A woman sits behind a podium, sweat glistening on her upper lip, shoulders braced against an onslaught. She blinks as camera flashes pop and reporters hurl their jingoistic vitriol at her in beautifully enunciated BBC-English. Their questions all amount to one stinging accusation that brings blood to her cheeks and tears to her eyes: she has let her country down, toyed with and destroyed the hopes of millions, failed beyond hope of redemption and besmirched the flag. She deserves to slouch off into shameful ignominy with Burgess, Philby, Yoko Ono et al. If only we still used Tower Hill as God intended!
Of whom do I speak? Margaret Thatcher? Imelda Marcos? Susan Boyle? Alas, no. I’m talking about a British tennis player, Anne Keothavong, who has the outrageous temerity to be merely a very good British player, rather than the greatest player in the world.
Can there be a clearer picture of how our news media creates, shapes and warps public expectation than the sight of some bald, fat journalists with notebooks berating a hard-working, full-time athlete into tears for daring to get into a prestigious tournament without the patriotic fervour to win it? If memory serves, even the Army Corporal who, having sworn fealty to the Crown then proceeded to sell intelligence to Iran, wasn’t compelled to face the deranged ranks of the fourth estate for an ersatz inquisition.
The group psychosis once called ‘Henmania’ is back and looking for another sap to focus on. Tim Henman was the ideal patsy; good but not quite good enough. The bleating mob could convince itself it had shared in his victories, and enjoy some righteous hand-wringing when he failed to win Wimbledon - a fate which, incidentally, he shared with the vast majority of top-flight, millionaire tennis professionals.
Now the mantle has passed to poor old Andy Murray, whose name sadly doesn’t gel so well with the word ‘mania’. It’s regrettable that he’s had his abrasive edge filed off because someone of his stature really does need to tell the press and the goofy yahoos on Henman Hill a couple of home truths. First, he and his fellows are professional athletes, not agents of imperial destiny. Second, to be competing at his level at all is an achievement (and earning opportunity) far beyond the dreams of bald, fat journalists. Finally, he is not a PR consultant and the very idea that we should think less of a tennis player for being ill at ease with the press is too ludicrous to dignify with an argument.
To take two subjects at random – Iraq and MPs’ expenses - England seems to expect a damn sight too much of some people and not nearly enough of others.
