Monday, 31 January 2011



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People of a certain age would think it nigh-on impossible to detest a tennis player more than John Patrick Gabshite McEnroe, one of the nastiest, most fucked-up individuals on the planet - the ideal person, therefore, to be a BBC presenter. Petulant, conceited, ill-disciplined, ill mannered and foul mouthed, McEnroe, with his equally obnoxious father pulling his strings, eased Ruin's path into professional tennis. And everywhere else.

Back in the day, McEnroe bullied and tantrumed his way into a sort of celebrity noir, cursing at umpires, linesmen and opponents, no-one  then in the game had the New Balls Please to oppose the nasty brat and today it's too late, his techniques are applied all over professional sport, especially among the Premiership gang rapists and he is kow-towed to as an elder statesman, when what he needs is a punch in the face, several; and if his rotten father is alive, him, too.

There is good reason for decent people to hate McEnroe and those who licensed him. Murray, though, centres his tantrums on himself, scowling and grunting like a man possessed by Devils, lashing at himself with facial contortions and spastic limbs, self-flagellating with his racket, in a permanent agony, way beyond crucifixion;  he is a truly fucking awful spectacle, stretched on his own rack of conceit. Even so, I hate the sight of his ugly, unshaven face, the sound of his stuttering, whining voice, his grimly remorseless  self-absorption, his litany of injury, of setback and disappointment. In a way he is reminsicent of former unelected prime minister Snot, surrounded by wankers and parasites, none bold or disinterested enough  to tell this guy that he looks like an emotional train crash.

The best thing for him would be for someone to lock his mother in a cupboard for six months but that won't happen, the witch is central to the continuum of Murray disappointment - ad-vantage, Mother Murray; maybe his divorced old man could come and wrest him from Mummy's ambition, maybe his uncle, a Dunblane butcher, could offer him a job, making sausages, train him up, so's he could bone a leg of lamb, take him up the road to the Dunblane George Robertson Massacre Graveyard, and tell him there's more important shit than losing a fucking tennis match. If his male relatives do not free him, however, from the tyranny of the nipple, the poor mad fucker is doomed, his life, too, smashed out of him in straight sets.



Mike said...

Mr I - "the tyranny of the nipple" - love it. Previously I had wondered if he was still breastfeeding when that excruciating kissing thing happened.

The women's final was mercifully free of either of the William's sisters.

A few year's ago Channel 7 had a shot of Serina's arse as she bent over with a caption "now available in wide-screen".

call me ishmael said...

He might be, mightn't he, still on the teat, he certainly is, figuratively speaking. Lovely but not mine, I fear, mr mike, a theme, a motif from an old Leonard Cohen book, Beautiful Losers, I think - Abolish the Tyranny of the Nipple; that's all I remember of it. There, everything's been returned which was owed.

How was the floodtrek down there, from NSW to Queensland?

Mike said...

Mr I - went hunting for friends near Brisbane who disappeared off the radar for a week. Fortunately all safe. Terrible mess up there, and a lot of people have lost everything, but the signs are that with the effort now underway that it will be turned around quickly.

Compared to stuff happening around the world its not big on the macro scale, but on the micro scale measured with your own eyes it looks big.

call me ishmael said...

It's all relative, trillions spent on weaponry and some children can't get a drink of clean water; good news about your friends.

PT Barnum said...

And one can set against Murray's demonic emotionalism the behaviour of his opponent, his exact contemporary, whose victory speech was eloquent (in a second language), generous and nodded in the direction of the flood devastation. And this a man who uses his tennis winnings to fund projects in his native Serbia, for post-dictator, post-war rebuilding. Some people don't know how good they have it.

Oldrightie said...

The once lauded morality of The British long gone, I'm afraid but we are embracing Islam!

Dick the Prick said...

I reserve a soft spot of contempt for Colin Montgomerie who, having wandered around the most beautiful places in the world, being paid a truly obscene amount of cash for something that normal chaps feel is a truly decadent return to nature, pre-history of gene memory wandering around with a club and something to twat; still exhibits the audacity to infer that his quest is a kin to working 50 hours in a factory, an abbatoir, the pit. Cunt.

The Yanks have got the right idea at the US Open - just straight, merciless and continuous abuse - hee hee hee.

jgm2 said...

Even though I don't follow tennis I find I can never completely relax until Murray has been knocked out.

It's like Birmingham FC in football. And Scotland in, well, anything.

mongoose said...

I don't think that sportsmen do grow up - or maybe just a decent sub-set of them don't. Wandering around the planet with infinite resources, hanging out with similarly famous types, the world isn't real, they're not real.

As for Murray and his mum, well, who cares? But I trust that they have a no tongues rule.

Deputy Attorney-General Agatha said...

Oedipus, schmoedipus, what does it matter as long as the boy loves his mommy?
On a more serious, and religious note, Mr/ Ishmael, I note that you are increasingly using "Ruin" as a synonym for the Fallen Angel, the Dark Lord, His Satanic Majesty, the Adversarial Enemy who stalks the world, looking for that which he can devour.
What with the Christmas portents, suffering Australia, the Middle East horror and CallhimDave in charge, looks like we're in the end of days. Better not start any long-term projects, eh?