Rafael Nadal's hungry bum

During the Wimbledon final on Sunday I'd estimate that my mother and I spent about three-quarters of the match discussing Rafael Nadal's bum. (My father maintained a dignified silence.) My mother's point was that surely a man with the wealth and profile of Rafael Nadal can afford to buy a pair of shorts or underpants that fits. I countered that Rafael Nadal has an unusually round, pert bottom that may be particularly, ah, hungry, as it were. My mother reiterated her original point. I said that perhaps Nadal, filled as he clearly is with nervous energy, plucks his bum as a kind of nervous tic, along with fiddling with his hairband and that cute little run he does to the baseline. He certainly does pluck his bum often enough - at least once before every point, just about, or say (with a guesstimate average of 6 points per game, 31 games in the match) about 186 times over the course of the match. Even more when he had to do a second serve.

I still love him. We've been over the Dogtanian thing, haven't we? My mother found time, in amongst the bum talk, to posit that he looks even more like Hong Kong Phooey:



Let's have a poll:

poll by twiigs.com

The Great Crush Gallery: Ladies First

And so, the Rogues Gallery of first crushes of YOU, the reading public. Please excuse use of very small pictures here, I am merely thinking of my poor sister in Mozambique whose computer will crash if I make them any bigger. You can probably click on them to enlarge, should you want a closer look. I think some of you might well want a closer look at certain of these ladies, but let's not anticipate.

First up, nominated by both Scott and Johnny Nexus: East German gymnast Maxi Gnauck.



She is the one who is having her tits stared at, not the one who is staring at the tits.

Next, the first of our Doctor Who nominations, Wendy Padbury aka Zoe, championed by Brian Clegg:



Doctor Who is a popular source, also providing MediumRob's offering of Nicola Bryant, who played Peri:



Nope. Can't see what would appeal to a young boy there.

MediumRob also suggests Soolin of Blakes 7, another show which has done sterling work providing subjects for crushes for the impressionable children of the UK:



Believe me, it was not possible to get a picture of Soolin not looking gormless. Not possible.

Last up from MediumRob is Hadyn Gwynne. I couldn't find any pictures from Drop the Dead Donkey, honest, so I went with -



What a feeling.

Providing stiff competition to the ladies above is Oliver's nomination, Megan Follows from Anne of Green Gables:



Hmm.

And finally, and this picture has been specially chosen because it's the exact poster which was the last thing little Ben Johncock saw before he fell asleep at night, and the first thing he saw when he woke up in the morning, Rebekah Elmaloglou, aka Sophie from Home and Away:



So, to the polls!

poll by twiigs.com

poll by twiigs.com

The least said, the better.

That was the most boring tennis match in history. I actually thought I was going to die before it ended. Nevertheless, I watched it for the full four hours and forever minutes. I started off supporting the ROD for the perfectly rational reason that the FED's clothes make him look like an arch-tit mockery monkey, but by halfway through the final set I was desperate for someone, ANYONE to win, just PLEASE GOD MAKE IT SOON. And yet I didn't switch off. Sport moves in mysterious ways.

So Farewell Then, Andy Murray.

Your tenure as blog mascot was brief, yet brief. As a representative of all fair-weather tennis fans, I vow to completely forget that you exist unless you win a grand slam between now and this time next year, and then get all over-excited about your freckly chops and surly ways again for exactly one fortnight next June (less if excised early).

Now it's all about the ROD versus the FED. (Oh, and the WILLIAMS versus the WILLIAMS, but deja yawn.) I want to support the FED but I have serious trouble seeing past his monograms. Every time I want to get excited about his tennis I catch sight of a little RF on a sock / cufflink / gold-plated snot cap for his nostril, and it's really hard to focus on sport when you're trying to catch your own vomit in your hands. (Someone else's, no problem.) But then there's the ROD's cap. I know there are good reasons for wearing a hat out of doors, protecting your head bla sun in eyes bla bla nudge to All American fanbase bla, but it's such an unsexy garment, because not only is it horribly unflattering (on everybody, readers note), but also, all I can think of is the sweaty hair ridge when you take it off. *Shudder*. The FED would never risk a sweaty hair ridge. Not unless he could get his own head monogrammed in sweat.

