Is it me, or is there something a little distasteful about Wimbledon these days?
Pock pock, pock pock - pock bloody pock.
It's not just the repetitive nature of the modern game, but something institutionally priggish we'd be better off burying at the bottom of a stonking great hole in the middle of Centre Court.
From the alpaca sweater and sunglasses carefully perched in the hair.
From servile ball boys and ball girls not quite old enough to feel demeaned. I mean why can't the players pick up their own balls? Why can't they even pick up their own sodding towels?
From obsequious interviews of today's forgettable stars just a millisecond faster and a millimeter more accurate than their nearest rivals.
From strawberries and unctuous cream and the faux tradition with its steely commercial core.
To the dashing of silly expectations as yet another Brit bites the dust.
Pock pock.
2 comments:
I lost track of all this decades ago. Nowadays it all seems a bit weird, like most of international sport.
Demetrius - I've largely lost track too. Sometimes I think it's a pity because I played myself and enjoyed it. Not that I was any good!
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