As ever, Wimbledon rolls round and summer clears off. A coincidence or something to do with the earth’s natural rhythm? Its odd though, isn’t it – Wimbledon = Rain = Glastonbury. Rain’s traditional at Glastonbury. Trenchfoot and mild typhus too. Mind you, if you want a dry, warm four person tent, they are available. At £900 a throw. ‘Struth!
But Wimbledon’s the place for tradition and I notice that in relatively recent years, a new one has been added. Screaming women. I think it was Monica Seles who started it. Where there once was an audible exhalation of held breath on serving, Monica ratcheted that up to a full blown yell. Sadly (or not) her screaming career was brought to a halt by a deranged person who stabbed her. For screaming? We’ll never know. In screaming’s early days, half-hearted attempts were made to stop it – obviously (audibly) unsuccessfully. One of the loudest screamers, a tall lass by the name of Sharapova was knocked out the other day. Good. BUT BY ANOTHER SCREAMER? The match was ridiculous. Whack, “EEEOOOUU”, whack, “AIEEEUH” for game after game, serve upon serve. OK some of the blokes do it too, but their deeper voices don’t shatter spectacle lenses at twelve feet, being more on a wavelength that starts off earthquakes in Dudley.
Personally, I’d ban it. You don’t pay silly money to be screamed at for three sets, do you? Doubtless, trainers, coaches and the circus of attendant experts who globetrot with screamers will tell you that the scream is an essential part of the screamer’s game. Well I’m sorry, that just doesn’t wash with me. Its quite simply deeply irritating and spoils tennis matches. Imagine what might happen if a star coach announced that wearing a marigold rubber glove on your head improved your serve. Would a doubles match look like a yard full of swift chickens? What if they screamed as well? Yep, I’d dock ‘em a point for every scream. It’d go quiet pdq, I’ll bet you. And repeat offenders would be made to wear marigolds ON THEIR FEET!