Tag Archives: Tennis

Team Single

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If there was a more pathetic site this weekend than the 5 inches of rain falling all over England during this Greatest of all Great British Summers, then it must have been the sight of the Australian Cricket Team’s bowling attack, one-by-one limping off the field having strained themselves while being on the wrong end of a stuffing by the English. One of the more poignant moments was watching one of them – Wayne Shane I think he was called – hobbling off towards the pavilion while 11 pissed young men in the crowd, who’d decided to come dressed as a flock of sheep, serenaded him with (to the tune of Knees Up Mother Brown) “You’re Not Very Good, You’re Not Very Good”. They were ably conducted by a bloke dressed as Bo Peep. Don Bradman must be twitching in his box. The Australian Cricket Team has come a long way since the days of Warne, McGrath and the Waugh brothers. A long way in a downwards direction.

Actually, that’s rubbish. Forget you ever read that because I’ve made a few glaring errors (even more than usual). This is how that should have read.

If there was a more pathetic site this weekend than the 5 inches of rain falling all over England during this Greatest of all Great British Summers, then it must have been the sight of the Team Australia bowling attack, one-by-one limping off the field having strained themselves while being on the wrong end of a stuffing by Team England. One of the more poignant moments was watching one of them – Wayne Shane I think he was called – hobbling off towards the pavilion while 11 pissed young men in the crowd, who’d decided to come dressed as a flock of sheep, serenaded him with (to the tune of Knees Up Mother Brown) “You’re Not Very Good, You’re Not Very Good”. They were ably conducted by a bloke dressed as Bo Peep. Don Bradman must be twitching in his box. Cricket Australia has come a long way since the days of Warne, McGrath and the Waugh brothers. A long way in a downwards direction.

I suppose, as usual, it’s only me that gets infuriated by this modern trend of naming organisations in such a way. Cricket Australia, Team GB, Team Sky (that’s a bunch of cyclists, by the way, not pilots), the list is endless. Now I can’t be exactly sure where and how this all started, but you can bet the favourite of your testicles that it originated over the other side of the pond. Who can ever forget the wonderful Corinthian ethos and warmth of the “dream team” of Team USA – that bunch of multi-millionaire professional basketball players who represented Team Coca-Cola (the new name for all USA – not just sports clubs, the whole country) at the Barcelona/McDonald Olympics in 1992. Do you get the feeling that there are PR/Ad men dotted throughout the kingdom who, upon seeing the success of Team USA, have convinced every sporting body that if they change the name of their club from “West Bromley Bowls, Croquet and Social Club” to Team Penge, that not only will they save on ink on headed paper, but that greatness on and off the field of play is but a flick of the wrist away ?

The fact that there was any cricket played at all up there at Chester-le-Street, Durham ( or Emirates Durham International Cricket Ground as it’s now called. Full of Emirs, Durham is, you know) is some sort of miracle brought about by a combination of an act of God and the Durham ground staff (Team Lawnmower). Over at TV Salford (the BBC to you and me), they were constantly showing pictures of the deluge ruining sporting events throughout the UK. The F1 at Silverstone looks like the first to be held underwater since the ill-advised Atlantis Grand Prix of 1911, (where Team Venice were the only ones to finish). Even my Cricket side’s (Team Philosan) tour to Royal Leamington Spa had to be cancelled altogether. Thankfully there’s a roof over centre court at Wimbledon, so Jock McSour and the Williams Brothers (Team Grim) can play their games of wiff waff, or whatever they do, tomorrow.

The weather hasn’t affected me as I turned my ankle over whilst on one of my enforced marches last week, reducing me to invalidity today. The Doc’s plan to shed some weight from me has come at a high price. I’m laid up in the couch with a throbbing achilles tendon, having re-employed my walking stick (which Team NHS gave me last year) for those vital regular journeys upstairs.
July 15th sees the first anniversary of me falling over in the kitchen while my head exploded and, frankly, recovery continues to by slow and intermittent. I’ve been referred to another in a long line of specialists up at Health Kent since a lot of numbness in my face and dizzy spells have returned. Cider does help but I can’t get it on prescription.

