Firstly, it came to my attention that the other week, down the road at Romford Dog Track, there was a triple dead heat in a greyhound race. This hardly ever happens, hence the millions to one quoted as the odds. Fortunately for the books this was not an offer they had chalked up on the boards and heavily promoted beforehand, because if they had, people like me might have thrown a quid at it and been happy to settle for the maximum payout quoted.
Before I got to write that paragraph though, I began watching the Australian Open Final: what a disaster that is and I don’t mean Murray’s tennis in the second set. The blue squeaky court, the discordant product placement all over the shop (the one that offends me most is the lurid pink mineral water sign behind the umpire’s chair), the yellow-to-tangerine colours the ball people and line officials wear, and their hats! Why hats? You aren’t outside you muppets, there’s no sun in your eyes. In a final humiliation, the kids fetching balls are forced to wear not just the baseball cap, but the cap with a flap, as if they were little desert rats. And I have observed the shame of their outfits has caused them to keep tripping over each other as they hurry out of the camera’s glare…
Then there is Andy; never the best dressed, but Andy, the green with the black and the black boots? He looks like he’s off to play 5-a-side football. Djokovic is giving a better account of himself sartorially, but again he is compromised by one of his legs hanging off below the knee and his need to tip great quantities of eye drops into his dry eyes with his gob hanging open as the camera does a close-up. I will say though he’s playing great tennis for someone who can’t see.
But the thing that has nearly made me switch off is Murray’s towel. A riot of colour that should only, if ever, be seen on a beach. The towel is so loud, you can’t just see it, you can hear it too. Anyway Murray has just broken his opponent’s serve for the first time, so I’m going to bear with it. If he loses, I’ll blame the towel.
Here is a much more aesthetically pleasing shot: Droopys Djokovic (centre) in the Romford triple dead heat. Spookily he wears the Djokovic blue like his Serbian namesake and went on to smash the other two dogs in a rematch the following week.
It also occurs to me as I watch this filthy game of tennis that, as a maths concept, tennis is on pretty shaky ground. 15, 30, 40 etc. Now what’s that about? They should score them geometrically if you ask me.
P.S. By the time I’d half-sorted out all the grammar and wotnot Murray’s riotous towel has slunk on its belly off the court…