“To everyone’s surprise,” reflects a character at the start of sci-fi satire District 9, “the [alien] ship didn’t come to a stop over Manhattan or Washington or Chicago, but instead coasted to a halt directly over the city of Johannesburg.”
Some may have experienced similar feelings of bathos this week, as the tear in the news-sport continuum finally blew wide open – not in Moscow, where you might have expected it, but in SW19. The transdimensional gate was opened by Sue Barker, who kicked off this year’s BBC Wimbledon coverage with the deathless inquiry: “So, Boris, what is your association with the Central African Republic?”
Unexpected – and yet, at the same time, arguably the most Wimbledon thing ever to happen. Indeed, it feels highly appropriate that Boris Becker should have made his home in London, the sort of city where you are never more than four foot from a lawyer who’ll explain why it’s a great idea to obtain a diplomatic passport from one of the world’s poorest countries, with the absolute lowest-ranked level of human development, when you’re in the middle of a profligacy-induced bankruptcy. We really are a world leader in This Sort Of Thing. As for Becker’s decision to make his home in the district of Wimbledon itself, perhaps, like Holly Golightly and Tiffany’s, he believes that nothing very bad can happen to you here.
Once you’ve established a portal, of course, any old horrors can slip through. And within hours of Barker opening the wormhole, Arron Banks was responding to tweets by Martina Navratilova. “This is getting interesting,” the nine-time Wimbledon singles champion had observed of reports alleging further connections between the Brexit financier and all the Russian officials he keeps belatedly remembering to have had meetings with/offers of cheapo goldmines from. “Unlike your tennis style,” replied Banks, displaying a much deeper level of tennis knowledge than many people with a ticket to this year’s championships, but still no more than you might expect from one of the lesser species of the vegetable kingdom.
“How sweet of you,” replied Martina, stooping to conquer. “My tennis style is a lot of things, but boring? I don’t think so.”
“I’m at Wimbledon for the men’s semi-finals,” shot back Arron, whose serial desperation not to be seen an out-of-towner ensures he will never be anything but. “Happy to discuss @carolecadwalla mad conspiracies over a glass of pyms!”
Mmm. It’s not really a verbal rally, is it, when an 18-time grand slam singles champion pats it kindly over the net, only for her opponent to hit a return so out it basically came to earth somewhere over the Atlantic ocean.
“I have no idea who you are,” came Martina’s final reply, “and to get me to actually meet with you after insulting me – no , I don’t think so. And it’s Pimm’s BTW, not Pyms….enjoy the tennis, hope it won’t be boring;).”
Oof. OK, Hawk-Eye: you can redeploy to the Bermuda Triangle.
In many ways, both these Wimbledon vignettes are as unsurprising as Arron being bested by someone for whom English is only a third language. Much as I enjoy the stories the All England Club likes to tell itself – as well as the stories England likes to tell itself – there is something totally Et in Arcadia Ego about it all.
Indeed, I was only sorry that neither the Boris nor the Banks moment made the Today at Wimbledon montage, which is rarely more than 50% tennis, and at times indistinguishable from a three-for-£10 M&S food hall promotion. (Just as many Americans don’t get how embarrassing the focus on the adverts shown during the Super Bowl is, so British people seem unaware that any sporting fixture largely characterised by its refreshments isn’t quite the event it thinks it is.)
Still, it’s not too late. On the unusually off-chance that rain should stop play at any time during this year’s sun-baked championships, could Boris and Banks be persuaded to get up some sort of knockabout entertainment to fill the gap? Given the crowd frequently appears to enjoy a pigeon straying onto Centre Court easily as much as the tennis, it should be a task commensurate with even these two chancers’ abilities.
Pessimist Putin misses the party
Watching the jubilant crowd scenes in the Luzhniki Stadium after Russia knocked Spain out of the World Cup, I was struck by Vladimir Putin’s decision to pull a Gatsby and fail to attend his own party.
You could see the Russian president’s reasoning. Though he showed up to the opening World Cup game against Saudi Arabia – he could hardly not – Putin clearly viewed Russia’s last-16 tie as too much of a risk. He reportedly called Russian coach Stanislav Cherchesov and told him he was only interested in “results”.
Once Russia triumphed, however, you could imagine him inwardly seething that he wasn’t there to bask in all the reflected glory. The hosts now go on to face Croatia – but Putin’s personal PR risk has only been magnified. These are, after all, the quarter-finals.
To put in terms he’d instinctively relate to, Putin is now seeking precisely the right moment to sweep on to the front row of a fashion show. There is the finest of balances to be struck between arriving later than anyone else to underscore your vast importance, and being so late that it turns out the whole thing has been and gone without you.
