High life
Sporting times
Taki
Where was I? Yes, it's Wimbledon time and all that, but first one final word about football. Last week's Spectator lead- er, 'Not very clever', was the apotheosis of football commentary. For any of you who missed it, its thesis was that the English look and play like Neanderthals because they lack 0-levels. I couldn't agree more. One needs a minimum of grey matter in order to recognise one's team-mate from one's opponent. Wearing a different colour uniform isn't enough. Let's face it, intelli- gence counts, but men like Dennis Wise (a man so irrelevant he wouldn't be picked for a third division team in Malta) mistake yobbery for technique. Watching the English play football is the equivalent of Rupert Everett and Madonna trying to act. `Les Anglais' hyperventilate like novice lovers, as opposed to smooth Don Giovan- nis like the Dutch, Spanish and Portuguese (as well as the African team that's posing as French).
The best definition of good and bad foot- ball came from my father after watching Brazil in 1958. 'I can see Jesus playing foot- ball like an Englishman, but never God.' Old dad was president of AEK, a famous Greek football club, and knew a thing or two about the game. And speaking about `le football', I'll bet my last devalued drach- ma that l'awocato Agnelli will land Patrick Kluivert, the Oranje centre for Juventus. Bon giorno Torino, adios Barcelona. What joy it was to watch great football; even the Turks and Yugoslays were fluid, graceful and artistic. In fact I made a vow never, ever to watch English football again.
And now to Wimbledon. I am obviously pro Kournikova, although she's much too Slavic-looking for me. I'm for her because sporting ability has always been overshad- owed by good looks, no ifs or buts about it. Remember Gussie Moran? She was not very good, but a damn sight better to watch than all those fat dykes of the late Forties and Fifties. Gussie was the girlfriend of my great buddy Philippe Washer but, like all American women, she insisted he be faith- ful, a physical impossibility for the Adonis that was Philippe. (Being among the top ten players in the world, and a multimil- lionaire to boot, did not help matters. It all ended in tears in Cairo, where I offered my services to the distraught Gussy, but she threw me out of her room.) Carol Fageros was another case. During the late Fifties she was worse as a woman on the tour than I was as a man, which made her really lousy. But she made the cover of World Tennis twice, whereas the poor little Greek boy never even got a mention (I shoulda sued for discrimination). But that's the way the cookie crumbles. The great Maria Bueno had terrific legs, almost as good as Steffi's, and a German tournament, Ham- burg, once paid her more than Margaret Court Smith because of them. Bravo Ham- burg, says yours truly.
Happiness, needless to say, was Anna beating Mademoiselle Testud, or perhaps it's Madame Testud, as I'm sure there are still some brave Frenchmen around. Another French ugly, Natalie Tauziat, a former Wimbledon finalist, is leading the charge against 'la bella Anna'. Tauziat writes in her book that all the women play harder against the Siberian sexpot in order to teach her a lesson in humility. If memory serves, the last person who tried to do that was the ridiculous David Mellor in his goodbye speech to Putney voters in 1997.
Anna, incidentally, is a hell of a player. Just because she hasn't won any tourna- ments means nothing. I'd rather be good- looking than a winner any day. My Spartan ancestors knew a thing or two about beau- ty. The Mellors, Chris Evanses and Hislops of the time were thrown out with the rub- bish off Mount Taygetus. Anna is known for losing her concentration. Who wouldn't if you had a posse of randy hockey players after you? The Williams sisters, on the other hand, are very concentrated. I am not a betting man, but if Venus or Serena get through to the final, my money will be on Pete Sampras. And, by the way, have any of you seen the latest Nike ad? A black woman athlete makes a plea for pay equity in sports. She pleads to the camera: 'We play as hard, sweat as hard, practise as hard as the men. But we aren't paid as much.' The fallacy of the pay equity issue in sports is predicated on the labour theory of value. If Martina Hingis, another cutie-pie, deserves as much as Sampras, because she works as hard, then I deserve as much as Salman Rushdie because I try harder, I suf- fer more when writing, and because he's always wrong and I'm always right. Just think. Who would you rather see in shorts, Rushdie or the poor little Greek boy? Anna Kournikova is the right answer.
Previous page
