Wimbledon makes me want to do things. Things I would never normally even consider doing. I’m not an angry person – despite society telling me that my orange locks require it of me – yet this tennis tournament incites real rage within me. Society wins. Wimbledon winds me up. My uncharacteristic actions are threefold:
Firstly, I start shouting at Sue Barker. Sue is a woman I admire and respect, not only has she had a stellar career both on court and on camera, she can pull off a sophisticated giggle like no other. But most of the time, when watching Wimbledon and when engrossed in Djokovic’s serving patterns, I really want her to just shut her Pimms hole. She’s always interrupting isn’t she? No, Sue, I don’t want to watch the 657th seed scatter their balls on court 94. Nor do I want to press the red button and watch the elderly triplets match that’s making history. I just want to watch Murray fire a forehand, Heather lose heroically and Nadal yank out his wedgie before every single service game (he really must have ill-fitting underwear). Nadal’s wedgie Sue, is that really too much to ask?
Secondly, I’m inspired to play tennis. I can’t play tennis. I am physically unable to play tennis. Wimbledon, every year, without fail, cruelly reminds me of my own inadequacy at tennis. Be it from watching Sabine or Serena, I catch myself wanting to crack the odd top-spin backhand of my own of an evening. No Sarah, stop, suppress, you can’t even get the ball to land in the court, let alone finish it with finesse. My massive muscles are probably a factor in determining my complete lack of aim. Annoying, isn’t it? When bulging biceps inhibit rather than enhance your sporting progress.
Thirdly and finally, I want to see 2Pac. I’ve thought about it long and hard and I think the illustrious rapper is the only person that could possibly spice up ‘Wimbledon 2Day’ – the terrible spin-off programme that’s attempting and failing to reach Strictly’s ‘It Takes Two’ standards by regressing to the noughties. Wuu2 BBC?! What were you thinking?! Poor Clare Balding really needs saving. I think 2Pac could do just that. Add some much-needed Ghetto Gospel to the grass court. All Eyez On [Him] rather than that miserable on-set audience. Maybe U2 could make an appearance? Boys II Men could even pop in? You must do something BBC, or I’m switching over to 5ive.
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Worthy Farm is wonderful and weird, very weird – good weird though, not bad weird. My first time at Glastonbury Festival last week was one of the most surreal experiences I have ever had, outside of peeling an orange in one go this one time. From queuing in a crush of druggy muddy Florence fans to screaming on top of a stranger’s shoulders; from Kanye dressed as a decorator on the crane (didn’t actually see this in the flesh, he was so dull that we left to go…) to transvestites on trapezes; from boogying at a late-night homosexual disco to loving life with Lionel Richie; from head-butting watermelons to singing Happy Birthday to the Dalai Lama. All this when glittered, wigged and so utterly dirty. Who needs hygiene when you have HIGH SPIRITS. Oh yes, spirits… they helped too.
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Oh Greece. It’s all gone a bit down hill for you since Meryl Streep Mamma Mia’d her way to our hearts in your beloved, economically disastrous country. The Greek people decide tomorrow whether they’re in or out of the Eurozone but either way they need a big-time bailout. A failed economy is no laughing matter: a whopping €360,000,000,000 of unpaid bills has brought medical shortages, impoverishment and misery to millions. And here’s me singing Money, Money, Money like a smug Swede. ABBA, you heartless bastards.
Sarah Gough, Editor
