For most of the year people pay as much attention to tennis as they do to a tramp on the street, but for 2 weeks in June all of a sudden everyone becomes John McEnroe and a national fixation takes place.
Never before have the middle classes been so liberated. No more do they have to hide behind their Laura Ashley curtains sipping Pinot Grigo apologetically. Instead they march together. Middle England is energised & celebrated, basking in a magnificent glow of linen for two glorious weeks in June.
The Wimbledon tennis championships is a classic event on the British sporting calendar and here is my guide to it;
History
It's important to know your history. Britain is full of it, which is why the Americans are so obsessed with old fashioned British traditions such as Wimbledon. It all started as The All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club as a private club founded in 1868. Its first ground was off Worple Road, Wimbledon.
In 1876, lawn tennis, a game devised by Major Walter Clopton Wingfield a year or so earlier and originally called 'Sphairistike' was added to the activities of the club. In spring 1877, the club was renamed 'The All England Croquet and Lawn Tennis Club' and signalled its change of name by instituting the first Lawn Tennis Championship. The inaugural 1877 Wimbledon Championship opened on 9 July 1877.
The lawns at the ground were arranged so that the principal court was in the middle with the others arranged around it, hence the title 'Centre Court'. The name was retained when the Club moved in 1922 to the present site in Church Road.
Of course if you're a true part time staunch Wimbledon tennis fan you won't give a shit about this and will view the TV images of the tournament, marvel at the immaculate grounds and think it's a fair representation of the UK. If the cameras panned less than a mile to the original site on Worple Road they will see a Costcutter & Lidel supermarket where you are more likely to see a drop out than drop shot. This is more of a fair reflection of the UK now. You wouldn't see Major Wingfield shopping here. More likely the deli in Wimbledon Village for a Rocket and Parmesan Foccacia.
Still at least they changed the name to tennis. Can't imagine 'anyone for Sphairistrike' taking off. Sounds more like a Bondage game.
The local Area
The grounds are set in the ultra posh Church Road, wedged in between multi million pound houses owned by knob head city types, a golf club & the apex of middle class hell, Wimbledon Village. Here you aren't allowed to walk around unless you are wearing loafers and a jumper draped over your shoulders or wearing large sunglasses. Not many mobility scooters here.
The tournament inducts two weeks of ultra insanity in surrounding areas. The shit hole suburb known as Southfields (nearest tube stop) is renamed Southfields village for two weeks. Wimbledon Village is the real deal. Arrogantly middle class all year round. Southfields is all fur coat and no knickers for the two weeks. It's the Jordan to Posh. It tries hard with a couple of pop up wine merchants & tennis shops but ultimately you can't polish a turd and a dirty big Wetherspoons takes pride of place. Still at least they offer Gourmet dining to the crowds who pass through;
Other highlights include multi millionaires hiring out their driveways to dodgy merchandise and refreshment stands, earning a quick buck through car parking or renting out their house for £10k a week and buggering off to their country farm for 2 weeks. Not that I'm envious of course.
The local business community cashes in by raising their prices accordingly and treating visitors with as much disdain as possible. Residents get wise to this and tend to only venture out after midnight to avoid the sea of visors and bum-bags wandering around aimlessly.
For true Tennis celebrity spotting, head into one of the Village's restaurants and you will spot several out of shape former players holding court (centre or number 1) and making numerous trips to the loo to feed their new found post playing days Cocaine addiction.
Of course if you want to spot a former British player, head to Southfields where you can find them sprawled outside Wetherpoons munching on a kebab from the Burger van. All things are relative.
Crowd
The mainstay of the championships. A cross section of the weirdest folk in the UK. Some queue up for days. Camping out throughout the winter for a chance to get in. These people can be found at Cliff Richard concerts and Wimbledon. Genuinely scary individuals.
My Mother used to take me when I was a kid. It was an adventure and fun to queue up for hours just to get a chance to stand on centre court and get a sniff of a chance to see up Steffi Graff's skirt. Of course I never told her why I was so keen to go every year but it brings back fond memories all the same.
