AT HOME in Brighton on a humid Sunday afternoon, I’m crashed out in the lounge.
I’m twittering away with my man dutifully prepping the evening feast like a good little house elf.
I’ve got the windows wide open, my bare legs are sticking to the leather couch and my whole body is sweating out Saturday night’s excess.
And along with half the globe, I’m watching Wimbledon.
When I tuned in to the final set it was a level playing field, each man on about 11 games – with all to play for.
Both players were showing hardly any signs of fatigue, a true testament to their stamina, whereas I break a sweat after a few sit-ups!
The match played out with both men keeping pace with each other game for game, until the scales eventually tipped in favour of Roger Federer, earning him another victory and making him the greatest Grand Slam winner the sport has known.
The former owner of the “world’s greatest” title was Pete Sampras, who watched his throne usurped right before him over strawberries and cream in Centre Court.
When the camera lingered on Sampras as if he was in the dock on trial, I imagined him – eyes closed behind his shades, feet and fingers crossed, invoking all sorts of demons and spells – to curse the young Swiss pretender.
Ancient and terrifying incantations in Latin muttering through his gritted teeth like a voodoo ventriloquist controlling his Federer doll to deliberately throw the game Andy Roddick’s way.
He could have gone the other route too by feeding him dodgy bananas to give him a funny tummy and have him hurling all over his back-up racquet.
My musings beg the question, how far would you go to protect your crown and vanquish your enemy, to remain on top as number one?
Every day we hear about the unlikeliest of people going to extraordinary lengths to ensure their place as King of the Castle is firmly secure.
Would you hire an assassin to bump them off?
Frame and shame them perhaps ... set them up for a very public fall from grace?
Or would you go all in and sacrifice yourself, following your nemesis over the falls like Sherlock Holmes?
There are many paths that one might take to ruin a foe. Whatever you think, one thing I now know for certain, I definitely should stop watching Columbo.
Its storylines are warping my grip on reality!
Everywhere I turn I see nefarious, underhanded crooks at work within our walls, grandiose deceptions untried and unpunished.
Oh wait, sorry, my mistake – that’s Parliament.
In conclusion, I have to give a big shout out to Scotland’s very own Andy Murray (“Britain’s” had he won).
Quarter-finals last year, semis this year, I think I’m detecting a pattern, people.
The title is your’s next year, mon frere. All the best to you!