Piggy Back

It was two weeks ago, as I was passing the TV on my way to bed, that a news reporter stated that this could be Andy Murray's year. 'Here we go again', I thought, 'the same old hype about a British sports star only for it to end with them crashing out before the quarter-finals. It had happened so many times before with Tim Henman.

To be fair, I know nothing about tennis. I certainly didn't realise that Andy Murray is a little bit better at the old tennis game than Mr Henman was. 

As Andy Murray is a Scotsman this lazy comment by a sports journalist grated a little. It reminded me of every single year that David Coulthard raced in Formula One. It became a running joke amongst a group of friends of mine that every year David Coulthard would say, or someone would say about him, it's his year. Of course it never was. 

So in this digital multimedia social networking age I whipped out my phone and decided to put a humorous comment on Facebook. I was about to liken Murray to Coulthard. It would have been a little joke that would only be appreciated by a couple of people but that was fine.

As I was just about to put thumb to touch screen I thought of something more ridiculous to say instead. So it is now on record that I stated, just two weeks ago, that if Andy Murray won Wimbledon this year I would paint myself luminous green and ride a pig naked through the streets.

I chuckled to myself about this ludicrous image and went off to bed not thinking anything of it. Sadly in the following weeks it appears that some 'friends' have picked up on this. People who hitherto had no interest in tennis are now following it eagerly. I'm being kept abreast of Andy Murray's progress via numerous Facebook updates and text messages. 

Some people have questioned my bold statement. Some people have even accused me of being anti-British. This is of course not the case at all. My observation was about the hyperbole that surrounds any British sportsperson, regardless of their abilities, which often leads to that sense of disappointment and the feeling that as a nation we're a bit crap, which could be avoided if we kept our expectations in check. 

However, if by not supporting a Scottish tennis player I'm anti-British then so be it. Especially as he is reportedly not a big fan of the English himself. As we know, quite a few of our colleagues north of the border would quite happily be rid of us Sassenachs. 

Besides, who said that I wasn't going to ride a pig in celebration at Andy Murray winning? It might be the case about that I will be so overjoyed at this result that I'll be prepared to do something so bizarre. 

So today has come and he's made it through to the final. Am I stressed about this? No, not in the slightest. I'll be pleased for Murray, and won't be concerned that a van from a pig farm is going to show up outside my house.

To put it quite simply it's not really going to happen is it? The logistics and legality of the  whole operation would probably make it a little prohibitive to start with. 

Even if there was a possibility that I could ride a pig down the street painted bright green, I certainly wouldn't be doing it naked. It wouldn't be terribly dignified for either myself or my porcine friend. It would also get me arrested.

By all means I will welcome any mocked up photos, or sketches, or cave painting depictions of me on a pig but I'm not exactly going to be proactively seeking out a mighty hog to ride this afternoon. 

I'm sure there will be disappointment amongst many of you. I mean, if it happens it happens but it probably won't.

The positive news is I've learnt more about tennis than I did before. Always useful for a pub quiz. I still don't understand the rather complicated scoring system but I do know that Marion Bartoli won the women's final. 

I've also learned that if you make overblown statements on Facebook some people might take you more seriously than you intended. 

I fear it may have been a statement that will come back to haunt me one day when there's a knock at my door and one of my friends is stood  there with an Old Spot and a tin of green paint. 

If so, then maybe I'll be the one on the news. Hog me up baby!

Under the Sun

I've previously reflected within this blog that I really don't learn from my mistakes, and thus I am doomed to spend the rest of my life repeating the same stupid things over and over again.

For instance, you would think that if you suffered from sunburn once you would vow never ever to suffer that pain again. Apparently though I seem to welcome sunburn as if it's an old friend.

Let's just examine the evidence for a moment.

2004. Lanzarote. 
Ignoring the fact that I was holidaying near the Equator in the middle of July I failed to remember that I might need to apply some sun cream on my back as I took a tentative venture into the warm Mediterranean Sea. In just a short 20 minutes my back and shoulders were grilled like a piece of smoked bacon. For the following days I couldn't put on a shirt without weeping. I made the best of it, it was my honeymoon after all, and despite the pain I still managed to bop to the Bulgarian Bee Gees who were playing in our hotel. Mind you, the 2 for 1 Cocktail hour helped to ease the pain a little. I vowed, of course, never to get sunburnt again. 

2009. Somewhere in the south of France. 
It was a windy day but the sun was shining as we ventured to the pool. Paying more attention to the wind than the sun I failed to apply any suncream to my pale white legs. They burnt. For the rest of the week I avoided trousers and every time I went to the shower I had to dance around so as to avoid too much direct water contact with my legs, because instead of soft and gentle water pouring down my body I felt like I was being bombarded with sharpened hailstones. I vowed, of course, never to get sunburnt again.

2013. Bournemouth. Yes, Bournemouth. 
I was being sensible, at least to start with. I'd stopped on my way to the beach and bought some sun cream. I applied it carefully and liberally across my face and arms. Before extending this operation to the rest of my body I fell asleep on a sun lounger. Some hours later I awoke wondering why my knees felt a little warm. I applied some sun cream but unfortunately it was too late. My legs looked like giant Saveloys, my right foot had increased in size by about a third, and the burn marks on my calves looked like I'd been involved in some sort of industrial accident with hazardous chemicals. I have vowed, of course, never to get sunburnt again.

Time will tell of course, but my track record with this kind of thing isn't exactly encouraging. 

All I can tell you is: don't do it. Its not worth the pain. Just because I have the memory of a goldfish with Alzheimer's doesn't mean to say you shouldn't learn from my mistakes. 

In fact if just one person remembers my idiocy on a hot summers day and applies sun cream when they may not have done normally, I will feel that I've done my public duty.

Just stick the knighthood in the post. Ta!