Queuing is effectively what the British do best. The British are world class at it and Wimbledon is the highlight of the queuer's year. They don't actually care about the tennis. It's all about the queue. The camaraderie. The freezing cold. The pride in getting there before anyone else. The packed lunch and scotch eggs. It's all about the queue and Wimbledon has embraced this. Even distributing queue tickets, before you get your Ground pass tickets. This is the holy grail for the Great British Queuer. Gold dust.
An original queuing queue before you get into the main queue to queue for show courts or even then to queue for food, toilets and outside courts. You even have to queue for the exit, then for a taxi or the tube. It's the premier Queuing event of the year and attracts all sorts. Of course the worst part of the experience for the true British queuer is when they actually get in to the tennis. Then they have reached the end of their fun and immediately go home. For they have reached.........
The crowd are mostly an odd mixture. Loud tourists in a wonderful selection of visors and lightweight jackets. Middle Englanders revelling in their Mecca of blandness. Genuine tennis fans (there's about 6 of those), corporates just there for the jolly with their tags hanging from their lapels like a badge of 'I'm better than you' honour and Members of the club sniffily looking down on the 'peasants' in the cheap seats. It's a strange mix.
Of course the true fans never get a sniff of the show courts and all head for the hill. This is effectively a garden party and picnic spot except your not allowed to take your own picnic. Therefore your picnic is effectively a Hot dog from the catering stalls for £7 a pop and a Pimms for £8. This of course is washed down with the Wimbledon institution of Strawberries & Cream, well 5 Strawberries and a dollop of cream for £5. Nice one Wimbledon. Punters nosh 28,000 kilos of these little puppies during the fortnight, usually because there's sod all else you can afford. Enjoy!
Players
Just like any other sport these days all the players are as dull as fuck. You maybe able to recognise a handful of them. Andy Murray, Rafael Nadal, Roger Federer, The Williams Sisters and the latest fit Russian off the production line. Sharapova anyone? After those your struggling aren't you? Come on be honest you have no idea.
In the old days you could real off a list of players who were characters and identified with. Connors was angry, McEnroe a head case, Borg ice cool, Becker electric, Lendil mechanical, Graff fit as fuck and Navaratolova downright scary. Point is you knew who they were. Plus of course they were actually cool. I mean Borg was the don. His hair, his fashion. Any man that can make Fila cool is the best;
Now most of the players have unpronounceable names from Eastern Europe and scary overbearing fathers hell bent on pushing their kid to a cash cow limit. Add to the fact most women in the female game shriek louder than an ego maniac's orgy and the tennis is as bland as Emmerdale and you have a product that is less interesting than before.
In this year's tournament the players even complained about getting injured on grass. How wet.
The only injury you can sustain on grass is a rock burn from a spliff or apathy. They were shrieking like an orgy with loudspeakers. Back in the day players wore shorts tighter than hot pants that cut off the circulation to their nads. You didn't hear them moaning then did you. Just high pitch Bee Gee squeaking.
Man up modern players. Including you girls.
Style of Play
Since serve and volley went out of the game and the grass courts slowed down it hasn't been the same. I remember watching on TV as a kid, the courts were brown and bare through over use, especially down the middle. Looking balder than an Brazillian with a Vijazzle
Every man's game was a rally of 4 shots. Serve, return, volley, point over. Simple. Now you have to watch for 48 mins to see an endless base line rally. The only base line that should be played is at a Ragga jungle club. Get to the net boys!
Serve and Volley was a sign of masculinity. A real cock wrestle. Even for the girls. Who could get to the net and dominate. It was great. Now the men sit at the back of the court like the girls and endlessly rally away waiting for a mistake. It's duller than watching Loose Women. Still at least those girls have got bigger balls than most of the men's game now. Serve and Volley where for art thou now.