Boringly, therefore, I will have to choose my allegiance based on the quality of play on the day. What kind of a way to follow sport is that?

Remorse

Andy Murray is so lovely on Twitter. I mean mainly it's just ice baths and physio, but... bless:

"before i forget, thanks a lot to pizza express wimby village for firing up their ovens after they shut last night just for me. really kind."

He is totally my favourite English tennis player.

That, too, is a joke.

Another Boring Announcement

My phone is working again now. Presumably the intervention of Captain Yawno of Bore (another tennis player, not AM, but I am thinking that I might do better if I disguise everyone's identities. Sure, you won't know who I'm talking about, but I will. I am also filled with disdain towards Smoothio, but I miss Dogtanian and wish he was in this year's contest.)

So, Andy Murray. Is it tiring playing four hours of tennis?

Does anybody actually enjoy post-match interviews with tennis players? Last night's with Andy Murray was a particular gem. After four hours of watching the man be driven to near-death by that Swiss bloke with the hot bod and the piggy nose (I am a close follower of tennis, you understand) I really didn't need to have some short dude with a microphone come out onto the pitch (it's called a pitch, right?) and ask a series of the most inane questions known to humanity. "So what was that like? Do you enjoy winning then? Is it hard work?" Having studied these interviews carefully I know that they are all the same and all questions are answered in exactly the same way: namely, by describing the game of tennis that I have just seen. ie "Well, I started off badly, the other guy was beating me, then I got better, I started hitting lots of good serves / ground strokes / etc, then I was winning, then he got better again, then I got better again, and then I won." It's a bit like having the director interviewed over the closing credits of the movie: "Well, at the beginning the boy met the girl, but then there was a big misunderstanding and the boy lost the girl, and we were all really worried about that, but then at the end of the movie the boy got the girl back so it was all OK." WE KNOW! WE WERE WATCHING!

I have to admit, though, that I the more I watch these post-match interviews the more I love Andy Murray, and I have started from a position of not loving Andy Murray at all. The reason I love Andy Murray is because of his total visible irritation with the whole thing, and you can see on his face the exact moment when he remembers that his management team told him it was very important to make people like him. So last night, desperate to go home and have a sarnie and a kip, blocked from the exit by the interviewer like that last boring bloke who corners you at a party and will not shut up, he got asked: "So what about the closed roof, did it make the crowd better?" He visibly started, and you could read the reply like it was written on his chin: "The closed roof made me lose the first set and I couldn't give half an elephant's fart about the sodding crowd." But the BBC are *obsessed* with the Wimbledon crowd. They want us to believe that it is the best crowd in the WORLD, when in fact it largely consists of people like me who don't watch a second of tennis for the whole of the rest of the year, but who can be relied upon to turn up wearing union jack tops and tennis balls for earrings [not like me - we have moved on now] and cheer the double faults of the guy who wasn't lucky enough to be born in the UK. Anyway, Murray got halfway through his answer about the humidity and the speed of the ball before he remembered that Simon Fuller had told him to say how great the crowd was, and then he did it with about as much conviction as a politician apologising for an unfortunate war. "Obviously, having 15,000 supporters is great. I like having 15,000 supporters. Thanks, 15,000 supporters." That's what I adore about him: his naked contempt for his fans.

That, and the fact he looks just like Ned Flanders' long lost third son. Am I wrong?

Can anyone explain to me why Athletics is interesting?

A whole bunch of people doing exactly the same thing except with infinitessimal differences barely visible to the untrained eye, or otherwise slightly slower or faster than each other to the tune of a millisecond. Amazing to take part in I'm sure, but to watch? Really?

(And should it be Athletics *are*?)

Nadal Wins!

Let's celebrate with some Muskerhound Karaoke!



One for all and all for one, Muskerhounds are always ready.
One for all and all for one, helping everybody.
One for all and all for one, it's a pretty story.
Sharing everything with fun, that's the way to be.

