to capitulate in straight sets to sixteenth seed Marcos Baghdatis in the fourth. This unfortunate set of events was compounded by the fact that nobody watched his fine victory, the country being glued as it was to the World Cup quarter-final where cheating, violent, testicle-stamping thugs England were rightly dismissed by the brave warriors of Portugal.
"Nobody watched his fine victory, the country being glued as it was to the World Cup quarter-final where cheating, violent, testicle-stamping thugs England were rightly dismissed by the brave warriors of Portugal."
At this rate, Murray will be lucky to achieve Henman’s achievement of securing sponsorship by Persil which involves him appearing in adverts walking down the street in his tennis gear because no fucker recognises him otherwise.
"McEnroe is forthright, witty and willing to engage in detailed analysis without ever patronising or short changing the viewer."
It’s heartening that John McEnroe is still mooching around. One of the best summarisers in any sport, McEnroe is forthright, witty and willing to engage in detailed analysis without ever patronising or short changing the viewer. Whenever there’s some ‘splaining to be done John is your man. He retains a huge infectious enthusiasm for the game despite it being significantly less technicolour than when he was playing.
When colossi like McEnroe and Becker passed the torch on to dreary mummy’s boys Sampras and Federer the tennis gods themselves did weep. While technically flawless, they played with a soulless precision and politeness that you more readily associate with music producers. When McEnroe was involved in a game it felt like the trials of Hercules. With Sampras it feels like you’re watching Jean-Michel Jarre noodling away on his synthesiser. You can admire the technique but you’d rather be watching the EastEnders omnibus. As explained previously, sport is theatre not physiology.
"Say what you like about Kournikova looking like Boris Yeltsin but it’s hard to conceive of circumstances in which you wouldn’t want to fuck the living shit out of her."
But it’s also a beauty contest, let us not forget. Maria Sharapova is the gorgeous Russian Floridian heart-throb of the women’s circuit. The leggy six footer is different from Anna Kournikova in that she can actually play tennis and is actually quite plain (no, she is. Take your eyes off her legs for a moment and look at the face. The face, I say). Say what you like about Kournikova looking like Boris Yeltsin but it’s hard to conceive of circumstances in which you wouldn’t want to fuck the living shit out of her. Not so with Sharapova, the sex symbol for plain Janes.
Innocently perving over tennis girls has long been as English as cream tea and sunburnt builders. Whether the iron grip of the old school has been broken forever by the base lining glamour pusses has yet to be seen.
The best thing about it: McEnroe – peerless as player or pundit
The worst thing about it: Mixed doubles – like anyone gives a fuck
Wimbledon coverage review | Oh I say
Table of Contents
Wimbledon coverage
BBC
"Might I have punnet of strawberries old boy, what-what?". Yes, this is how the posh folk talk at That Wimbledon. The All England Lawn Tennis Championships each year are one of the last bastions of the British Empire. While we no longer control Wooga Wooga land and exit in the quarter-finals of every World Cup (like Aerial Telly done told you) you can rely that Wimbledon remains a tennis tournament like no other. With its archaic traditions and strict dress code it retains a sense of history and timelessness that the American players can’t get enough of as they come to annihilate our boys at the net.
In a reversal of the World Cup Budweiser adverts it’s a question of: you do the tournament, we’ll do the tennis. Although this year, no Americans made it past the 4th round in either men’s or women’s tennis. Pah!
Andy Murray is the current British tennis sensation. There’s an episode of Blackadder where Blackadder’s insane Scottish cousin MacAdder comes to town. Also played by Rowan Atkinson, he is an exact replica of Blackadder, only Scottish. That’s pretty much what Andy Murray is – a Scottish clone of Tim Henman. Murray spent his childhood dodging bullets from spree killing paedophiles so he may have a psychological edge having faced death so early on. Mind you, I never saw any of those women who survived a tumble with Rose West in the Olympics so this could be balls.
Just like Henman, Murray plays like a world-beater one day and a wife-beater the next. True to his role, he blew away third seed Andy Roddick in the third round only to capitulate in straight sets to sixteenth seed Marcos Baghdatis in the fourth. This unfortunate set of events was compounded by the fact that nobody watched his fine victory, the country being glued as it was to the World Cup quarter-final where cheating, violent, testicle-stamping thugs England were rightly dismissed by the brave warriors of Portugal.
At this rate, Murray will be lucky to achieve Henman’s achievement of securing sponsorship by Persil which involves him appearing in adverts walking down the street in his tennis gear because no fucker recognises him otherwise.
It’s heartening that John McEnroe is still mooching around. One of the best summarisers in any sport, McEnroe is forthright, witty and willing to engage in detailed analysis without ever patronising or short changing the viewer. Whenever there’s some ‘splaining to be done John is your man. He retains a huge infectious enthusiasm for the game despite it being significantly less technicolour than when he was playing.
When colossi like McEnroe and Becker passed the torch on to dreary mummy’s boys Sampras and Federer the tennis gods themselves did weep. While technically flawless, they played with a soulless precision and politeness that you more readily associate with music producers. When McEnroe was involved in a game it felt like the trials of Hercules. With Sampras it feels like you’re watching Jean-Michel Jarre noodling away on his synthesiser. You can admire the technique but you’d rather be watching the EastEnders omnibus. As explained previously, sport is theatre not physiology.
But it’s also a beauty contest, let us not forget. Maria Sharapova is the gorgeous Russian Floridian heart-throb of the women’s circuit. The leggy six footer is different from Anna Kournikova in that she can actually play tennis and is actually quite plain (no, she is. Take your eyes off her legs for a moment and look at the face. The face, I say). Say what you like about Kournikova looking like Boris Yeltsin but it’s hard to conceive of circumstances in which you wouldn’t want to fuck the living shit out of her. Not so with Sharapova, the sex symbol for plain Janes.
Innocently perving over tennis girls has long been as English as cream tea and sunburnt builders. Whether the iron grip of the old school has been broken forever by the base lining glamour pusses has yet to be seen.
The best thing about it: McEnroe – peerless as player or pundit
The worst thing about it: Mixed doubles – like anyone gives a fuck
The verdict on Wimbledon coverage: Oh I say!
Marks out of 10: 7
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