CRY, BABY, CRY.

Hard to know how Roger Rolex 


would have fared against a fit Rafa Nadal, Andy Mutant or Novak Jabberwock, 

they might have given him a game, a bit of a contest, one to justify the ultimately rather shame-faced euphoria surrounding his eighth Wimbledon victory.  

This really was a poor game, one which made Federer look considerably more formidable than he is.  There is no question about Federer's abilities or his ancien regime sportsmanship; his talent, his application and his grace are  now legendary and I wish more were like him.  
If, as is said, he is worth a billion dollars - one hundred millions in prize money and ten times that in sponsorship, well, better him than the repulsive  John McSneer


the oldest baby in the world
 or the cock-waving Boris Becker; 

if there is anyone in modern sport who deserves these astronomical rewards it is Roger Federer,  

an athlete and an entertainer without equal; 
even so, Sunday's was a fucking awful Wimbledon final.

I don't think I had noticed Cilic before but then I watch very little tennis these days, especially since the rise of Andy Mutant, his creepy MummyDarling  and his ugly, neanderthal petulance but it should be safe to assume that anyone, familiar or not,  who reaches the Wimbledon Men's Singles Final is a player of some capability, not just in serve-and-volleying but in self-control;
 Cilic, though,  was a tosser who should have been weeded-out by the tournament itself. 
 Outplayed  by Federer in almost every game the Croatian, instead of counting his blessings at being in the Final, being beaten by the greatest player ever and being about to receive a cheque for over a million pounds cried like a baby,

 

 he cried for his inadequacy,

 

 he cried for his doctor, 

 

 for his sore foot;  



he strung-out two injury breaks quite shamelessly and even after all that hysterical hustling lacked the grace to congratulate the victor, it was  a regrettably familiar display of  inept, fuckwit, self-obsessed  celebrity bitching about its own thwarted ambition; 
 he should've been booed-off but instead we sat - well, I didn't - sat enthralled by his repulsive, whining  self-pity, with the permanent adolescent, Bozo Becker, wittering-on like an Agony Aunt about Centre Court being the loneliest place in the world,  

Look, it's like I alvays say,
 zis iss real life und death stuff at Cenner Cawt,
 ve are all true gladiators out zare,
 fighting for our life.

as though even Wimbledon, like everything else, had encamped itself in the Big Brother House.

It seemed that between every point the PBC's Wimbledon director distractingly chose to show us some grimy, oiled-up nobody - Oh, fuck me, look viewers, isn't this wonderful, so-and-so's come here to be seen at Wimbledon. What? Tennis? No, I shouldn't think he understands it at all, but being seen, that's what it's all about, there is no business like showbusiness, and it's what we're bringing you,  the tennis simply isn't enough, so we're bringing you pictures of absolutely everybody who's nobody.
 Look! Look!   
Here's Ruritanian Prince Gormless and his doxy 

Yah, free seats, Yah, 
free everything.
OK, Yah, but  y'know, I dowannit;
it's more about duty,
like my bro' says, 
all about duty,
having all this free stuff.


And here we can spot ghastly, overdressed  imbecile wannabe, 
Dave Simpers, a man who gas done so very, very much for himself, I mean, you only have to think of all hist tattooss, the stuipid inky cunt, and his beards and hairstyles, this is the stuff of sporting greatness
 
'Ey, Willie, Ya gorra Knighthood for me yet?
Only I do deserve one, 
fer all the fings worravdone,
the cloves, an' the cosmetics an' everyfing.
 
 Patient and punctilious in his seemingly endless round of post-match celebrity greeting 
it was telling that Roger Federer spent the absolute minimum amount of time with the Ruritanian parasites, hugging Princess Coke briefly and swiftly shaking hands with the grinning Prince Gormless, 
the oaf who would be king. 

 Even in snubbing the worthless,
 Federer was a lesson in grace and style.

A ruined final, a worthless opponent, a cliche-drenched commentariat, a gang of slimeballs basking in his moment  and yet,  by his presence, redeeming the whole grisly crew, he carries it all off like a Saint walking among sinners.
Worth every penny, Roger Federer.