One for all and all for one, Muskerhounds are always steady.
One for all and all for one, helping everybody.
One for all and all for one can sound pretty corny.
If you got a problem chum, think how it could be.

Dagada! Dagada!
They cross their hearts and pray.
Dagada! Dagada!
They cross their swords night and day,
Dagada! Dagada!
They drink their beer and swear. They're faithful to their King.
Dagada! Dagada!
No matter what you say,
Dagada! Dagada!
They’re never far away,
Dagada! Dagada!
They're always ready to fight or to sing.

One for all and all for one, Muskerhounds are always ready.
One for all and all for one, helping everybody.
One for all and all for one, it's a pretty story.
Sharing everything with fun. That's the way to be.

One for all and all for one, Muskerhounds are always steady.
One for all and all for one, helping everybody.
One for all and all for one can sound pretty corny.
If you got a problem chum, think how it could be.

Mario Who?

So, only two days later and I'm all about Rafael Nadal. Any number of reasons for this:

1. Ancic is out of the tournament and thus no longer of interest til this time next year. Tennis a brutal game, as is love.
2. Rafael Nadal is right handed but plays tennis with his left hand just to throw the other players off. How very Princess Bride. I long for the moment when he switches mid-set.
3. Rafael Nadal does a cute little run to the baseline just before he starts the match.
4. You are only allowed 20 seconds before you serve in tennis. Nadal takes 19 seconds, every time.
5. Rafael Nadal is not Roger Federer. No stupid cardigan, no monogrammed blazer, no brutal defeat of the forgotten but still cute Mario Ancic.

But most importantly of all:

6. Rafael Nadal looks like Dogtanian.

Dogtanian:

Nadal:
Someone give that dog a tennis racquet (left paw, naturally).

It's too hot to blog properly

and I am saving all my energy for the Ancic v Federer match tomorrow. Federer should really smear Ancic on crispbread and snack on him like a dollop of taramasolata, but Ancic is the last person to have beaten the Fed at Wimbledon, has been playing like a demon, so is surely in with a chance.

Anyway, I'm going away til the end of the week, but to the home of Big Mouth, so I could well pop up on one or other of our blogs before the weekend. But I will certainly be back in time for the big Doctor Who finale. The smart money is on the Doctor regenerating into Russell T Davies, who I believe is free to take the role. The outside bet is on another regeneration taking place: Donna's...

New Crush, Please

I do not like sport. That is the official line. I do not like playing it and I do not like watching it.

Lately, though, that has become less true. A few months ago I took up swimming on a regular basis (after staying in a hotel with a pool in Canada - oh how I love Canada.) I now go swimming up to four times a week, and have been taking lessons (we are currently working on my Butterfly.) I love the way swimming makes me feel, both physically and emotionally - it's a great way to get rid of stress, and I've been getting that endorphin high I've heard all about but never before experienced. When I was at school, there was no endorphin high. When I was at school, all exercise meant was pain, humiliation and embarrassment.

And now there is Wimbledon. I have watched sport before and even pretended to enjoy it. Football can be gripping, but only really if you care who wins. I've had some exciting nights cheering on Arsenal or France or even England, but there has always been long stretches of play when they were just kicking the ball around in the middle of the pitch and the only way I could figure out who was playing well or who was playing badly was by whether the person standing next to me looked happy or not.

Tennis, though, is different. You can know absolutely nothing about tennis and still be able to follow the game shot by shot, point by point, game by game, and know precisely who is playing well and who is playing badly down to the second. It's psychological, it's emotional, it's unbelievably intense. Also, and this is no small point, they keep the camera in one place so you can see exactly what is going on at all times. I have loved watching tennis as long as I can remember. Indeed one of my earliest memories is of watching McEnroe beat Borg in the Wimbledon final for the first time (1981: I was five). I watched Wimbledon religiously right through to the Sampras era, and then stopped. I'd love to say it was because ball and racquet technology meant that the game got too fast to enjoy, but actually it's because I got a job and couldn't follow the tournament in real time. (I don't like highlights; all the tension is lost.) Anyway, I forgot about tennis and lost track of the players.

