An amazing day; or, Andy Murray makes a nation swoon

Today, Andy Murray won Wimbledon.

I shrieked, I yelled, I swore all over my Twitter timeline, where every shot was greeted with howls of anguish or whoops of joy. Stanley the Dog yowled and barked and leapt in the air and all but hid his eyes with his dear paws.

The level of skill from both players was sublime, but the fierce heart of the Scottish lion prevailed in the end. No-one, I wrote, with my fingers shaking, no-one deserves this more.

People from other nations must be slightly baffled that dear old complicated Blighty took such a long time to take such a stellar, gutsy, determined sportsman to her heart. I don’t fully understand it myself. He is adored now, no question, and he should be, but it’s been a rocky road.

Four years ago, I wrote a long blog about Murray, before one of his dogged, failed attempts at the Championship. I’m too worn out with emotion now to write a blog, so I thought I’d put this up instead.

From 1st July, 2009:

The currently agreed narrative on Andy Murray is to do with his Scottishness. Last year, he was excoriated in the press for being a ‘sour-faced Scot’; worse than that, he was, apparently, dour, petulant, chavvish, and petty. Oh do grow up, the columnists and message boards shouted with one voice. Now, there are the tiny green shoots of a wary liking for him, the tentative possibility that he might be a True Brit after all.

It turns out that whole supporting ‘anyone but England’ remark about the World Cup was a joke. It took a very long time for anyone to believe this, despite Tim Henman and the journalist who asked the question patiently explaining it a hundred times. The belief that Murray had no sense of humour was so strong that no one could credit the idea that he might have a capacity for irony.

Still, the Scots/English divide dies hard. No one much likes to talk about it in daily conversation; ‘remember the clearances’ is not going to lead to happy chat around the dining table. But the moment a sporting event takes place, all the old prejudices put on their glad rags and go out on the town to do the fandango. ‘I see the chippy Scots are out in force,’ remarked one contributor to the Guardian comment boards this week. (The Guardian! What happened to their bleeding hearts?)

Despite the fact that the knockers are conceding that Murray has grown up, cut his hair, and learnt some manners, the Scottish thing lingers, like a pea under the mattress of every princess. According to the papers, the moment he loses, which could be in under three hours from now, he will be a Scot again, his honorary Britishness swiftly revoked. Everyone will mutter clichés under their breath and start talking of the West Lothian Question.

Well, I live in Scotland and love it so much that when I am away from it I miss it like a person. One of the men in my local butcher does give me a funny look when I ask for neck of lamb, but I choose not to believe it is because I do so in an English accent. I resist patriotism as the last refuge of the scoundrel, but despite this, every time Murray wins a match there is a tiny cheer for Scotland in my heart. Yet it is more than sheer chauvinism that makes me love him, and love him I do.

I think the reason that people did not warm to him for so long has nothing to do with him being a Scot, that was just a convenient basket of bigotry in which to carry their dislike. I think they did not like him because he did not need them. He refused resolutely to resort to charm. Almost everyone now in the public eye attempts a little bit of charm, so when none if forthcoming it can come as a jarring shock. 

There was a hint of the Susan Boyle phenomenon in the early days: Murray did not look the part. Compared to the smooth Tim Henman, Murray was all rough and no diamond. Newspapers called him ‘snaggle-toothed’ with casual cruelty, complained about his hair, his skin, his general gawkiness. When the absolute fury that he directs against himself when he plays a bad shot leaked out into on-court swearage, he was accused of throwing tantrums. He was not sweet and beautiful like Beckham, or courtly and polished like Steve Redgrave. He did not tick any of the sporting hero boxes.

In my cussed way, I find all the things that people dislike in him only add to my love. I like it that his will to win is so extreme that he can think of little else. (Interestingly, it is this that makes other tennis players admire him; ‘he just really wants it,’ said John McEnroe last week, with a doff of the cap from someone who really knows about tantrums and desire.)

I like that he does not schmooze and oil up and read from the prescribed script. I am in awe of his work ethic: he practises for hours on end; runs, pumps weights and does mad feet-off-the-ground press ups to build up his physical fitness; he plunges himself into terrifying ice baths for a reason I cannot fathom. His dedication to his game is complete. So what if his after-match interviews are not festivals of schmooze?

