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FIFTY...NOT OUT
by Steve Ward
Wimblebury
As this edition of the Edge hits the
newstands it will be early August
and the damp and cold days that
constituted June this year will be a
far distant memory. Yeah, but. Two
things happen every year in June,
and although it was a couple of
months ago, the chronology doesn’t
really matter to the point to be
made here.
Mid-June sees the annual Festival
of Middle England. No, not the
church fete, or the family fun day
(an oxymoron if there ever was
one) but that gathering of the white
and genteel class that descends on
London SW19 every year. Or, if
they can’t get there in person, they
at least attend in spirit via the wonders
of modern technology. Or in
this case, the BBC, which isn’t necessarily
the same thing. Yes, we’re
talking about Wimbledon.
This year, and with a level of wit
that was as exceptional as it was
unexpected, certain members of
the crowd started shouting “C’mon
Tim” at Andy Murray. What these
people were doing, and you have
to assume it’s unknowingly, is
backing the argument made above
that Wimblebore is a completely
English middle classes thing.
Murray is Scottish, and worse, a bit
of a raggamuffin. He likes to win
things and is prepared to be nasty
to do it, if that’s what it takes. Sadly
for him, he plays in an era where
there are not one or two, but three
exceptional players that make it
very difficult for him to excel. But
that’s not the point here. No, the
point is that the crowd don’t want to
have to cheer for a hairy rough
boy; they want a nice, clean cut,
mild mannered Tim Nice But Dim
that represents them and all they
aspire to. The sort of man they
would want their daughters to
marry.
The annual Lawn Tennis
Championships is one of the so
called crown jewels of televised
sport that, by law, Rupert Murdoch
can’t buy up. Which is a huge
shame, because the cosy
BBC/Wimbledon relationship needs
a damn good shake up. Years ago,
the BBC was arrogant enough to
assume it was the natural home for
televised test cricket - until all of a
sudden it lost the rights. Then Sky -
big bad Sky - took over and all of a
steveward2000@hotmail.com
sudden we’re watching a totally
different game. Hawkeye, hotspot,
dozens of cameras, HD, super slomo.
Do you really think we’d have
all those innovations if it were left
to the BBC? Of course not. We’d
have old buffers in blazers. Or
maybe, in what they mistakenly
thought would be a modernising
drive, old buffers in jumpers and
slacks.
The BBC’s coverage of the tennis
is fronted by Sue Barker. Sue
Barker, for chrissake. The most
annoying public school jolly hockey-sticks
head girl on the planet. It
says it all about the BBC’s image of
itself that it would allow such a total
ninny anywhere near a camera.
However, at exactly the same time,
the complete antidote to
Wimbledon also happens to be taking
place. In fact, antidote is what it
should be, but it too has succumbed
to the white middle classes
and is now exclusively their preserve.
This time we’re talking about
what the Daily Mash brilliantly
described as “a muddy hellpit filled
with twats”. Yup, Glastonbury. Or,
as you’re supposed to call it to
show how hip and on the ball you
are, Glasto.
So how can all that mud and
squalor really be the same as
those nice people in nice clothes at
nice old Wimblebore? Well, for a
start, it has its own rituals and air of
good humoured camaraderie which
are just as likely to result in the call
for a sick bag as the tennis people’s
behaviour is. Then there’s the
fact that the audience is exclusively
white. And, just like its SW London
counterpart, Glasto will not be playing
host to the inhabitants of sink
estates. Food and drink at both
venues is ridiculously overpriced -
another means of keeping the oiks
at bay.
There’s one more similarity. The
BBC. Yes, Glasto is now another of
the BBC’s staples and one it plugs
relentlessly. To be fair, the coverage
is not as anodyne as that of
the tennis, but it is very careful not
to frighten the horses. Nobody
sticks a camera in a tent to see
what’s going on, because they may
well get a nasty shock. The phrase
‘sex and drugs and rock and roll’ is
not a lie, but the BBC pretends it is.
Having berated the two events for
being a bit too middle class, we
should balance things up a bit by
stating that nobody begrudges people
sticking together with others of
their ilk if that’s what turns them on.
Neither should it be anyone else’s
business if being ever so slightly
naff isn’t a matter of concern to the
individual concerned.
But you can’t help but wonder if the
BBC couldn’t be a bit more adventurous
in its coverage of major
events. It seems stuck with a mindset
that thinks that just because
something’s been done a certain
way for the last 30 years, then it’s
the only way to do it.
Which is why Mark Lawrenson still
has a job.
Sadly.