Does anyone really care about Tennis?

It is an early Summer's day in South-West London and Elena Baltacha has just won her first round match sparking countless interviews and back page tabloid spreads indicating how 'Our Girl' gone and done well.
Fast forward six months and its Elena Who? Baltacha load of Whose? I'll tell you who and what, Britains best female performer at the Australian Open is what. Making the third round for only the second time in her career, pride of Middlesex (place of residence), Scotland (place she first represented for UK) and er the Ukraine (Elena is of Kiev parentage!) is what.
Elena is currently enjoying her highest ever world ranking of 83, has almost reached half a million dollars in prize money and is more than twice as successful as any other current female tennis player in Britain. It's not groundbreaking stuff when compared to a Williams sister or any countless Eastern bloke clone but she is the best there is ourt there under the Union Jack. I had to look these facts up, because I don't really care about Tennis. Just like most people. Tennis, to me, is a complete waste of time and I find Wimbledon a pain in the backside. A tournament that involves as much hypocrisy and wasted pomp and ceremony as found on a trans-Atlantic cruise.
So why don't we care? Is it because we like to believe we are a nation of winners? Is it because other sports take up so much time and space that Tennis is on the backburner almost constantly? Do we have enough room for only one Scot? Or is it that we really don't give a Monkey's about the mostle fickle of national institutions?
Tennis, the game we love to think was invented here in lovely England but was really formed by the Egyptians and bastardized from the French to palaces such as Hampton Court with soft balls and sloping roofs (facts researched and not known once again, i'm afraid).
Tennis is the sport noone cares to follow and I know why.
It is because the beacon leading the way is a dour man who has no time for the press or being a happy hero and in doing so has often come across as surly, rude and uninterested. 
It is because the British public have a short attention span and in doing so show more affection for what is truly quintessentiality English - Strawberries, cream and queueing?
Well, yes and yes and yes. Andy Murray, unfortunately, doesn't care too much for the limelight and why should he when he's already earnt enough to retire, even at 23. Won enough to be proud, 14 atp titles to date and been the highest ranked Brit for, well, as long as memory serves.
He is also a proud Scot living in England, playing under the Lawn Tennis association's funded courts and facilites in London, but really doesn't like it and milking it for what it's worth to him, which happens to be millions. Now there's a young man knowing who butters his bread. If only he was born in the home counties, or not.
But that is it, the home counties middle classes have driven this apathy to Tennis more than the other way round or anything else. Or is it the want to be middle class and from the home counties that drives society on its back?
Because we have proof that it is all wrong. Every year we see them, the lowest of the low, camping on an SW18 backstreet overnight in their hundreds, in the most miserable of conditions. Overnight they queue! In pain from boredom but enjoyment from how stiff their upper lip is and then we, the viewer, grimace as prime time drive time tv interviews with the mad folk reveal they are there just to get grubby hands on tickets.
Two Centre court semi-final tickets to a match they have no idea about and no interest in. No knowledge of the records and form of the two players competing. No real credence as to why they are there excpet for the fact they believe they have to be. Now that sounds much more British to me. We should employ these people as negotiators in times of war as they would never give up, never back down. Just coax them with a few pieces of red fruit and a position at the front of the line.
It is likely that the love of being a luvvie overrides all other sentimental emotions when finally inside, chest pigeon puffed out in pride of making it. Anti-rain dance complete. Bank loan confirmed and finally bar hit. Oh, there's tennis?
An afternoon happily spent on what was once Henman Hill having just grabbed an overpriced (plastic) glass of bubbly amongst a scrum of other wanabee it girls and boys. Taken a seat on checked picnic blanket to enjoy scoffing some even more highly inflated non-organic strawberries and cream in a little outfit for 'the fortnight'. Now that is what Wimbledon is really about. Being completely uninterested in the Tennis. Pretending to care but failing to convince.
Oh, and did you know that Murray plays some bloke from Spain in the quarter of finals of some tournament in Australia tomorrow?
Thought not.
By the way. That bloke Federer.
He's Swiss.

