James Corden is not the next Andy Murray

This blog has been shortened as I think we should all be outside getting some vitamin D.

Here’s a disclaimer, I am by no means a tennis expert or a tennis fan. I only watch it when it is on one of the few television channels that I have. I don’t play tennis. I find the boundaries of a tennis court too restrictive, I don’t like to be confined during leisure time. I once owned a tennis racquet, I mostly used it to play rounders. I do however have a ruthless two-handed topspin forehand, when fully fit (I’m carrying a shoulder injury and can barely get a jumper over my head nevermind a serve).

Wimbledon is great, it’s uplifting, a brief antidote to everyday life under the coalition, isn’t it? It’s inspirational in many ways. I mean, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I am not going to be a Wimbledon champion, but it encourages me to get outside and see some grass. That’s just from watching it on my tiny tele. Imagine actually being there. Being overwhelmed by the atmosphere, seeing how tall these players are, hearing how hard they hit that little ball and watching how fast they run. That could really motivate some child to pick up a racquet and become the next tennis hero. Yet, do we see the excited faces of children in the crowd? No, we see the faces of tired old royals, keeping their privileged knees warm with pure new wool blankets and resting their privileged arses on velvet cushions stuffed with our taxes. We see Amir Khan taking photos on his modest gold iPhone while his wife looks like she could kill a population with the apathy virus she is infected with. James Corden, Jude Law, Michael McIntyre!?

James Corden is not the next Andy Murray. These hospitality junkies should give up their seats to someone who will be inspired by the experience, to someone who can’t afford a ticket, to someone whose daddy isn’t on the board of Rolex.

In summary, the children are the future, not James Corden’s face.


Lance him

In 2004 I spent seven hours of my life sitting on a pavement in Paris waiting to see some men doing cycling. Waiting, in particular, to see the then amazing Mr Lance Armstrong do some cycling and be given a special jumper. As we all now know, he was diddling around on his bicycle being a big cheaty cheater and so the cycling people took their special jumpers back. Mr Lance Armstrong stole those seven hours from me, and I am not the only victim of his fraud.

There is a queue of lawsuits forming longer than a Tour de France stage. He owes prize money, sponsorship, win bonuses, he owes every tax paying American citizen and anyone else who fancies jumping on this big bandwagon of litigation. When you include the potential perjury charges for lying under oath, he may have to spend more time in trials than he has in time trials.

And it’s not just dollars he owes, he obviously obtained Sheryl Crow by deception. And what about all the yellow. That’s right Mr Lance Armstrong, Easter is on the phone, it wants its yellow back! Yeah, and you can expect to hear from, a brick road for damages, a classified phone directory for trademark infringement, New York taxis for loss of earnings, fever for defamation, a rose from Texas for misrepresentation and baby chicks for racial discrimination.

You can keep my seven hours Mr Lance Armstrong, you need them more than me. Please use them wisely, maybe to return some of the hope you’ve cheated from those cancer victims you’d led to believe that it was determination that can overcome adversity.