Tennis has a problem. Like rugby union, and football, and motor racing it has become dull and predictable.
Gone are the days when some aristocratically dressed chap, wearing plus-fours and a Tam o' Shanter hat,or woman in an ankle length billowing skirt would gracefully serve the ball over the net to an eager opponent only too willing to return it, and in turn have it returned back to them, and so on, in what became known as a 'rally,' until some inspired shot, such as a cunningly executed pass, or lob results in a well earned point. Accompanied by a gentlemanly, or ladylike acknowledgement of the opponent's skill and precision. In good grace.
In grainy stop/go black and white film stock. Like that of Portsmouth winning the FA Cup in 1939.
Now it's all about 150mph serves that even Superman would have a job returning, as the ball zips by him like a missile and either slams the backboard, or castrates the Bernardo boy. Or it's about women who look exactly like men doing the same thing, and grunting like a man, or a grizzly bear on the job.
Or Man United winning the Premiership, or the toffee nosed twat in the most technologically advanced car winning the Grand Twix.
Most UK residents prefer the sedate gentility of cricket, which involves an opponent hurling a missile, as heavy as a half-brick at ones head whilst one attempts to fend the onslaught off with half a willow tree.
Although sporting purists tend to agree almost unanimously that no sport can compete with Having A Spontaneous Volcanic Eruption With A Complicit Member Of The Opposite Sex.
Andy Murray failed to make the Wombledon final. Too much hype.
More sport related Spoofery as we get it. Or they do...