A diamond with a flaw is worth more than a pebble with imperfections

The one they call the Hitman is getting back into the ring for one last hurrah, to massage his ego, to finish on a high or simply because he's completely bonkers and can't stay away (from the fridge).
Ricky Hatton is leaving the public split on whether he should or whether he shouldn't fight again. And i'm in his corner. Firmly in it.
Go on Ricky, have a punch up and finish your career on top of the podium or as near as you can get to it but not flat on your back looking at a Las Vegas casino ceiling.
Finish it in Manchester in front of the hardcore of fans that have followed you back and forth to the Nevada desert over the past few years. Those trips costing thousands in air fares, hotel rooms, bar bills, tips and well erm everything else you can think of.
I've been lucky enough to watch Hatton twice in Vegas. Would I go again to see him fight in a one off against another Mexican just past his prime? Probably not. Would I go to Manchester on a jolly with the lads for a week-end as a send off? Definitely.
Ricky Hatton has his knockers. Right now they are more than likely calling him The Fatman, Ricky Hasbeen, Vicky Fatty and anything else lardy you can think of, because he is living true to his age old nicknames and its not doing him any favours. The past six months he has piled on the pounds even more than his regular inbetween bout excesses and boy does it show.
Chinese food, deep fried anything and shit shirts worn in the local pub with the boys followed by plenty of ale and a game of darts have really taken their toll and hes looking more Ricky 'The Hamster' Hatton than anything else. But the defeat to Pacquiao in Vegas last year obviously hit him hard emotionally and the larder has been his therapist, so for once lets give him a break and remember how good he is. Let's not be stereotypically British and knock another slightly fallen sport star from pilar to post. he's a big boy and knows what he's doing.
But, and there is a big but lurking in the shadow. Ricky is fat, really fat. Fatter than normal. He has admitted to being over a stone heavier than his usual famous ballooning state. Right now he is weighing in at nearly three stone heavier than on the scales before his last fight against Pound for Pound champion, Manny Pacquio.
He says this will just mean a bit longer on the road followed by the same time in the gym. But has he turned into Marmite and have the public got bored of the loveable Guinness drinking joker who has time for everyone and anyone? Has the ego of the Hitman overtaken the love of his once adoring fans asking him to stop?
The most famous voice in combat sport, Michael Buffer, calls him the pride of Manchester. Floyd Mayweather says he has the most annoying song in World sport. Oscar De la Hoya says Vegas had never seen anything like it every time the Hitman's circus rolled into town. So why carry on? Whats wrong with thoe memories and adulation spared for so few.
It's only his pride and wanting to finish on the up. If he can sell out the MEN and 20,000 get to see him fight for a hidden world title in the Summer then why not?
Why knock him. If you don't want to see him then don't watch. Simple.
Is Ricky turning into the one we used to love to love and nothing more than a joke? There is an argument that if he comes back and is seeing stars inside a few rounds then all the knockers would say I told you so and all the believers out there turn against him.
But he is a grown man and hes not fighting for the money. He feels he has something to prove after a disastrous training camp where he said walking to the ring felt like a corpse with gloves on. He has lost just twice and each time to the best of the best, not just in his weight but in his sport. He feels he is among equals in the highest echelons and, rightly or wrongly, still thinks he would win one of those super fights against Mayweather or the man best known as 'Pacman.'
Love him or beginning to loathe him for coming back, it looks like he will fight again. This time with a few more layers than normal taken off.
A few days ago he admitted to having the hunger back, and not a midnight Doner Kebab sort of hunger. He says he wants to go out on a high and i'll be there behind him singing there's only one Ricky Hatton at the top of my lungs. Good luck and do us all a favour Ricky, get in shape, proper shape. Get in the right frame of mind, get in get out and call it a day. Fight a man on a level, fight a name. Fight a fight you know you can't lose, not think you can't and then have a pint with every fan from all over the world because by then you will truly deserve it. 
We'd much rather the flawed diamond than a perfect pebble and you can be the flawed diamond any day of the week, even if it means being a bit too imperfect for some people's taste.

Deep doubts, deep wisdom; small doubts, little wisdom.

