by As the Wimbledon tennis competition got under way, the nation’s non-tennis fans mourned the fact that this year not even the weather can save us from the endless tedious speculation over whether we might see a British winner.
With centre court having a new multi-million pound retractable roof, there is unlikely to be even the shortest break from incessant discussions of whether Britain’s Big Hope Andy Murray is good enough, or surly enough, to win.
As regular consumers of current affairs prepare for a tennis-based slant on all reporting for the next two weeks, many have harked back to simpler times.
“I hate Cliff Richard as much as the next heterosexual,” said Arsenal season ticket holder, Simon Shepherd.
“But at least it was a break from the mind-numbing monotony of dissecting Tiger Tim’s chances.”
“It’s come to something when I’d rather be exposed to a twenty minute a capella rendition of Living Doll than hear one more fucking opinion about Andy bloody Murray.”
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Murray has recently proved that he can definitely win tournaments on grass, provided neither of the players that are better than him are competing, which has merely amplified the press coverage.
“God help us if he gets to the bloody final,” continued Shepherd.
“The North Koreans could fire a nuclear missile at London the day before, and yet all the newspaper coverage would say is that Murray could definitely have won, if only greater London was anything other than the burning husk of a post-apocalyptic battlefield.”
“And don’t get me started on Henman Hill or Murray Mound.”
“It’s just shame there isn’t a topographical term for a raised area of earth that rhymes with tedious cunt.”
