A new year, a new start

[Sweder]

T'was ever thus for Our Timmie.
He gets the full-on God-status treatment from our media pre-Wimbledon, has the audactity to add fuel to the flames by beating a handful of no-hopers in the first week and draws the indignant ire and withering condemnation of those same Journo's by stumbling at the final hurdle. If the man were'n't the product of the British Upper Middle class he would surely share a cell with the Joker in Arkum Asylum by now.

Strangely the coaches of Britains' potential Tennis stars are reluctant to introduce their charges to the media. I can't imagine why . . .

The Henmania pheonomenon goes some way to explain why Aussies out-perform the Brits in so many sporting arenas. It's the National outlook on success - the complete and utter belief that it's Australia's birthright to excel in every avenue of performance. I read a nice piece on Michael Clarke by Ian Wooldridge in one of our daily rags recently.

Wooldridge is at best a cumudgeon, at worst a dinosour, but he's been around the block. He was cricket correspondant for the Daily Mail for an Epoch, accompanied Stirling Moss on the Monte Carlo Rally, has golfed with just about anyone worth watching and is never short of an opinion. He's been right, he's been wrong, but he's never been unsure of himself.

Currently in Sydney, Wooldridge writes of Clarke:
'Utterly convinced from his pram that he was born to play for Australia, he scored 151 on his Test debut in India, 141 in his first home Test against New Zealand, and virtually demanded to be given a trial as an opener in one-day games against West Indies and Pakistan . . . '

'Australia do nothing to blunt such cheeky confidence. They gave him his chance and he rewarded them . . .'

He goes on to extol the virtues of the Aussie attitude, including how, when under the cosh against Pakistan in the first test at 78 for 5 they responded with fierce aggression, ending the day on 357 for 8, thrashing Pakistan by a distance.

'I apologise if this reads like an obituary for England's chances of recapturing the Ashes but the truth is that these Australians are confoundedly good.'

You will never read such an unconditional eulogy in an English newspaper with regard to an English sportsman or Woman, unless you count the occasional blast of wind directed at National Heroes such as Kelly Holmes. Of course in the case of Holmes, double Olympic gold medalist in Athens and someone who has hammered her tortured body through the pain barrier on numerous occasions only to fall short of the ultimate prize, the gutter press then filled endless column inches with tittle-tattle about her private life, focused on the possibility that she may favour her own gender.

Who gives a toss? This woman has crushed all before her, overcome staggering odds to beat the world not once but twice in a matter of days. I suspect the same may be true in certain Antipodean rags. The difference appears to be the lack of negative affect on the sportsmen and women of your country.

And so to Tennis. I have no clue as to who our next 'Timmie' may be or where he'll come from. But I'm fairly sure where ever he is he's keeping his head down and praying to his God that the British press don't find him too soon.

I'll give Wooldridge the last word on Tennis:
'The Australian Open Tennis Championships are in full swing in Melbourne and I am sorry to say that watching on television here in Sydney I find them crushingly boring.'

'In the third hour and fifth set of some grunting duel between a couple of Slavs, I have not the slightest interest in who wins. I wait for the intermittent interviews with other winners and losers. They all speak in the same dreadful monotone without a spark of wit.'