Ask any English Cricket fan if they would have been happy to take an away series draw with S.Africa a couple of months ago and you might be lucky to have your wrist in tact, let alone a badly chewed hand.
Here was a chance for a positive English building block going into the final match, not only to fire the team up the controversial world rankings or to win a much needed away series but by gaining confidence towards the greatest prize of all at the end of the year, The Ashes. The one series that grabs the public's attention and unites all walks of life, Cricket fan or not.
When Andrew Strauss won the toss and elected to bat first at The Wanderers in J'Berg he must have had little doubt that it was the correct thing to do already leading 1-0. The right decision to not only maintain the lead but push home the advantage and even win 2-0. He must have believed that having taken into account all local conditions and advice from the backroom staff and fellow players that batting first was the only answer.
The sparce opening day crowd cheered upon hearing the toss with his opposite man Smith a much relieved Springbok thinking next years Christmas was already upon us and odds of a drawn series falling by the minute.
So Andrew, why did you not learn that you didn't need to gamble? England have had their fair share of inconsistent, dull, poor and good captains over the past fifteen years for you to draw experience on? From the positive but astute Michael Vaughan who not only battled and beat the Aussies but also cried into his hadkerchief when Sidebottom was picked infront of two test hero Graham Onions. Evidently Onions was a bit jaded and needed the rest, unfortunately this was news to him. We have Nasser Hussain on the other side of the spectrum who seems unable to be personable with anyone, constantly referring to everyone by their surnames and aside from driving most of Sky Tv's viewers insane with his monosyllabic waffle he is also the captain that made the worst toss decision in history by putting an already rampant Australian team in to bat on a first test road allowing them to score freely (364-2 close day one) and march on likeunchallenged warriors to another easy Ashes win.
So why didn't you learn Andrew? After all Strauss is a very well educated and well spoken young man. He is also very well traveled and has two half Australian sons to prove it. Here is a man who has been a pretty good captain of his country with a resume including that famous little urn to prove it.
So what went wrong? Strauss decided to back his badly firing batsmen after a slight rush of blood to his South African born bonce. He obviously believed that there was a 400plus first innings score on that soon to be wet track.
The moment he decided to bat first on an unpredictable wicket, with rain due and against a team thirsty for blood with an attack packed heavy with seamers the game was all over. Anyone with an inch of gambling nous would have taken up the generous odds on offer from friendly bookmakers and made hay while the sun wasn't shining.
England have taken some heavy criticsm about their boggling selection, and fairly so. After double batting heroics from the far from lofty number 11 in two of the previous three tests by Graham Onions he was duly dropped for a leaden footed Sidebottom who tries and tries and tries but never really delivers.
Sidebottom is akin to the poker player going all in with a pair of 7's hoping he will hit a winning hand when he knows, deep down, he probably wont even win a bluff. Every now and again it comes off but more often than not its a telegraph delivery asking for the batsman to wait, wait, wait and half volley four. Send Sidebottom back to county cricket where he can clean up the mediocrity and earn a decent living.
It's time for England learnt from their errors, look forwards to the future, grab the sparce talent that is out there bowling wise and nurture it into match winning heroics. We must learn that by now Matt Prior is going to be hit and miss with his batting. Me must finally learn that Stuart Broad will never bat No.7 for England and is in danger of swapping the true all rounder white handkerchief over to the consistently over performing and never under hyped Graeme Swann.
Australia in Australia is a different kettle of fish to playing them in a transformative state in your own back yard. Just ask a certain Mr.Flintoff or the Pakistan team. It is well overdue for England and Strauss to look long and hard at their selection, tactics, stats, averages and personal belief's before the next time they take the field wearing the three lions with pride. All that can be seen currently is a small amount of wisdom arising from the small questions they are putting upon themselves. What we all want to see is a group of international players doubting themselves deeply so as to come through a dark underground tunnel a whole lot wiser.

Do not fear going forward slowly; fear only to stand still

If one man is a chef and Liverpool a city of culture then surely you would be able to return your food if it turned up without the gravy you were promised? All the talk this week is of Rafa's consistency to serve cold turkey for a luke warm restaurant that is consistently fully booked but permanently overhyped and overpriced. A wannabee in the Michelin awards book but a culinary misfire bad enough to leave the foulest mouth in the Ramsay speechless? Slightly unfair on yesterday's service or is he a roadkill in waiting? It seems fair. The critics are turning up becoming more and more vocal week in week out. They are pleading for the head chef to let them go home happy with bellies full of fluent passing, mouth watering half volleys and solid pints of lager in defences. The men and women who pay their wages wanting to be entertained have had enough. It's just not satisfying enough. Fresh talent is needed but the kitchen coffers are bare. The man in charge has nowhere to go and too many of his vegetables are, well, vegetables - albeit on the physio's table for a week or a month. The prices have been too high for too long and the wine has been more Isle of Man than European. Its time for a change on the menu, Rafa. Put another lump of ice in my drink on the training pitch, an extra potato on the injury table and walk away knowing you've done yourself proud. You've won a trophy or two including the one that avoids that French chef Arsene and hang up your pinny knowing full well you've achieved, but not to the highest standard reached by so few. Its time for a new cook to burn the scouse steak. Just do us all a favour and do it before it all gets nasty as the vultures are circling and nobody likes to see a beautiful animal picked at week after week until all that's left are unwanted bones. Don't stand still or you will be looking to serve Paella abroad without redundancy rather than milky tea or a mutton stew, just like you know you love. Good luck with acquiring fresh produce this transfer window and lets hope you can clear the fridge of some unwanted dairy. All in all its not looking great for that elusive Michelin star this year.Certainly not in this restaurant.