Oddly though, away from his playing persona, a completely different Murray emerges. I saw a clip of him being interviewed on Jonathan Ross; he was laughing his head off, not a hint of dourness in sight. At home, he likes playing frisbee with his dog (massive points in my book, due to incurable canine bias), has a steady girlfriend for whom he buys presents on impulse, and goofs around with his coaches.

Despite his reputation for rudeness, he took the time in the middle of one of the most high pressure tournaments of his career to send out a little tweet thanking the staff at his local Pizza Express for staying open late on Monday night so they could cook him a pizza. I call that both thoughtful and polite. ‘He is our hero,’ said the pizza man, with staunch lack of equivocation. (When this was reported by the Associated Press, the writer could not resist observing that it was a plain old Margherita, appropriate for a man ‘who has been criticised in some quarters for lack of personality’. Go get your own damn personalities, I say to those quarters.)

After his victory at Queen’s, the first thing he did was not preen for the crowd or pose for the cameras, but run over and give his mum a big kiss on the cheek. Petulant, schmetulant. He is also endearingly self-deprecating, a trait the British are supposed to adore, but seem to have overlooked in this case. When asked about the letter of good luck he received from our great Britannic Majesty, he did not showboat about it. ‘That was very nice of her,’ was all he said.

Still, even if he were the dour, awkward chap of popular myth, I think I would still like Andy Murray. When he plays one of those impossible cross-court running forehands, it comes as close to poetry as sport ever can. Even I, knowing nothing of tennis, can see the beauty in it. I think he puts every atom of energy he has into his game, so there is nothing left over for playing public relations.

He likes the crowd, but you suspect he can do without it. There is a sense of self-containment about him, as he stretches himself to reach the heights he craves. I think he is a purist, and whether he wins or loses this afternoon, I salute that in him.

What are words for?

Today, I used my writing for good rather than evil.

(Of course, I don’t ever use my words for evil, I just like a catchy first line, because I can be a bit of a tart like that.)

One of my eight deadlines is for an outstanding charity. I’ve always sent off middle-class first-world guilt direct debits. These are entirely self-serving. If some smiling women send me a picture of a tap that I paid for, so they don’t have to walk ten miles with buckets on their heads, then I may have the illusion that I am a half-decent human. But as I get older I think just whacking off some soul-salving cash is not enough. Now, I get the brilliant opportunity to give my time, and whatever small skills I have, for a greater good.

The charity needs words: for reports, for fund-raising, for brochures, for its website. I can do words. This morning, I sat down to tackle the thing seriously.

It is possibly the most difficult kind of writing I’ve ever done. I’m used to goofing along in my own whimsical, shambly way. I play about with language, indulge in wild idiosyncrasy, gallop off on tangents. If you are writing something for a serious operation with a serious purpose, you can’t do that. You have to do fairly sober prose. You have to write like a damn grown-up.

The original report inevitably included, as these things always must, some of the business words and tropes that make me sad. There was a bit of delivering, which my Twitter followers will know makes me twitchy. (My contention is that parcels are delivered, not policies or social change or the Olympics.)

I wanted to strike them all out, but then I realised I could not, quite. They really were there for a reason. If a grave corporate operative is reading this thing, wondering whether to make a grant, she may expect some of that business-speak. It acts, I think, as a shorthand for seriousness, as much as I may hate it. It is, in its own weird way, the language of the tribe. It’s no good me hectoring them in poetic-speak and expecting them to get it.

At the same time, what this particular operation does is not only magical and inspiring and life-changing, but very idiosyncratic indeed. I did need to reflect that, and I did want to make a few hairs stand up on the back of people’s necks. So I frowned and wrangled and compromised and cast about for the finest of fine balances.

It made me think about different kinds of writing, and what all those words are for. My secret project, I may tell you because I know you won’t breathe a word, is a novel. I have been in the world of non-fiction for a few years, and now I go back to stories. As I do that work, I am thinking all the time of movement. There is no time for too much of your philosophy, Horatio; there must be pace, the pulling threads that carry the reader through a story, a sense of momentum. There must be the evocative, all the time, in the most economical way possible.

