Winners

So, that’s Tim Henman out of Wimbledon. As predicted, he snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. As the bright young hope that is Andy Murray is injured, we have been left with no British players in either the men’s or the ladies’ singles. It’s just like the bleak days of the 1980s (but thankfully without Margaret Thatcher), when a few has-beens who didn’t exactly set the court alight when they were younger managed to scrape the odd victory.

There was always something slightly distasteful in those days about out and out patriotism; probably because those that advocated it were rather distasteful themselves. The union flag had dodgy connotations: bovver boys with snarling, hate-filled faces. Lots of us Generation Xers adopted a cynical attitude in reaction. Cheering people just because they came from the same country as you wasn’t right-on.

Somewhere in the ‘90s, things changed. I remember Italia 90, Gazza crying, and feeling rather emotional myself, albeit an emotion fuelled by a few pints of Stella Artois. It wasn't just football: suddenly, we had tennis players who won matches and looked as if, on a good day and with a strong following wind, they might actually go all the way. Suddenly, it was all right to be vocal in support of British sport. It was OK to want success. And once they became successful, you didn’t have to adopt the Daily Mail’s sneering attitude of shooting people down.

One of my colleagues still has a jaded, cynical view. Why, he wondered today, did Henman bother fighting to a fifth set, when we all knew he was going to lose? Surely it would’ve been better if he’d done the decent thing and bowed out after three? I said that we’d still have someone in the competition if Andy Murray had been fit. My colleague said: “Maybe, but he wouldn’t be in for long. He’d still lose.”

“I can imagine what you’d have been like in the Second World War,” I said. “’That Churchill, I don’t know why he bothers. He’ll just lose in the end’.”

It’s like saying: “Why bother living, trying, striving – because ultimately, we’ll all die.” I may have a strong streak of cynicism running down my spine and I can be as jaded as the best of them, but I don’t do nihilism. We have to reach for our moments of joy in life; we have to believe that sometimes, dreams do come true.

Anyone for tennis?

It may be autumnal outside, but generally, when I look back from the vantage point of late August to assess my summer, this is where the starting gun goes off. We’ve just had Royal Ascot and Glastonbury, the Hoppings have arrived in Newcastle, it’s Plate Day on Saturday – and Wimbledon has started.

I am a big tennis fan. I am watching Tim Henman battling against Carlos Moya as I type. I like to think if the gods of tallness had been a bit more generous than 5 ft 3in and a bit, and I hadn’t grown so fond of Gordon’s and Silk Cut, it could’ve been me out there at SW19. I played a lot as a child – whacking tennis balls with a passion against the garage door when I couldn’t find a partner. The game brings out my competitive streak – and also on occasion, my temper. I can quite understand where John McEnroe was coming from.

I couldn’t at the time. I admire McEnroe immensely now, and enjoy his punditry, but as a child I loathed him – probably because he was of the same era as Bjorn Borg, whom I adored. It was the same with Martina Navratilova - I was always a Chris Evert fan and couldn’t appreciate Martina’s mastery of the game when she was at the height of her powers. I am old enough to remember Virginia Wade’s victory in 1977 – I rushed home from school to see who had won the semi-final between Virginia and my idol Chris Evert. “Oh no,” I said, when I heard Chrissie had gone out. But when I realised Virginia was one of us, I cheered up.

My favourite players have always been those with charisma and artistry, rather than those with brute strength. I have never been particularly a fan of Henman – his passion doesn’t seem real and he always seems to manage to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. He may not have been a ‘proper Brit’, but I much preferred Greg Rusedski. However, my favourite was always Andre Agassi – I screamed him to victory both times he won the men’s singles.

Roger Federer may be a sublime tennis player – but like Pete Sampras (is it a man, is it a monkey?) – he doesn’t possess that charisma and indefinable magic that does it for me. Where’s Goran Ivanisevic when you need him?