Henmaniaphobia

The rain coming at your from three directions. Andrew Castle - aka the most pointless of pointless people - on the television. Strawberries up a pound a punit in Tescos. Lots of photos of young Eastern European girls in short white dresses. Union Jacks fluttering from newspaper stalls. Lots of photos of Boris Becker coming out of cupboards in restaurants..sorry restaurants....oh bollocks. It's Wimbledon again.


And, as predictable and inevitable as the annual return of the tournament, Tim Henwoman dragged out his first match with the tenacity and determination and vile wig hairdo that we have come to expect of this particular national treasure. The four times Wimbledon semi-finalist - do I really need to go on? - has been all over the media talking about his 'epic' first round match against some beaner. And he (Henwoman) will go on to beat some French bloke in on a wild card, struggle to win another five set 'epic' against a butch Spanish woman who accidentally got put in the men's tournament, keep us all baying for Britain like Billy Bragg as he flounders and flukes his way past some Dutch dude who is better known for his doubles, and then finally get drummed by a real tennis player despite the protesting whistles and screams from Henman Hill. (I can think of nothing worse than being on Henman Hill when Henwoman is playing, apart from maybe having to listen to Cliff Richard sing the crowd through the rain with a few of his 60s hits - or both together...I'm moving to Poland.)


It wouldn't bother me so much if it wasn't quite so achingly inevitable. Tim Henman is never ever ever going to win Wimbledon. He was never going to either. Am I making it up, or did Boris Becker say this last year? Maybe it was a dream? You know, the one where me and mrs househusbandnot win the lottery and Neil Young asks me to play lead guitar live with him and then Beatrice Dalle whispers to me that she really fancies mrs househusbandnot and I can talk to animals and Daniel Craig gets turned down for the lead role in hhn The Movie because he is not buff enough in his swimming cossie and I feel in my jacket pocket and it is full of magic beans and Andy Warhol turns to me and says "I just have so many of these Mao portraits. Why don't you take a few of them hhn?"

Thankfully - or interestingly - our TV stopped working last night, so we can't actually watch any Wimbledon until we get a new one. (mrs hhn thinks that either she or I have some sort of weird electrical energy that fuses electrical appliances. Few too many gins there me thinks.) So hopefully by the time we do get a new TV little Timmy's valiant struggle will be over, and we can watch some real men (and women) play some decent tennis rather than the rather half-arsed effort that Henperson makes of every point and game and set and match. Talk about laboured.

Anyway, in other sporting news off to the 20 20 cricket at The Oval with Styx this afternoon. Will report back.