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Having watched Rafael Nadal from up close, I now think he can go all the way. He certainly has the right temperament for it. He fights for every point, never gives up, no matter how far away he is from a ball, and plays extremely ugly but winning tennis. Federer has to be the favourite, but Nadal is a certain future winner. And if Wimbledon or the BBC grows the grass some more, and deadens the balls further, they might as well hand him the trophy and not go through the charade of actually playing. I had a large bet that Agassi would never threaten the Spaniard, and for once I was proved right. The only way to beat him is by rushing the net on his backhand, but, as there are no net-rushers on the tour, Nadal is the man of the present and the future until another robot comes along.
And speaking of robots, my only hate at present is Maria Sharapova. This humourless, pumpkin-faced Russian grunts so loudly she would have been banned chez Madame Claude for waking up the neighbours. But Sharapova grunts for a purpose. To put off her opponents. Were I the tsar of tennis I would ban it immediately, just as I would force Nadal not to stall between points in order to unnerve the man across the net. I would also ban towelling-off after every point, receiving three balls, inspecting them, then throwing one back, and all the other little quirks tennis players copy from each other and do as if they were programmed by a computer named Stall. (I would also give the Helen of Troy trophy every year to that charming and Botticelli-faced Severine Brémond; what grace, what sex appeal, what suffering on my part.)
And speaking of prizes, that other great looker, Wayne Rooney, is a natural for the Gazza trophy. He looked like a crazy man, hysterically running up and down the pitch, sometimes with a purpose, others not, so it was only a matter of time before he did a Gazza and got thrown out. Hasn’t anyone thought of showing this moron films of Eusebio, Pele, Beckenbauer, Haller, Puskas (same build as the moron), Bobby Charlton (same build as the idiot), Platini — non-swearing, balletic ambassadors of the so-called beautiful game? The greats move with grace, make it look effortless; Rooney makes it look like mud-wrestling.
The World Cup is a natural because it appeals to men’s nationalism. Yes, nationalism. Not patriotism. It is the common man’s two-finger response to Brussels and the hideous kleptocrats who run our lives. I wanted Germany to win, and I was extremely happy that the four semi-finalists were all from Europe. Screw Africa and screw America. And screw Asia. This is our game, and it is only right we are the ones left in the tournament. And bravo Portugal, a tiny country which fought so gallantly to keep her empire in Angola, Mozambique and the Cape Verde islands, and which beat England fair and square with a little help from the moron.
I’m off to Rome for my son’s wedding, on which I will be reporting next week.
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