I’ve never understood the hatred for Andy Murray. Yes his hair can get a bit unruly at times and he made that joke about the England football team like 27 years ago but the bottom line is he’s the best tennis player to come out of Britain. Ever. I saw his first ever ATP singles match live in the flesh in Barcelona back in 2005 so have seen him grow from a scrawny whinging wee slip of a lad to the big muscly whinging b*stard he is today.
I also had £140 on him to win the recent US Open at 2/1 so was devastated on Thursday night to watch his quarter-final exit at the hands of Kei Nishikori. It was a tremendous contest lasting just shy of four hours that Murray almost pulled out of the fire before eventually going down 1-6 6-4 4-6 6-1 7-5.
It was a fine match and it’s been a great summer for Murray, who claimed a second Wimbledon title and struck gold, again, at the Olympics.
140 sovs is still 140 sovs however so however much I appreciated the efforts of the dour Scot part of me still wanted to plant an overhead smash right into his testicles.
With both Manchester and Glasgow derbies taking place early bells on Saturday and some tasty boxing to follow on the night it was obviously a 1/50 shot that I would end up on the drink all day. I don’t know whether it’s just old age or a more sinister mental malaise but these days I find myself starting to get a bit anxious and edgy in the days leading up to a naughty all-day bender. I suppose running about with your c*ck out in boozers can be dismissed as high jinks at 18 or 19. But when you are still doing it at 37 and genuinely thinking you are a council estate Oliver Reed? Hmmm.
And in the taxi en route to the pub on Saturday I felt the devil himself whisper in my ear, “You’re not strong enough to withstand the storm.” Fast-forward 20 hours and the devil was right. I woke up curled around the base of my own toilet. A shaking, sh**ting mess. It transpires I had lost my wallet, house key and, bizarrely, a shoe lace in the drunken carnage. On the plus side however I did have 11 pictures on my camera phone of me cuddling a man who looked vaguely like John Hartson. Some of them topless. So, every cloud and all that…
On Tuesday Britain was bracing itself for a September heatwave. Yes it was pretty warm but is there any need for Public Health England to stick their patronising noses in every time it gets a bit hot and sticky? Advice this week included ‘drinking plenty of water’ and ‘sitting in the shade’. Seriously.
What PHE really should be doing to strike a chord with the general public is insist it is too hot to work and order everyone home until it cools off, while making free Soler’s available on the NHS when temperatures climb into the high twenties.
Thankfully the sun wasn’t the only thing that was hot on Tuesday. The Champions League returned and I smashed it by backing both teams to score in the PSG-Arsenal match in a treble with Bayern Munich minus three against Rostov and Barcelona minus three against Celtic. Booya.
Cheeky’s Punt of the Week: Liverpool to beat Chelsea at 9/4 (Hills)