I think, as I write: can the reader see that? I am painting with words, something I have not done for ages. Rather like the riding, it comes back to me, a little rusty from disuse, stored in muscle memory.

On Twitter, a sort of writing I take oddly seriously, and which interests me, there is the need for pith and punch. Just one hundred and forty characters to make your mark, in a crowded timeline, in people’s hectic lives. I yearn for the Noel Coward talent to amuse. He would have been brilliant on Twitter. The best tweets are immediate, surprising, and, like a Saki short story, often have a little lemon twist in the tail.

Then there is the blog writing. Here, I move uneasily between theories and approaches, acutely aware of the newness of the medium. A new Twitter companion said something kind about the blog today, and I was overcome with joy and blushes. But every compliment is a challenge. It’s all very well if someone likes it, but that only means that I now have a standard to uphold. Tomorrow must be better. I can’t give in to tiredness or self-indulgence, but must tap dance and sparkle. Here, the Dear Reader lives large in the front of my mind.

At the very same time, I think the blog has a bit of latitude for self-indulgence. It is my thing; it is free; no one is obliged to take down this book. Part of its pleasure is that I may look back, and see what I was doing with the mare in March, or have little sentimental readings of Frankel’s great triumphs (I am ashamed to say these sometimes bring tears to my own eyes, which is the equivalent of laughing at your own jokes), or read the funny thing the Youngest Cousin said when she was three. It’s like a delightful scrapbook in that way, and I don’t apologise for that.

But then there is the importance of the compact. The Dear Readers give time; the least I can do is offer some half-decent prose. My feeling is that I can be indulgent about subject matter if I can do it in antic sentences. If I give you some roaring adverb action, then you may forgive the fact that I bang on about racing, in which you may have no interest. (Unlike some hard-line writers, I adore a finely chosen adverb, and a good adjective too. I am not Hemingway, nor was meant to be.)

What then of the days when I am shattered and my brain goes phut and my creaking fingers crawl over the keyboard, nothing light in them? Does that mean rank failure? That is why I always hover over the Apologise button; that is why my own private report card says Must Try Harder.

I think perhaps that here the purpose of the words is to divert, in its most lovely, shining sense. I used to use this space for ranting, quite a lot. There would be some political scandal into which I would wade, or something that infuriated me on the Today programme. Ha, I had my forum; I could convert the unconvinced. Watch my incontrovertible arguments win the day. See my rampant feminism roar.

Now, the comments which give me the most profound pleasure are those which talk of the ordinary. Someone is struggling with a degree; someone is battling with melancholy or endless demands or just too much to do. They stop here, and say something like: you took my mind off it, or you cheered me up. My younger ambitious self would have baulked at this; I wanted prizes and bouquets. I wanted cash and love. Older, and more bashed up, I think the tiny, mundane act of diverting is the good prize, after all. It is a small act of connection, to do with the kindness of strangers and our shared human hearts. I think, as I often do about the benign side of the internet, that there is something magical in that.

And perhaps too, in the end, words don’t always have to be for something. They can just be fine things in themselves.

As I was writing this, I found myself putting in that ‘nor was meant to be’ line. I do this quite often; those old references are stitched into my writing mind. I’m always bashing on about slings and arrows, and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to. I went back to Prufrock, at whom I had not looked for a while. One of the things I love about TS is that often I don’t understand what he’s on about. The Wasteland in particular is stuffed with classical references I do not get; some of it is even in German, which I do not speak. It does not matter. I read it for the words alone. Prufrock is more comprehensible, but even after a hundred readings, I am sure that I miss some of its finer points. None of that matters. The words exist, work, dazzle off the page, as their very own selves. They do nothing except be, in some mysterious, harmonious beauty.

Like this:

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

From The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock, by TS Eliot.

 

Pictures of the day are from the archive. Too distrait to take the camera out this morning. Instead, a random selection:

 

I realise, suddenly, that today is 11th September. That was a day when words failed. Even now, it is hard to write about it meaningfully and well, without falling into false sentiment. But it should always be marked.

