2004-10-05 - 1:56 a.m.

So a few days ago in my diary I made some easy, cheap jokes at the expense of Tim Henman, claiming he offered nothing but a dull monotone and a portfolio of excuses for a career of underachievement. It�s easy to jibe at those we don�t know, those figures caught in the media�s cynical gaze who have their complex personalities reduced to a set of primary-colour stereotypes for the benefit of satirists, headline writers and a public with an appetite for reduction.

It�s fine to poke fun at these people, for we have no personal relationship with or knowledge of them. And so I can lampoon Tim Henman with impunity � it�s not like I�m ever going to meet him.

Things I did yesterday:

1. Met Tim Henman.

What are the Jesusing chances of that?

He was meant to be taking part in a new tennis venture called Superset, in which eight players compete in single-set matches over a day for a �250,000 prize. Tim pulled out due to injury. Thing is, as I and a friend spoke briefly to him, at no point did I remember how glibly I had picked on him in this journal just a day or two before. If I had, I would surely have been overcome with guilt and perhaps would have blurted out �I have lampooned you, Tim Henman, British Tennis Number One, in my online journal, read by at least, ooh, a person, but now I find you are a charismatic and affable chap and am swathed, nay wreathed in shame. I throw myself upon your mercy.� It turned out he had a few aches and pains but was actually tired from various tournaments. �So it�s just an excuse?� I asked him, referring to the supposed injury. �Yeah, it�s a bit of an excuse.� he agreed. Now at this point, had I remembered my earlier comments, I would probably have said �Aha! In that case I retract my apology, you are by your own admission a workshy fop with an excuse for every occasion and no stomach for a fight�, which though regaining me the high moral ground, would probably have just made things worse.

So it's probably for the best that we just had a quick chat and went our seperate ways.

The tennis was apparently shown in about n+1 countries, and if you saw it, you probably saw me, as I was sitting in the front row. Bitches, call me the Jungle VIP. Or the Wembley Arena VIP, which would be a bit more accurate. Or, in fact, the Wembley Arena Friend of Someone With A Pass That Says VIP, which is more accurate still but carries marginally less kudos. I�m not a huge tennis fan but being that close to the action was pretty interesting. Not as interesting as it was for those people sat in the front row at the far end though. You see, this being a new venture with a few experimental ideas, there were bound to be some things the organizers hadn�t factored in. For instance, if you are sitting at ground level at one end of a tennis court some eight feet behind the player at that end, you run the constant risk of being fatally injured by a tennis ball being hit from the other side of the net at comfortably over 100mph, missing the opponent�s racquet and lodging itself in your eye socket, compacting eye and brain matter into your skull. One poor women was hit by about every fourth ball around most of her upper body. If she ever wants to get her husband put away on a false wife-beating charge, now�s the time to take the polaroids.

Note: If you read kudos as 'koo-dose', you are American. Please go back and re-read it as 'cue-doss' or I'll have to come round and beat you 'upside' 'yo' face. Thanks.

Another innovation in Superset is that the single set matches must go to ten games all before there�s a tie-break. Sounds like an interesting idea, but believe me, at 11pm in a hot arena after seven interminable hours of big serving tennis, there�s nothing remotely Super about watching Mario Ancic finally break Greg Rusedski in the twentieth fucking game of a set which feels like it�s been going on since the Iron Age. Bit of a pisser for Greg, who�d beaten Boris Becker in the first match in a tie-break after that set went to 10-10, then got through a semi against Tommy Robredo only to lose the epic final, but more of a pisser for the crowd who had to sit through all the matches in between. And a bigger pisser still for me, who had to sit through the crowd living up tennis spectators� well-deserved reputation for having the lowest comedy threshold of any recognised human group. Truly, they will laugh at anything. You�ve seen them at Wimbledon, chuckling at a pigeon or braying when a player hands his racquet to a ballgirl. Well here they laughed when a serve was hit so hard it lodged in the net. These people are laughing at physics. They even laughed when their fellow spectators were hit by flying balls. Even the ones getting hit were laughing. If they weren�t going to die of internal haemorrhaging, they were damn well going to die of inane-laughter-induced asphyxiation.

Yeah, so here�s me, grumbling about my free courtside seat at a spectacular event in which I got to see some great young players and legends like Becker and McEnroe playing great tennis. What more do I want, to be sucked off by Charlize Theron and showered in gold while it�s going on? Actually, I hear Charlize�s technique�s rubbish. I can say that, it�s not like I�m ever going to meet her.

*waits*

*waits*

Profilage - Previosity - Nextitude