I like sport a lot. I watch shed loads of it, and although I’m a bit of an old hoofer these days, I do as much of it as I can. And I think athletes are great. They’ve got enough savvy to score the only drug around that is totally free and doesn’t involve having to break into a gangsta limp: endorphins. And on top of that, the good ones get paid to do something they love. Smiles all round, you’d think.
And then you see Andy Murray. Jesus. Just what is it with this guy? And moreover, who enrolled him in the Myra Hindley School of Charisma? Dear, oh dear. Mind you, after Sunday’s lame effort in the Australian Open and the flush of realisation that he’s just not made of the ‘right stuff’ to become a champion, perhaps I should cut Bonny Prince Charlie a bit of slack. But then I see that dragged lip and think, nah, bollocks.
There's always one. This discus thrower clearly doesn't know if he's coming or going.
It's wrong. And on every level...
Friday sees the 6 Nations return to our screens. And I can’t wait. Rugby players have a whole range of facial expressions and normally get to show off a fair old few of them during the course of a match. Invariably, most of them have something to do with having their nuts crushed or eyes gouged. Proper stuff. Then it’s all smiles as they head off to the changing room for japes/bollock rubs and rubber ducks in the communal bathtub.
England rugby players show Andy Murray wots wot and oo's oo.
Just look at this fucker run and smile at the same time.
The only thing that spoils it all is that munchkin of a Scottish bird* who hangs about pitchside to ask players and coaches inane questions. If England lose a game (heaven forbid…) watch Martin Johnson look like he wants to deck her when she chirpily asks if he feels ‘disappointed’. I’m telling you, if a female presenter isn’t called Gaby, fuck her off.
*Mind you, she could be related to Andy Murray, and he gets her to wind up the English lot for a laugh…