Ok, first of all how many of you read this post because the title has balls in it? C'mon now don't be shy...
Anyway as one sporting event draws to a close another starts and it's SW19 time again, or Wimbledon for the geographically backward (hint, it's in London). With 'Tiger' Tim (seriously? have you ever seen a sheepish Tiger that was resigned to defeat?) now eating the Strawberries paid for by the Beeb the remaining British hope is Andy Murray (who is Scottish the other fifty weeks of the year)
Now, Murray is a guy with more of a toughness about him than 'ol Timmy, but for Our Front Room it's hard to really warm to the lad. It's not personal, just purely an arbitrary vague dislike, as such Nadal (he of the differing bicep size - look, really, one arm is thicker than other) such be cheered on, generally because he looks like a skateboarder who ended up playing tennis by accident when someone told it was an extreme sport because the balls would explode if they bounced twice on your side.
But at the end of the day the main drawn of the tennis is the soothing rhythm of the ping-pong of the ball and that strange mind set that still tells you if you're watching the tennis you've managed to con the teacher into not trying to teach you anything for the afternoon.
1 comment:
The last point, very true (although in my case it's more the fact that I'd managed to convince myself I didn't need to do any more revision and so could lounge around and achieve ridiculous highs of elation and lows of despair for people I will never meet).
Sadly this is my last week at my current job and I'm going to Glastonbury over the weekend (well, not really sadly, but you know what I mean), so I'm pretty much missing the first week of Wimbledon; I'll hopefully catch some late round battles though, and watch some doubles action once the early round singles have been overcome...
Post a Comment