Andy Murray has won Wimbledon.
For those of you who don’t follow sports, that’s a tennis tournament.
For those of you who know nothing about sports, tennis is a game that involves two participants chasing fuzzy yellow balls around a court.
When one of them gets to the ball, he uses a stringed bat to wallop it over the net, making sure the ball lands within the area demarcated with white lines.
The player who doesn’t manage to do that loses the point. When this happens, he chooses any or all of the actions from this list: a) swear at himself, b) swear at the umpire, c) swear at the spectators, d) swear at the opponent, e) swear at the coach, f) issue a primal scream, g) smash the racquet (a player who’s any good gets his for free), h) kick courtside furniture.
The player who has to draw from this list less than his opponent wins the match. If he does so seven times in a row, he wins Wimbledon.
Which is what Andy has done.
This feat ranks so high on the scale of human achievement that all those Shakespeares, Newtons and Cricks (of the Watson fame) are weeping in their graves.
Their puny careers pale by comparison to what Andy has accomplished. Andy has won Wimbledon.
By doing so, he, according to his new best friend Dave, “lifted the spirits of the whole country.”
A cynic might suggest that said spirits couldn’t have been that far down in the first place, if all it took to lift them was Andy chasing fuzzy yellow balls rather fast.
But we must keep in mind that these days the more trivial the achievement the more it’s cherished.
So one shouldn’t be surprised that the country perked up as a result of Andy’s triumph. Never mind youth unemployment, the standard of living dropping precipitously, Britain being run out of Brussels through our local spivs, none of the public services working properly, schools turning children into little savages, hospitals killing patients.
None of it matters any longer. Andy has won Wimbledon.
How then can we reward a chap who chased fuzzy yellow balls so well that the country became happy when it had every reason to be miserable?
Andy’s new friend Dave thinks a knighthood would be a good start. “I can’t think of anyone who deserves one more,” he said.
One has to agree. Of the 60 million people inhabiting the British Isles not one has ever achieved anything comparable to chasing fuzzy yellow balls rather fast.
Of course the aforementioned cynic might opine that, of the nine ringing words Dave uttered, only the first three are true.
But a Brit whose spirits have been lifted sky high would agree wholeheartedly. Chasing fuzzy yellow balls is the highest achievement of all.
But if that is so, then why stop at knighthood? The highest award for the highest achievement, I say.
The Victoria Cross springs to mind. Yes, I know it’s a military decoration, but Wimbledon is like a war, with every match its decisive battle. That makes Andy a hero in the same sense in which Douglas Bader was one.
And a mere knighthood? Really, Dave, how mean can you get? I mean, John Major got that and whose spirits did he ever lift? Not even Norma’s, I daresay.
No, a peerage would be the least we can do. And not the half-arsed life variety either. Hereditary peerage at least, better still a dukedom. Duke Andy of Dunblane – can’t you just see it?
At the same time, Andy must be canonised in the Church of Scotland, with a halo made of fuzzy yellow balls attached to his head.
We shouldn’t accept any lame excuses either, such as that the Church of Scotland doesn’t do that sort of thing.
About bloody time it did, if only this once. Finally, they have a Scot who deserves sainthood more than all those Smiths and Flemings.
Didn’t Dave describe Andy’s deed as a miracle? There you go then. And let’s not forget he won the US Open last year – that’s two miracles right there. Even the RC’s think it’s enough.
Arise, Sir Andy. Ascend, St Andy. You’ve made us all deliriously happy. Britain is back from the dead.