Today, after Home and Away, I switched over the BBC2 just to see what was going on. Two and three quarter hours later, I was still glued to my seat, unable to even go to the loo for fear of missing a second of the phenomenal Ancic v Ferrer game. I had never heard of either of these players, but another great thing about tennis is that it can be so beautiful and athletically brilliant - as it was in this game - that it's perfectly easy to enjoy a good game without caring who wins. The winner, as they say, is tennis itself.

Well, I say that, but in practice, within thirty seconds of switching on any men's tennis game, I have always chosen the one I want to win, and it tends to be the one I'd most like to shag. Surely this is human nature. In this case, my heart, and less mentionable bits, went straight to Mario Ancic. God, he is lovely. Tall and thin, just the way I like them, with the most beautiful dark eyes. Not to mention the kind of muscle tone that suggests he could do about six hundred one-handed press-ups. I was completely smitten, and when it looked as though he might lose the fourth set and have to play to a fifth, I was absolutely beside myself. He did me proud, though, and won it in four.

About halfway through that last set, my best friend turned up to have dinner with me. Fortunately she soon became just as engrossed - and just as smitten - as I was. Anyway, about ten minutes after she got here, she turned to me and said: "He looks like that Doctor Who guy doesn't he?" (Not for nothing is she my best friend. She doesn't have a great memory for names, though.)

Well. I couldn't possibly comment. But commenting is what *you* do best:


I am left thinking: could a Croatian tennis-playing David Tennant who has a body suggesting six hundred one-handed press-ups be (gasp) an improvement on the original?

Heresy! Don't even consider it!

And yet I find myself inexorably drawn back to the tennis next week...

Most Depressing Conversation Ever

Me: It's my brother's 40th birthday next week.
My yoga teacher: Is that your younger brother?

I know I'm stiff, but come on! I am thirty-one years old! (Thirty-two in three weeks, but even so...)

When did jogging become running?

I merely ask.

Beautiful Young Minds

While being kept awake on Saturday night by drunk, singing rugby fans, I found myself asking: why is sport important? Not why is it fun to watch, but why do we take it so seriously? The answers I came up with were pretty standard and not all that interesting: because it's the best competing with the best, the sportsmen and women are pushing themselves to incredible feats of achievement, makes your country proud etc etc. I am not remotely interested in sport but I decided that sports fans had a point, but please could they stop singing now.

However, watching Beautiful Young Minds, a documentary about young maths geniuses competing at the International Maths Olympiad, I had to ask myself, why don't we care as much about this as we do about sport? These kids are incredibly talented - in fact I've done maths and I've played football and I'd say I am more likely to represent my country at the latter than at the former, and this is from a girl who can't do a header without closing her eyes. They are pushing themselves to incredible feats of achievement. They make our country proud. But we have never heard of any of them. Name some great living mathematicians.

One answer is of course that rugby is more fun to watch than maths. Fair enough. But another is that these children are the type to be bullied and ostracised at school: overwhelmingly intelligent, cripplingly awkward and shy, a high level of autism spectrum disorders etc. One of the boys in the documentary one a silver medal at the Maths Olympiad, a goal he had been working towards his whole life, and he was too shy to go on stage to get his medal. In short, we don't like them, so we don't aspire to be like them, and we are not interested in their achievements. But why does the fact that they are not social successes mean that we can't celebrate what they can do? We certainly have no problem adoring stupid sportsmen who can barely hold a conversation.

Poignantly, the aforementioned boy who wouldn't go onto the stage was talking about how much he prefered life in China, where his "different" behaviour was explained by everyone there as just because of him being a foreigner. In China, he told us, it's considered a good thing to be intelligent, and if you are exceptional at maths that is considered cool. So why in this country are we so quick to celebrate sporting achievement and sneer at intellectual achievement? Just because it's "geeky"? Bad answer.

This blog loves maths geeks. And suspects that it wouldn't exist without them. The Woman Who Talked Too Much, officially backing the UK at the 2008 International Maths Olympiad!