And on a happier note, words are easy for the great victory of Andy Murray in his first grand slam. Hurrah for the Flower of Scotland! And bloody well done. And go, Andy, go. As I woke this morning to the news, I hoped that all those nasty, carping people who have complained of his supposed surliness, just because he would not vamp for the camera, who insisted he was a grumpy Scot, who suggested that he was not really much good at the tennis and did not have the bottle for the big occasion are EATING THEIR WORDS. And feeling very, very silly indeed.

He’s an exceptionally talented young man, and he’s nice to his mum and he loves his dog, and that should be good enough for any human.

And one very final PS:

For those of you interested, the mare’s wound has healed. I did not sleep last night for worrying, which is why this blog is a bit mad. I rushed up first thing, and all swelling had gone and a neat scar sat where there had been a cut. Carr and Day and Martin Wound Cream, by appointment to Her Majesty the Queen, is possibly the most miraculous product I have ever used, and for those of you with horses, I cannot recommend it highly enough. (As I rub it on, I think: how clever the Queen is to know about it.)

Really, really am stopping now.

This happy breed

A really sweet thing has happened. The British nation appears to be happy.

Obviously, not every last Briton will be thrilled and overjoyed by the Olympics, and the bold brilliance of so many of the competitors from this little island nation. There will still be the grouches and the grumps, and hurrah for them, because if we suddenly turned into a land of Pollyannas it would be a bit creepy and Stepford-ish. But, to judge from the papers and the internet and the voices on the radio, the national mood is light. It has been heavy and filled with portent for a long time. Will the Euro go smash, and drag us down with it? Does anyone know what to do about the rogue bankers? Shall we ever see the return of growth? Now, the sun has come out, and benighted Britons are casting off their cares and allowing themselves a moment of heedless delight.

I don’t think it’s just the success of the athletes, although of course that is a source of admiration and pride. Anecdotal reports show that competitors of all nations are being taken to the battered old British heart. I think it is a more complicated cup of tea. It is that the world has come to Blighty, and we managed to put on a show. It is the lovely evidence that The Young People are not the Net-addicted, workshy idlers that some of the tabloids like to paint them. Their dedication and hard work are everywhere evident, from the track to the pool to the river. They are also all amazingly polite and modest in interview, giving credit to everyone but themselves, thanking the crowd, paying tribute to the people behind the scenes. Perhaps too it is the daily proofs that with determination and spirit and heart and industry, almost anything is possible. That alone is enough to lift the human heart.

There is an odd generosity about these games. Losers are cheered on; the crowds may be partisan, but they pay tribute to excellence under any flag. Strangers are smiling at each other in the street, striking up conversations on the tube, cheering in trains when a Team GB medal is announced.

The cherry on today’s cake came when Andy Murray showed all his fire and brilliance to win the gold medal at tennis. It’s not a game I know much about, but even I could see it was poetry in motion. He looked very young, and very happy, and the whole thing was absurdly moving, and I cried actual tears.

In a matter of days, the whole thing will be over, and we shall go back to normal, and find many things of which to complain. But for now, there is a whiff of joy and glory in the air, and there is something uncomplicated and lovely about that.

 

Some quick pictures from yesterday, when the sun was shining:

Red’s view:

Red the Mare:

Pigeon:

Hill, swathed in early morning mist:

A note before the match: in praise of Andy Murray

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

The currently agreed narrative on Andy Murray is to do with his Scottishness. Last year, he was excoriated in the press for being a ‘sour-faced Scot’; worse than that, he was, apparently, dour, petulant, chavvish, and petty. Oh do grow up, the columnists and message boards shouted with one voice. Now, there are the tiny green shoots of a wary liking for him, the tentative possibility that he might be a True Brit after all. It turns out that whole supporting ‘anyone but England’ remark about the World Cup was a joke. It took a very long time for anyone to believe this, despite Tim Henman and the journalist who asked the question patiently explaining it a hundred times. The belief that Murray had no sense of humour was so strong that no one could credit the idea that he might have a capacity for irony. Still, the Scots/English divide dies hard. No one much likes to talk about it in daily conversation; ‘remember the clearances’ is not going to lead to happy chat around the dining table. But the moment a sporting event takes place, all the old prejudices put on their glad rags and go out on the town to do the fandango. ‘I see the chippy Scots are out in force,’ remarked one contributor to the Guardian comment boards this week. (The Guardian! What happened to their bleeding hearts?)

