End piece
Losers
Jeffrey Bernard
There are aspects of Wimbledon that give me the horrors and its been a horror-filled week as far as I'm concerned. On Sunday it started with Suzanne Lowry's bit about fifty years after the Equal Franchise Act and the odd coincidence of Katherine Whitehorn's piece on Bores two pages further on, and then the wretched starlings in my roof blocked up a chimney which shouldn't need using at this time of year and all that came just before the final drop of water in the Chinese torture employed by The Sunday Times and called Bernard Levin whose obession with Siberia and now Schubert — is there nothing more to be said about Wagner? — is only equalled by the extraordinary pre-occupation female journalists have about being female.
The starlings I can shoot. The revoltingly sentimental and unsporting crowd at Wimbledon and that obscene clown, 'lie Nastase, I can switch off and I suppose I could cancel The Observer and The Sunday Times but then there'd be so much left to get in a tizzy about. There'd only be the English obsession with Angela Rippon, the selector's lunacy in persisting with Mike Brearley as England's cricket captain, the bloody weather, the licensing hours, the entire Charles Forte empire and the fact that the bus from Lambourn is timed precisely to arrive at Newbury station three minutes after the last train— the one with the buffet — to Paddington has left Platform 4.
But it was the crowd at Wimbledon that had me twitching with irritation when I got up this morning. There's something ghastly about the way they adopt and then drop people. You know the way everyone loves and coos over a black baby then spits at a black bus conductor, well why should I think suddenly of that? They've always hated Billy Jean King and I suppose that's her fault for being an absolutely first class player — one of the best women players ever — and a thorough professional down to the tips of her talons. She also once made the mistake of owning up to having had an abortion and people just don't do that sort of thing if they want to be seen swilling strawberries at Wimbledon, Henley or Ascot. No, what's so English about that mob at Wimbledon is that they love a loser. That's why Christine Truman was one of the great stars of all time. They love to laugh at Ilie Nastase which, I suppose, isn't all that surprising coming from a race that can laugh at Norman Wisdom, Cyril Fletcher, Michael Crawford and Esther Rantzen, but, above all, they'll take any young player to their hearts if he has an endearing and fascinating characteristic such as twitching his left eyebrow when serving. Nastase could squeeze blackheads between games and they'd love it.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Ms Lowry, or Mrs, whichever she is, upset the domestic apple-cart with those funny interviews. The lady who said that free labour in the home should be abolished sent us both rushing to the stationery shop to buy account books. With two sets each I'm one game up on my wife this week and at match point if I go down the road to buy a dozen eggs when I've finished writing this column. Yesterday she cooked a smashing breakfast and I returned a high lob by clearing the ashes out of the Raeburn and then fetching coal. She returned with a volley of washing up and then painted a cupboard with a strong forehand. I was desperate, standing on the base line and staring defeat and her account in the face, I rushed to the net and paid the milk bill before brilliantly emptying the cat litter and putting the rubbish out. Changing ends we sat down for a minute after I held the kettle under the tap while she turned it on. We were all square then but I think I screwed it up this morning. She ironed a shirt for me. I pleaded that I'd actually bought the iron but we guessed the great umpire in The Observer over-ruled the call.
Being a good loser and exuding the spirit of Wimbledon I hold no grudge. In fact I gave her a treat this morning. I made the tea and read out Bernard Levin's column aloud to her and then I read, her those interviews with those angry ladies. It still all comes back to Wimbledon. New balls please.
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