Murray Mole Hill - Spear's Magazine

Murray Mole Hill

At Wimbledon it was more about just saying you had been to Wimbledon, even on the ex-Tiny Tim Hill.

Murray-mania is in full flow and boy am I really bored with it already. I took my Angel Wife for her Birthday to our yearly Wimbledon visit this week and it was all over the place. Quasi-religious at this point and I will probably be burned at the stake for my heretic views.

I never really had a view on the subject and had taken at best a passing interest in the current tennis era, the only exception being for the mastery, elegance and class of a Mr Federer and its recent juxtaposition to the raw power of a Mr Nadal.

For the rest, I switched off after McEnroe, Borg, Connors, Vilas, Gerulaitis and even Lendl days. As with so many other sports, the marketing men took over, IMG et al, and have turned human drama into robot world.

I was kindly invited to watch the final at Queens that featured a Mr Murray. Let me firstly say how much more I enjoyed Queens than I did Wimbledon this year. It just feels so much more relaxed and ‘real’.

No blunt commercialism there, even though there was a new conspicuously blue sponsor. No big sways of empty seats strewn with either loud American corporate types who think they are at Flushing Meadows where talking loudly on your Crackberry during a game is the norm or others for whom the tennis is ancillary to doing business.

I felt there were real fans there. At Wimbledon it was more about just saying you had been to Wimbledon, even on the ex-Tiny Tim Hill. I would like to suggest it may now be known as Murray Mole Hill now. Big deal about not much.

Anyway, it was a pretty good match against Blake, no more no less. But Murray never smiled, joked, laughed, never anything basically. And he was the first Brit to win for donkey’s years! But he is Scottish which really makes me wonder about the British adulation.

He speaks like one which means most of you Brits can’t understand him; he no more feels British than the English feel Welsh; he hates you lot which is why he never smiles; he wants to make or take as much money out of you as he can, just like RBS and Gordon Brown; and he loves to pretend he doesn’t care for the adulation, fame and glory you are giving him, although he secretly revels in it.

All in all, just like the rest of Scotland, why don’t you tell him and them to get lost? Give them their independence they so yearn for, let them deal with their own economic woes and bail out their own banks, make their own laws and head straight back to economic and social dark ages, independently.

They can even have their own Highlandon tennis championship nobody will play in or watch, just like their football league. And Murray can be the first Scottish and World Number 1.

And you English can start to concentrate on investing capital in trying to promote your own home-grown sports talent, rather than meekly adopt anyone with vague and tenuous connection to England, a la Rusedski and Murray, in the vain hope you may finally find a winner at any cost, rather than the eternal gallant losers your recent sporting history is strewn with.



 

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