Centre Court
No game would be complete without a few half arsed high pitch shrieks of 'Go on Andy'. Such is the humour factor, 'Go on Tim' still gets laughs. That's about as funny as Joe Pasquale and they always sound like him too.
The camera will always zoom in on the player's team in the crowd. Particularly if they have a well fit partner. They will also focus on a celebrity in the Royal Box. Pippa Middleton scores big points but as long as it's not Cliff Richard we're alright. Especially if he starts singing.
The Media
The media will comment on how shit British tennis is after most of the players get knocked out on day 1.(Stereo type 1) Then it will place massive pressure on Andy Murray or anyone else that makes it to 'the second week' (Stereo Type 2) Finally they will endlessly mention 'the last time a British player won Wimbledon, (Fred Perry, 1936) - (stereo type number 3) the closer Murray gets to the final.
It will also publish photographs of the glamorous pretty players and objectify them commenting more on their beauty than game (stereo type number 4) and finally comment unfavourably on any players that are carrying a bit of weight (stereo type number 5) - though to be fair if you are a professional athlete and lardy you deserve a bit of stick.
TV will of course pray for a teatime Murray 5-setter for viewing figures and become bombarded with complaints from saddos for cancelling 'The One Show' to 'stay with the tennis'. This is a ghood thing though as it spares us from Chris Evans.
Phrases such as 'cut the atmosphere with a knife', 'nerve racking' and 'unbearable tension' will be rolled out and finally when Murray wins they will stick a knob head journalist in front of him (Gary Richardson) to ask the most inane questions you can think of - 'How are your eyes Andy'. Twat.
TV will employ a raft of former players, all winners who look tired and hung over, especially Boris Becker who looks like he's spent the two weeks recreating the famous Ollie Reed Wimbledon Pub Crawl. They will drone on for ages about the technical aspects of a game most of the viewers don't understand anyway. Pointless (very much like the British number 6 seed)
They will of course employ Brits as well who have never won anything to criticise current players. A case of the blind leading the blind.
Overall the wall to wall coverage will cease on finals day and then everyone can forget all about tennis for another 12 months. Sue Barker can go back to her cryogenic chamber and start having her make up blow torched on for 2014 & Boris can go back to his bed.
The Country's Interest
For 2 weeks people become Tennis experts. Berating Murray for his lack of cross court top spin, when the only top spin they have ever employed is telling their missus they'll be home at 11.
People talk about it like they've been into it for ages when really they think a '5 set thriller' is a DVD Box Set of CSI.
For two weeks it's on TV, in the press and everywhere. It is a back drop to June and it wouldn't be the same without it. After 2 weeks we all go back to normal and Tennis becomes as relevant as Nick Clegg.
That's why we love Wimbledon so much. It does set the tone for Summer. Late daylight evenings. Matches going on into the night. Hype and excitement at the prospect of a British winner. The hope and expectation for a game you rarely give a toss about.
It's a throwback to a bygone era. An era of elitism and privilege which has very little meaning to modern Britain but is still peddled around the world as 'quintensentially British'. So British that Ralph Lauren, Rolex and Verve Cliquey pay millions of pounds to be part of it.
Yes it's commercial. Yes it's middle class. Yes it's irrelevant but it is the most prestigious and famous Tennis tournament in the world and it's right on my doorstep. I love it and summer wouldn't be the same without it.
Anyway I must go. That burger van is packing up in my driveway, I've got to go and collect my £400 a day I'm extorting from him and let the people I've let park outside my gaff for £100 out. I hate commercialism of this tournament it goes against all my morals and principals. Having said that, the queue goes straight past my house too so I'll clean up on Umbrellas tomorrow when it rains.
I'll leave this blog with the face of Wimbledon. he pretty much captures everything I love and hate about the tournament. Enjoy the rest of it and lets hope Murray manages to win. He's a Trojan, dedicated, professional, skillful and old school. I admire him and he's a proper good role model.Let's hope he wins and roll on 2014 readers. I can hardly wait.
The Nick Evans
xx
No comments:
Post a Comment