In a display of geriatric chicanery that would make a vampire blush, Venus Williams has once again trotted out her ancient sinews on the hallowed grass of Queen’s Club, defying both the calendar and the grim reaper’s impatient tapping. The woman is older than some fossil fuels, yet she glides across the court like a spectre with a backhand. Meanwhile, the British tennis revival is being trumpeted louder than a Tory MP’s expenses claim.
Apparently, we have a new crop of homegrown talent so fresh they still smell of puberty and public-school entitlement. The crowds are beside themselves, swooning over every grunt and volley as if witnessing the second coming of Fred Perry. But let’s not get carried away.
This is Britain. We invent sports and then immediately become dreadful at them. Still, as Williams limbers up to defy the laws of biology, one can’t help but feel a gin-soaked swell of patriotic pride.
Or is that just the gin?
