Semi-final Woe

My tennis heros go back a long way. I loved Bjorn Borg, thought John McEnroe was great and have latterly wondered at the marvels of Pete Sampras and Roger Federer.

Maria Sharapova has never been my cup of tea. Don't know why. She is a great player, gutsy and very able. But I don't like her. Maybe it is her off court (press conference) persona that I don't like.

Whatever. She has just gone out at the French Open. Beaten in straight sets by the Chinese player Li Na. I expected La Sharapova to advance. But then I thought Arsenal would win the English Premier League.

What struck me was Sharapova serving two double faults in her final service game. I've not seen anything like that in ages. It's something that I would never have expected from someone like her.

She was attempting to collect a career grand slam here in Paris. And I've got to say there'll never be a better chance for her to do so. There are no overpowering stars of the women's game at the moment.

The world number one Caroline Wozniacki doesn't seem to know how to win grand slams and the Williams sisters are out injured.

So it was an open field especially with the top two women's seeds eliminated before the last 16.

More importantly I will be less down on myself when I serve double faults in a game.

It happens to players far better than me when the stakes are really high.

The Blizzard

An exciting new quarterly has hit the world. It's called The Blizzard and essentially jam-packed with top football writers and me.

I have an article in issue number one about the African Nations Championships - known as the CHAN. It was held in Sudan back in February and I went to cover it for the radio station.

Just before I went I bumped into top football writer Jonathan Wilson during one of his visits to the Guardian. And since I owed him at least one drink for his help during the world cup last summer in South Africa, off we trudged to the bar downstairs at the Guardian complex.

During our natter he mentioned the concept and asked if I'd do something. What else could I say but yes.

Glad I did because it got me to consider the tournament in a different way and also look at my surroundings. Can't say that I'd recommend Khartoum as a must-see place. But then I wouldn't say avoid it like the plague.

The Blizzard, on the other hand, receives unequivocal backing.

But I would say that, wouldn't I?

Wellcome Time

Obviously a trend is developing here. I arrive in London and go to the Wellcome Centre. It's not for the exhibitions nor the tales of medical mysteries but the cafe.

Though I am going off the coffee. I think the cup is too big. My cup runneth over?

Is life becoming so run of the mill that I'm getting picky about the cups?

But one does have to be judicious. A few weeks ago the powers that be at St Pancras erected the five rings of the Olympic movement. It's part of gearing up for the games next year.

The rings are rather splendid and dominate the moment of arrival. I find myself today thinking about back home.

The French Open started on Sunday and my mind is back at Roland Garros and the hard hitting thrills of clay court tennis.

I went to the press day at the tournament on Friday and listened into the likes of Andy Murray, Roger Federer, Maria Sharapova and Novak Djokovic.

Djokovic is the head honcho of the moment not having lost a match this year. Seven tournaments under his belt, two of them on clay and he beat Rafael Nadal in Madrid and Rome.

This is seismic. It means that for the first time in many years, the French Open isn't about waiting for the final between Federer and Nadal. Or actually the Nadal victory because he always beat Federer in Paris.

Poor Rog. In his press conference he was being quizzed like an also ran. The one time boss of the circuit was reduced to admitting he was not among the favourites and hailing another man's unbeaten start to the season.

The mighty is falling but there's about 40 million dollars sloshing around his accounts to help him and his family cushion the fall.

Nadal and Djokovic will be out showing their wares on Monday and Tuesday. When I get back to Paris I'll do my best to go and give moraml support to underdog Rog.

Eye Life

My conscience has been exercised. My right eye was crunched by the ball during the Saturday morning kickabout. It has been watering ever since. Should I take time away from work to rest it?

It seemed a strange question to pose as I sat on the Eurostar. Given that I could see through the streams of water, it didn't seem serious enough to lay down tools. And I wasn't exactly sick.

Of all the injuries I have known playing football, this is the strangest. I was shocked by the bruised ribs at the start of the season but a gammy eye playing football? I am not that committed. Moreso since it wasn't a foot in the face going for a header. Just a deflection into the face.

Oh well. Probably a trip to the doctor when I get back to Paris on Tuesday or Wednesday.

It's impeding my mission to finish reading Simon Kuper's latest book called the Football Men. I plan to interview the author and do a review for the radio station website next week. WE were supposed to pow wow last Friday but then the Financial Times called him and said they wanted words on the FIFA boys and those allegedly wanting cash or favours to vote for England.

Am up to page 284 and there have been some fascinating insights into how the modern footballer conducts himself.

