Raising Their Game

And so to Monday and with the weekend rolling around faster than we have resolved once again to stop snorting the Drain Unblocker – the memory lapses are beginning to just ...well ...hmm ...sorry ...where was I again?

But even after some late Saturday night DJ-ing and partying in Brick Lane with Mrs Spurt, a belated return to the ‘Ding saw a full programme of Sunday spurting goodness to enjoy.

Lewis Hamilton cleaned up the British GP, proving he’s more effective in the rain than a one-piece Kagool and with half the GP season gone and a three way split at the head of the table, the Formula One title race promises to be closer than a brother and sister from the West Country.

But the main course was of course Nadal versus Federer at Wimbledon in a five setter which was seemingly destined to last all day. One of the truly great modern finals which Nadal deservedly won, Federer also proved what a great champion he was by conceding such a gracious defeat.

This has all the hallmarks of one of the great modern spurting rivalries which has undoubtedly revived our flagging interest in Tennis (equally possible is that we just needed a post-Euro 2008 spurting fix to keep our summer high going).

However if we’ve one complaint it’s that both Federer and Nadal are too bloody nice by half and we’re missing the sniping, bitching and dissing that normally accompanies this kind of sporting enmity.

Come on boys let’s see some proper needle: someone call someone’s else’s mother something unpleasant: Rafael: make some adverse suggestions about Roger’s clothing line; Roger: suggest to Rafa that it’s only girly men who sculpt that level of buff to play tennis or tell him his biceps are uneven.

In short gentlemen, let’s put some effort into making this a real contest. Both of you need to raise your game.

The return of the four Musketeers?

Work, that unconscionable burden of the drinking classes work kept us occupied for a couple of days – that and the fact there’s been less sporting meat than Frankie’s famous vegetarian breakfast – has meant a slight lapse in our posting schedule but we return to form, on a glorious sunny Friday full of the joys of summer, .or at least full of the joys of an early morning caffeine overload.

Sometimes it’s hard to bear the spurting burden of being perpetually right but as predicted Master Murray went out on Wednesday to the awesome power of Rafael Nadal, not so much having his arse handed to him, but rather having it served on a shiny silver platter, surrounded by flowers and garland and with a neatly peeled poking delicately through the ring.

Still no shame in losing to Nadal, who is quite simply awesome and sets the benchmark for what Murray should be serving for. There’s plenty of time for the Scotsman to raise his game and a Wimbledon quarter final is no disgrace for a 21-year-old. Especially if he’s a Brit.

But to more heartening cricketing matters today and a missed opportunity in our not-so-humble opinion with the announcement of the England squad to face South Africa in the first Test next week, which basically, like our flinty heart when it comes to fat lasses, remains unchanged.

However dropping down a level into the shires it’s encouraging to see not only The Fred scoring runs and the Harminator rumbling ominously up at Durham, but Welsh pace wizard Simon Jones taking a few names and rattling a few wickets at Worcester.

It almost begs the question: could the four bowling musketeers of the Ashes 2005 be finally reunited in one last great adventure next year?

Ironically it’s probably the Hogster, historically the most dogged and dependable of that redoubtable quartet who’s furthest from regaining his place but with Flintoff, Harmison and Jones all getting back in contention our bowling resources are looking a whole lot deeper.

…Now if we can just sort out that that batting

No Hurry Murray

Well with all that Euro football going on we feel we’ve somewhat neglected another of the UK’s major summer sports here on the Spurt, nope it’s not freelance street violence, or taking and driving away convertibles, it is of course that other annual institution of flannelled foolery, Wimbledon.

Now you could be forgiven for dismissing this tennis tourney as an annual middle class love-in or just a very chance to ogle hot blonde Russian teenage girlies in flimsy white dresses, enlivened by the occasional bit of upskirt action (an approach which seems to have found favour with both tabloids and broadsheets alike).

However we if finally came alive for us last night with the epic Gasquet v Murray five set thrilla, in which the ginger Scots sicknote finally shed his ugly duckling feathers and came of age with a stunning performance.

Now Murray’s been a difficult player to like in the past, but here he was all chest beating, bicep flashing Scots Braveheart and finally won over a sceptical crowd with an impassioned never-say-die performance and some exceptional tennis.

The tennis was stunning at times and as Murray roared, Gasquet choked, reduced to some classic Gallic whining and trying to extend his toilet breaks into the murky SW19 twilight.

Murray’s comeback was quite simply thrilling and would have made Lazarus himself turn a slight shade of vermillion.

Nadal and probable elimination awaits in the Quarters, but this is the moment when Murray finally made Wimbledon his own and gave the Henmaniacs a new hero to embrace.

Suddenly a British champion doesn’t seem quite such an impossibility.