Our Continental and American cousins frequently
deride the “English summer” and this year I must concede that it has been
particularly dismal. It has rained with monotonous regularity throughout May,
June and July, and if you are not wet, you are unseasonably cold, crabbed,
cabined and confined. Cavorting in the
bracing sea, tanning on the sandy beach or eating deliciously alfresco
have been rare, much-desired pleasures.
A
typical wet Summer scene
Yet there are compensations. Driven indoors, we
have revelled in TV sport. Roland Garros, Eastbourne, Queens Club and Wimbledon
have given us ample opportunities to follow our ephemeral tennis favourites –
Stephanos Tsitsipas, Cam Norrie, Matteo Berrettini in our household and the
only occasionally admirable Novak Djokovic and Aryna Sabalenka. A feast indeed,
and so many stirring memories of Jaroslav Drobny captivating us in 1954, of the
epic battles of Lew Hoad and Ken Rosewall in the 1950s and the long dominance
of Rod Laver, followed by the era of Borg and brat McEnroe (You can’t
be serious!) - now a sage white-haired pundit. The ladies had Little Mo,
Maureen Connolly, winning everything in the early 1950s while British hopes
often rested on chubby, smiling Christine Truman evoking Betjeman’s famous
poem:
Miss J Hunter Dunn, Miss J Hunter Dunn
Furnish’d and burnish’d by Aldershot sun,
What strenuous singles we played after tea,
We in the tournament – you against me.
Love-thirty, love-forty, oh! weakness of joy,
The speed of a swallow, the grace of a boy…
The tennis was closely followed by the Euros
football, which brought moments of joy but ultimately despair to the English
fans. Yet the truth is that the Italians were the better side and Southgate
made a bad mistake asking last minute subs Rashford, Sancho and Saka to take
crucial penalties. After the game, recriminations have bubbled up into racial
discord, a sad and unnecessary outcome. We now move on to The Open golf, the Lions
in South Africa (how much we still miss the darting brilliance of Joost van der
Westhuizen), cricket in a bewildering variety of formats, ushering in the Tokyo
Olympics (with no spectators). Let’s hope there will be plenty to cheer us up!
Lockdown is gradually easing up amid much
dithering by our government and a Cassandra’s chorus from “the experts” prophesying
doom, aided and abetted by the ever-sensationalist media. People of my
generation (the 70s +) rather like Lockdown, as we have been terrorized into
seeking security at any cost. Frankly, restrictions on our movements are no
great imposition as we are no longer up for exploring the Wookey Hole caves,
trekking along the Great Wall of China, ascending to the heights of Manchu
Picchu, Bungy jumping in New Zealand or mooning around the Taj Mahal. For me, a
leisurely stroll down the Leas at Folkestone is plenty excitement, as a recent
fall saw me break a front tooth and painfully injure my ribs, so I shuffle
about with a stick, groaning like some old codger. Yet my spirits remain high,
full of optimism and warm goodwill to my fellow men. Carpe diem!
SMD
14.07.21
Text Copyright © Sidney Donald
2021
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