Of all their woes - tabloid stings, derisory pay rises and being benched - there are no tips on what to do when you get a ball in the face.

Perhaps they're such men, it never happens to them.

Church Life

Going to church is becoming such an emotional experience. End up in tears virtually each time. Must be something to do with the stained glass windows, the pews, I don’t know what.

I could be tired.

I nearly made a horrific mistake on Saturday. With the eldest out shopping with her mother for Grecian style sandals and the boy at a party, I said to the second child let’s go to the Gare du Nord to collect my tickets for Sunday.

I checked in my bag to make sure I hadn’t already got the tickets – I’m in that frame of mind at the moment – and sure enough I had the tickets and they were for Saturday night rather than Sunday morning – sounds like a film title that.

So a flurry of calls ensue to cancel the babysitter, the restaurant and the missus.
The big Saturday night out on the terrace is off.

But the upside of that is the chance to go along to Sunday morning service.

And what a joy it was. As it was the ‘all-age service’ it meant there were loads of children flying around and making it all like an Italian wedding – or in fact my only experience of an Italian wedding.

I quite liked collection time. A little boy sidles along the aisles egged on by his mother and proffers the receptacle. I plonked in some change and others added envelopes.

Each time there’s a collection I remember one when I was with my schoolmate Danny at Norwich Cathedral. His dad was the bishop of the edifice so it was kind of logical that we’d go to the service there.

The dean took some service or other and caused no amount of consternation in the congregation by exhorting them into a “paper collection”.

I guess me and Danny might have torn up the service sheets since that was the only paper we could muster.

I used to do collections when I was a youngster at church. Trip down memory lane and all that. Perhaps that’s the reason for the emotion.

But the final hymn was the Lord of the Dance. We used to sing that at primary school in assembly as well. If I’m like this two weeks before Easter, then I’ll be a quivering wreck on Easter Day come Thine be the Glory.

The Wellcome Hysteria

Sundays aren't really ever going to be the same. For what seems my entire life, I've been watching Andy Gray and Ricahrd Keys spout on about football on Sky TV. But they've been sacked because of their sexist comments and there's going to be a new tranche of presenters. I didn't really consider whether they were any good. They were simply there. But then I'm not a Sky subscriber, I've merely watched incidentally while at work os have never been in a position to wonder whether I'm getting value for money from my subscription.

Quite a few people didn't like the duo. Keys complained that 'dark forces' had been responsible for the leaking of their 'banter' to the newspapers. Sad.

As I wait for the Chelsea Liverpool showdown, it seems apt that I trundled off to the Wellcome Institute this morning. It was an exhibition called High Society and related how drugs and narcotics had got a grip on society.

In some places, tribes chew on roots to surge into collective hysteria. I breathed in the exhaust fumes of the Euston Road to get to the institute and the pollution obviously contrived a potent mix with the incense which was wofted around at St Pancras Old Church.

They sang some great old hymns at church. Perhaps I should have laid off the coffee at the Wellcome cafe.

Going Courtauld

There's something wonderful when art and exercise unite. The Courtauld Gallery provides such an opportunity. The rooms are at the top of a grand staircase. Of course there's a lift but I don't take lifts.

The pictures range from the Impressionists to Fauvism and quite a bit of 18th century. I was particularly taken by a portrait of two brothers 'in the gracefully relaxed attitude recommended by the contemporary manuals of deportment'.

I might adopt the phrase. No, I will adopt the phrase.

Despite the relentlessly grey skies in London today, it's mild. And I feel unusually exhilarated. It might have something to do with being shown how to use the self checkout facility at Sainsburys in Balham. It might have something to do with the double machiatto at Caffe Nero a few minutes later.

I used to go to the cafe to take a break while I was sorting out my dad's things after he died. That was the summer of 2009 and 18 months on the sorting out still hasn't finished.

Certainly isn't helped by heading off to art galleries. But I feel I have to get a helping of art into the system before voyaging to Sudan.

The radio station has decided to save a few pennies by sending me to the tournament to cover the knockout stages. So while my French colleagues get to peruse the group stages, I fly in for the adrenalin rush.

This means I am only there for 10 days and I stay in Khartoum rather than having to flirt with Wad Medani.

Fine by me. It also gives me a few more weeks of football. The team was taken apart on Saturday. It was not pleasant. We were missing the star defender and star midfielder and there were a couple of walking wounded. The skipper says that was no excuse.

Obviously have to put it right on Saturday. My preparation for that?

Lots of tennis.





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