Day 58 – Extraordinary Rendition

I sit here writing this and sort of keeping one eye on the final of the French Open. By the time you read it may be over and you may know who the winner is but please allow me to keep you updated on the action in this household for the next half hour or so.

My significant and way more mature and learned about tennis than I will ever hope to be is an anally retentive, nothing is better than big left arm and skinny right arm Nadal fan. My wife thinks that because she once worked in a Spanish restaurant and can speak the language she has a connection to this boy. She thinks that because she may have been to Spain or at least driven through Spain she has some claim of anything Spanish. So obviously we mercilessly take the piss out of her, especially when he or any other Spanish dude who happens to play tennis, or any sport really, loses, which has been quite often this year. Although most of the time she gives it back as good as she gets it – especially when Federer loses – she has been known on occasion to lose her temper with both us, the family and the player. Unfortunately, since her commentary is in addition to the broadcasted commentary, it means that we are unable to turn her volume down. Unfortunately too, the Spanish generally, have done quite well in sport over the past few months. So we have heard it and got it repeatedly. Our kids have gone hungry and without sleep because she has been cheering on the Spanish.

The Portuguese government has even been in touch, querying her allegiance to the Portuguese king (is there such a thing?). I am in fact concerned that because of her traitorous behaviour to Portuguese sport she could become the target of extraordinary rendition. I can just imagine the Portuguese Special Forces screaming to a halt outside our house in their Seat Voltarens, all blinged up in their gold chains and medallions, chain smoking and drinking strong black espressos while shouting at each other and selling vegetables. I have a mental image of her being tortured by Morinho and promising to support Sporting Lisbon for eternity.

And so Federer is right now on the brink of breaking serve for the second time in this first set. The volume has again been raised a notch or two. The neighbour has just called, concerned for our children’s safety. If this was Australia, she would have been arrested for swearing and maybe even for talking to fast. Thank god we live in Africa, for the moment anyway. She is safe. It is unlikely that our children will eat tonight. And maybe tomorrow neither, if Nadal loses this match. There will be a period of mourning as the king of clay is laid to rest. Spain and probably Portugal too will declare an international incident. Switzerland, long revered for its neutrality will launch intercontinental ballistic missiles, completely destroying all the coffee shops and peri peri chicken outlets in Madrid and Lisbon. The expat communities in these Mediterranean backwaters will flea to first world Europe, in Barcelona, the forever losing and hard done by Catalans will declare independence and fly the white flag. In the southern parts the resorts will go belly up, thousands of illegal Moroccan and Russian immigrants will book tickets to their home countries, sick of the post war fall out from this tennis match.

In Wimbledon, the strawberries will wither and most probably die. The cream will sour. And Andy Murray’s mom will drink tea in celebration of his elevation to the gay boy of grass.

May all the Swiss tennis players in the final of the French open win all that they deserve. May all the Spanish players in the final be infested with the fleas from a Moroccan’s camel.

Until tomorrow.