My bald shins (it’s an old man thing) and feet have become bloated and covered in what looks like a million blood-spots. From a distance it looks like I have a sun tan on my lower regions only. Up close, they remind me of my nan’s shins (I looked at them a lot.) The Doc told me he thought it might be a reaction to warfarin. I asked for a second opinion, so he told me I was ugly as well.

So I wait for the next in a series of docs appointment. Shuffling around, to-and-from trap one, watching the rain outside and sad Australian cricketers. As I struggle to climb the stairs, Incumbent Dartford breaks into a verse of “You’re Not Very Good”. And, to be honest, this time I can’t argue with her.

Hold The Front Page

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Apparently we’re no good at tennis. In other news: Pilate washes hands, Bealing likes a beer.

Haven’t we always been crap at this game (since the days of long trousers, anyway)? Did anyone expect a Brit, apart from the miserable Jock (tautology), to do well at Wimbledon? There’s 15 year old Flora Robson, (sounds a bit of a Jock to me too) who Fleet Street have piled the usual pressure onto. Keep em peeled for that young girl’s head to pop off in the near future. Now that she’s fallen at the first, we’re left with young Andrew. The press seems to have him nailed on to win it, as is their wont, but that’s where our national charge on the Championship ends. As far as I can remember we’ve never had a mass of over-talented types in any one given year. Murray’s on his own, as was Tim before him. I suppose the Lloyd brothers offered a two-pronged attack—though they weren’t exactly world-beaters. Were Virginia Wade and Sue Barker contemporaries? I can’t remember, or indeed be arsed to remember. I can’t think about Virginia without that horrible image of Betty Stove honing into view, like Clare Balding’s big ugly sister.

Mottram

There was, of course, the great Buster Mottram, the darling of the National Front, who was only slightly less good at tennis than he was at being a politician. I mean who gets thrown out of UKIP for being too right wing? Not only did Mottram have no supporting Brits to play Davies Cup with (Mark Cox was about 78 and was still ranked higher than Buster) but he had no Mottramania to egg him on during matched on Centre Court. If it was Henman Hill and Murray Mound, I suppose he could have had Buster’s Bunker.

I suppose wherever he is today, Mottram will be content with the fact that his beloved BNP have done well in the recent elections. Though even they seem to be in trouble again. My teeth nearly flew out yesterday when i read that the Equality and Human Rights Commission have demanded the Nick Griffin’s mob drop their colour bar. I was shocked to read that the BNP has a “whites-only” membership policy. Really??? You’ll be telling me next that the Klan doesn’t allow in Pakistanis. What a complete waste of time that is. Is there really anyone in the UK from the ethnic communities who has been turned away from joining the BNP? If there is they should be taken around the back and flogged for a crime to their race. Don’t sue the BNP— ban them, beat them up, then lock them up. It’s not democratic, I know, but who gives a monkeys about democracy when it comes to that lot?

Here’s what you’re dealing with: In response to a question on whether a black Welshman would be allowed to join the BNP Griffin told Channel 4, “There is no such thing as a black Welshman – you can have a black Briton but you cannot have a black Welshman…Our party acts for the indigenous people of these islands. We will act for others but they are not allowed into the party.”
Well that’s ok then. I’m all for keeping the Welsh out of Britain (I’m collecting old bricks to rebuild Offa’s Dyke) , but there’s more than a whiff of Bavaria about this bastard. And anyway, what would Colin Charvis, let alone Shirley Bassey have to say about it?
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I don’t know if Arthur Ashe ever played Mottram, but one would like to think that Arthur would have stopped meditating, jump the net and thrash old Buster within an inch of his life with one of those lovely old wooden racquets. “Oooh I say” Dan Maskell would have said. “That’s a peach of an attack”

So I’ll leave you to settle down and watch the Scotchman fly the flag in his lone assault on the title. That flag would be the Union Flag. Which belongs to us (even the Jocks and the Welsh). Not to the Nazis.
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