June

[Sweder]

A hot, heavy chug around my usual track this evening. A strong breeze out of the south west provided a little merciful aircon as the fruits of last night's labours sprang forth to liberally soak my vest.

I tuned into the Murray/ Haas match live from Wimbledon, the Scots man-child living up to at least some of the hype by seeing off a potentially dangerous opponent. I was horrified to hear a commentator refer to 'Murray's Mound', concerned that investigative reporting may have finally gone too far. To my relief he was making reference to the green hill that rises behind centre court, formerly known as Henman Hill. I'm firmly against this arbitrary change of name. Henman Hill was a pheonomenon born of a nation's unhealthy, unlikely and at times unfairly burdensome demand for British success. The Hill has been the place for The People - Tiger Tim's People - to gather to watch the action, suck up the tension, bite their nails to the bloody quick, gnaw on onoe anothers' hair and, ultimately, inevitably, thump their tight clenched fists into the earth in frustration as another gallant effort falls inches short.

Henman Hill it was and Henman Hill it shall always be. What other preposterous alliterations might we face if, say, the next Great British Hope is a Bartram or a Pilkington? Bartrams Barnacle? Pevensey's Pimple? Heaven forfend we should rename it Murray's Mound and the hairy little blighter go and win the damned thing. What a waste of a magnificent monument to glorious British sporting failure that would be.