Despite the fact that people are conceding that Murray has grown up, cut his hair, and learnt some manners, the Scottish thing lingers, like a pea under the mattress of every princess. According to the papers, the moment he loses, which could be in under three hours from now, he will be a Scot again, his honorary Britishness swiftly revoked. Everyone will mutter clichés under their breath and start talking of the West Lothian Question. Well, I live in Scotland and love it so much that when I am away from it I miss it like a person. One of the men in my local butcher does give me a funny look when I ask for neck of lamb, but I choose not to believe it is because I do so in an English accent. I resist patriotism as the last refuge of the scoundrel, but despite this, every time Murray wins a match there is a tiny cheer for Scotland in my heart. Yet it is more than not sheer chauvinism that makes me love him, and love him I do.

I think the reason that people did not warm to him for so long has nothing to do with him being a Scot, that was just a convenient basket of bigotry in which to carry their dislike. I think they did not like him because he did not need them. He refused resolutely to resort to charm. Almost everyone now in the public eye attempts a little bit of charm, so when none if forthcoming it can come as a jarring shock. Even self-styled hate figures like Simon Cowell and Gordon Ramsey will occasionally try to please. There was a hint of the Susan Boyle phenomenon in the early days: Murray did not look the part. Compared to the smooth but bland Tim Henman, Murray was all rough and no diamond. Newspapers called him ‘snaggle-toothed’ with casual cruelty, complained about his hair, his spots, his general gawkiness. When the absolute fury that he directs against himself when he plays a bad shot leaked out into on-court swearage, he was accused of throwing tantrums. He was not sweet and beautiful like Beckham, or courtly and polished like Steve Redgrave. He did not tick any of the sporting hero boxes.

In my cussed way, I find all the things that people dislike in him only add to my love. I like it that his will to win is so extreme that he can think of little else. (Interestingly, it is this that makes other tennis players admire him; ‘he just really wants it,’ said John McEnroe last week, with a doff of the cap from someone who really knows about tantrums and desire.) I like that he does not schmooze and oil up and read from the prescribed script. I am in awe of his work ethic: he practises for hours on end; runs, pumps weights and does mad feet-off-the-ground press ups to build up his physical fitness; he plunges himself into terrifying ice baths for a reason I cannot fathom. His dedication to his game is complete. So what if his after-match interviews are not festivals of style and wit?

Oddly though, away from his playing persona, a completely different Murray emerges. I saw a Youtube clip of him being interviewed on Jonathan Ross; he was laughing his head off, not a hint of dourness in sight. At home, he likes playing Frisbee with his dog (massive points in my book, due to incurable canine bias), has a steady girlfriend for whom he buys presents on impulse, and goofs around with his coaches. Despite his reputation for rudeness, he took the time in the middle of one of the most high pressure tournaments of his career to send out a little tweet thanking the staff at his local Pizza Express for staying open late on Monday night so they could cook him a pizza. I call that both thoughtful and polite. ‘He is our hero,’ said the Pizza man, with staunch lack of equivocation. (When this was reported by the Associated Press, the writer could not resist observing that it was a plain old Margherita, appropriate for a man ‘who has been criticised in some quarters for lack of personality’. Go get your own damn personalities, I say to those quarters.) After his victory at Queens, the first thing he did was not preen for the crowd or pose for the cameras, but run over and give his mum a big kiss on the cheek. Petulant, schmetulant. He is also endearingly self-deprecating, a trait the British are supposed to adore, but seem to have overlooked in this case. When asked about the letter of good luck he received from our great Britannic Majesty, he did not showboat about it. ‘That was very nice of her,’ was all he said.

Still, even if he were the dour, awkward chap of popular myth, I think I would still like Andy Murray. When he plays one of those impossible cross court running forehands, it comes as close to poetry as sport ever can. Even I, knowing nothing of tennis, can see the beauty in it. I think he puts every atom of energy he has into his game, so there is nothing left over for playing public relations. He likes the crowd, but you suspect he can do without it. There is a sense of self-containment about him, as he stretches himself to reach the heights he craves. I think he is a purist, and whether he wins or loses this afternoon, I salute that in him.