Nick Ryan, in the Saturday 'Tiser :
IF Elvis decides to stage a comeback this week, with Jimi Hendrix, John Bonham and Nero forming his backing band, I hope and pray they don’t televise the event on Channel 7. I’d hate to miss it.
I’m halfway through a fortnight where I avoid Channel 7 the way Tony Abbott avoids the realisation that he’ll never be Prime Minister again.
Tony’s problem is delusion. Mine is bloody tennis.
Tennis is the game invented for men who believe balls should be sliced and women who want them changed at regular intervals.
Having spent some time around tennis tournaments as a kid, I discovered early on that not every dickhead plays tennis but every tennis player’s a dickhead.
Give me 22 yards of rolled turf, some movement off the seam and a flashing cover drive any day.
Channel 7 has put plenty of time and cash into covering the Australian Open and I’m sure they do a good enough job of it to please an audience whose expectations are so low they actually want to watch tennis in the first place.
They’ll get plenty of eyeballs over the course of the tournament but they won’t get mine.
Considering I’m a man whose default position is lounging on the couch watching sport on TV, that says a lot about my loathing for tennis.
Not even the comedic value in a comeback by the great American serve and volleyer Hank Pfister could draw me in.
The list of things I would rather do than watch tennis would take a lifetime to complete but only eight letters to write. Anything.
I would rather watch my parents recreate highlights from their honeymoon than have to endure a single set of tennis.
Ask me to shave down a polar bear before handing him the razor to return the favour and I’d do it in a flash if it meant I’d never have to endure another match on centre court.
I will happily have a latte with every single MAMIL here for the Tour Down Under and smile through conversations about cleats, hill climbs and scrotal chaffing rather than watch a single backhand from some bloke wearing his cap around the wrong way.
Strap me to a chair made of squid jags and make me watch a bunch of other people’s kids perform in a nine-hour ballet concert and I’d still consider myself more fortunate than the man who had a stroke while channel-surfing and got stuck watching the mixed doubles semi-finals.
I’d rather sit with Lleyton Hewitt at a Crows game than watch his final match.
I’d work as Donald Trump’s hairdresser and moonlight as Clive Palmer’s proctologist before I’d sit through another three-setter.
I’m aware that millions would disagree with me but the majority isn’t always right. Justin Bieber sells a lot more records than Jason Isbell, so being popular doesn’t mean something’s any good.
So while the rest of you watch your rallies and your volleys I’ll be searching for something, anything, more entertaining to keep myself amused.
Does anyone know if The Bolt Report is available on DVD?
PAFC. Forever.
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