Wimbledone

It's not often I write about sport. I spent most of my childhood and teenage years playing the thing and will happily slob in front of Sky Sports for hours yet when it comes to putting sport-based thoughts into words I've never really had an urge.

UNTIL NOW.

Like many other middle-class people, I have enjoyed the Wimbledon fortnight. Armed with pheasant sandwiches and tomato juice (just kidding) I've watched the British quest to emulate the success of Fred Perry disintegrate into anti-Scottish extremism for the umpteenth year in a row. It's great fun watching people's opinion of Andy Murray swing from being the best thing since Hawkeye to him then being as Scottish as Billy Connolly reciting the script of Braveheart eating a deep-fried Mars bar while simultaneously prancing along Hadrian's Wall in a tartan kilt.

But enough of Friday's disappointment, today saw the crowning of a new champion. Novak Djokovic out-Nadaled Nadal essentially. It was a fantastic display from the ice-cold Serb, as he made Nadal play every point, something Nadal probably doesn't expect when he whips his devilishly accurate cross-court forehand on every other point. The second set was a masterclass from Djokovic, racking up 13 winners on his way to putting one hand on the trophy. It's often not particularly pretty from Djokovic, who is usually quietly efficient in the way he dispatches his opponents, yet today he came up against someone in a similar mould and stepped up when it mattered. It was a fine display, and it is a rivalry I look forward to watching for many years to come.

Djokovic's bear hug was a particularly useful method of beating opponents.

Elsewhere we saw a new star in the women's game emerge. I'd be interested to know the last time we had two brand new Wimbledon champions, so if anyone could find that stat for me, then it'd be rewarded with a virtual pat on the back. Petra Kvitova is going to be a serious force to be reckoned with. The way she hits the ball is Williams-esque, and what with Williams brothers finally reaching the status of mortality, there is definitely a space to be filled at the top of the women's tennis. Wozniacki is lacking in mettle and some of the European players like Clijsters and Schiavone are about as consistent as an old person's bowel movements.

We saw a huge improvement from Maria Sharapova in this tournament, suggesting her best chance of emulating her early success lies on grass. I just wish she would shut up. You'd have thought any kind of screaming coming from Sharapova would be erotic at least. Wrong. It's a sound you wince at, like the sound of a bear crying when it gets shot. Which is anything but sexy. And as for Azarenka, I thought noises like that only occurred during Halloween, but the howling Belorussian made me question my belief that banshees and other mystical creatures were merely the stuff of fairytales. Get some gaffer tape love, tie it over your face and be quiet so we can enjoy the tennis with the sound on.

Searching for Sharapova on Google Images is an enjoyable experience.

And now we get to Murray. Who like the mints he shares his name with is just a disappointment.

I don't really have a problem with the man. Sure he's said a few jokey things about England's World Cup opponents, but then several centuries of heads on spikes will pay testament to the frosty relations between England and Scotland. If we want Chris Hoy, we're gonna get Andy Murray too. And lets face it, who else have we got? Britain's number 4 is probably just some tramp who found a tennis racquet and enjoys beating pigeons with it.

On Friday Murray got completely schooled. He got a lesson from Nadal. He wasn't the first to be taught a lesson by the magical Spaniard and he certainly won't be the last. During the French Open and Wimbledon, Nadal has not played to his absolute best, a factor that will make the defeat even more difficult to take for Murray as many believed Nadal was there for the taking.

All seemed to be going so well. The crowd was excited, it'd been about four days since a Murray tantrum and Andrew Castle was practically calling the Scotsman a Wimbledon finalist. All it took to turn it all back into usual British disappointment was a missed forehand. He was 2-1 up at 15-30, when the ball bounced for an inviting and easy forehand. Instead, Murray sent it a few inches long, leading to long sighs, some tutting and Harry Redknapp making claims his 'nan could've done better'.

After that, we saw why there is still a gulf between Murray and the top three of Djokovic, Nadal and Federer. When Djokovic lost the third set tie-break to Jo-Wilfried Tsonga in the first semi-final despite having two chances to get to his first Wimbledon final, did we see him miss a string of forehands? Like hell we did! The Serbian came out in the fourth set, tore Tsonga a new arsehole and wrapped everything up as though the third set was just a figment of people's imagination.

If tennis fails, Murray is going to start doing impressions of Professor X.

When Murray missed an opportunity, it haunted him like he'd been cursed by a court side witch. It is encouraging to see significant improvements in Murray's mental game, but he still doesn't possess the steely resilience needed to make that final step and fulfil his potential. If he can sort this out like he's sorted out the tantrums, then he has the shots in his arsenal to get that first Grand Slam.

Because there's no shame in losing to a player like Nadal, who is probably the finest human being to ever hold a tennis racquet. The combination of athleticism, never-say-die attitude and a selection of quite frankly, ridiculous shots mean that only Björn Borg is in the same league as the man from Mallorca. While his performance today was fragmented to say the least, this is probably the first time in a good few years at Wimbledon that Nadal has wobbled. And compared what us Brits have had to endure over the last few Wimbledons, we'd happily sacrifice Greg Rudseski to Imhotep if we could have some of what the Spanish were having.

Away from the actual tennis, we saw a flawless performance from the ball boys and line judges alike. Well, I say line judges, fortunately for them they have a pretty swanky computer system to help them out if they turn up to the courts after a few too many Pimms. I've never understood why they ask old people to be line judges at these tournaments. For one, if I am to go by what my nan is like, then old people can barely see who's playing, let alone work out if that 130mph serve clipped the line or not. And another point, I often find myself cringing when some Eastern European powerhouse sends a supersonic serve arrowed straight for the middle line judge's forehead, only for said 60 year-old man to have to dislocate a hip in order to dive out the way of the ball. Why not just get a more mobile, better sighted set of judges and let the oldies sit in the shade so they don't wind up like over-ripe prunes.

And finally, how long is it going to be before the roof on Centre Court stops being the 'engineering miracle of the 21st Century' and starts being a roof? Everytime rain is threatened, I swear Sue Barker and co. start nursing a semi in anticipation of the roof sliding over Wimbledon's flagship court. It's as though the roof (which is so ugly the design team might as well have drawn a moustache on the Mona Lisa to finish off their quest to ruin everything beautiful) turns the BBC team into cavemen. I'm waiting for the day Tim Henman steps out of the commentary box and starts bowing before it, proclaiming 'IT STOPS THE WRATH OF THE CLOUDS AND TURNS NIGHT INTO DAY!'

It's a roof guys, honestly I know it seems farfetched, but most of us have had them since the dawn of man.