Wimbledon diary

Published on Sunday 4 July 2004 00:08

YOU couldn’t make it up. Last year it was quick snaps for the family photo album, this year it’s mini- documentaries for whom only goodness knows. Maybe Richard Williams has the same movie-related delusions of greatness harboured by his daughter Serena.

If he has, he could be in for a rude awakening because it is unlikely any major studio or network will be rushing to snap up his efforts should the early rushes be anything to go by.

On entering No.2 Court, he pointed his camcorder at both stewards on duty and quizzed them about their views on the RAF, before entering the press area and repeating the question to those seated next to him.

His view on our air force? He was simply satisfied that they weren’t "trigger-happy". I’m sure the end product will be a right riveting watch.

TIME and time again it happened. Thanks to the GBR beside their names, those ignorant of the nationality of most of the brightest young Brits competing at these championships assumed the Murrays, Bakers and Baltachas of this event to be English.

It was the same again when Jamie Murray eventually lost to his young German opponent Sebastian Rieschick in the boys singles.

"Typical, England lose to Germany yet again," bemoaned one. Just as well Jamie’s brother Andy did not overhear. A few weeks ago at another tournament in England, such assumptions saw one mouthy opponent dispatched with a flea in his ear.

Whining about line calls, the American, who shall remain anonymous, spat that as Murray was English it was little wonder he was getting the benefits of home advantage.

IT’S not just Henmania and the grass surface that Andy Roddick has come to terms with. He is now laying to rest the wideheld belief that Americans don’t share our dry sense of humour.

Asked to assess that embarrassingly one-sided Williams v Capriati quarter- final, he said he had nipped to the bathroom and missed it. I suppose that was literally a piss-take.

RODDICK obviously wasn’t in the bathroom shaving off his newly-acquired beard. Superstitious, he refuses to mess with the status quo during tournaments.

Since embarking on a winning streak after arriving at the Queen’s Club for the Stella Artois having forgotten to pack his razor, he has steadfastly rejected the idea of shaving until defeat forces him to find another lucky charm.

Suppose his girlfriend should be thankful that there is such strength and depth in the men’s game at the moment, or she could have found herself dating Rip Van Winkle.

PANIC in the press area this week when one careless journalist failed to stub out a cigarette properly before throwing it into the bin. It was a metal receptacle so there was no danger of the building being burnt to the ground, but it did produce a hell of a lot of smoke. Which is why one foreign journalist created merry hell.

"Call the fire brigade," he hollered time and again, presumably hoping some of the firefighters performing stewarding duties on the nearby courts would desert their posts to rescue the situation. No need, though.

Hearing the commotion, a canteen clerk finally ambled across to put him out of his misery, dousing the bin with a glass of water.

Much ado about nothing, maybe, but when it comes to nosey and cynical journalists, few believe there can ever be smoke without fire.

TALKING of journalists, one of them was feeling pretty chuffed the other morning after getting fan mail lauding them for their creative efforts and their knowledgeable coverage of these championships. But pride comes before a fall.

Noticing that the e-mail was a work communique, the writer decided to investigate just what business the admirer was in by searching the internet for the company. It’s amazing how quickly the smile turned to frown when she discovered her No.1 fan had sent the e-mail from the offices of a company that deals with the intellectually challenged.

SITTING through several player interviews a day listening to some of the most bizarre - no, actually stupid - questions it is easy to surmise a few journalists here would quite easily fall into that "intellectually challenged" category.

Maria Sharapova and Serena Williams, the two best female tennis players competing at the All England Club this week, were also two of the most disparaging interviewees. The incredulous looks and the side swipes they volleyed back at those who riled them with their stupidity were a joy to behold.

Yes, young Maria may be beautiful but her withering looks and no-nonsense style has cooled the ardour of a few male colleagues who have decreed her spikey personality renders her too high maintenance. The poor girl will be devastated.

AND finally ... poor John McEnroe. Umpteen grand slam titles, numerous television shows, a best-selling auto- biography and a second career as an accomplished commentator, yet there he was, forced to play second-fiddle to Pat Cash, he of chequered-headband fame and little else of note.

When the pair left the Centre Court after doing a television peice and the tennis groupies charged, only Aussie Cash was accosted and the shunned Mac the Mouth skulked past, totally disregarded.

I cannot be serious!