MURRAY, A SUITABLE CASE FOR TREATMENT

I AM SO NOT WORTHY OF MY MOTHER.

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.

MUMMY LOVE, YUK.