I’d just like to say from the start that Sir Andy Murray is the best tennis player this nation (depending on where you choose to put the borders) has produced since Boudicca ruled. Not that she could hit a ball, too busy fighting. He is a startling athlete, an amazingly tenacious competitor and to win Grand Slam tournaments and Olympic gold medals in the generation of Federer, Nadal and Djokovic is quite frankly outstanding.

But…

Sorry, I’m still in praise mode, mustn’t forget that. The hip injury is a major pisser. I mean, he’s only 31. Ok, ‘money worries’ probably won’t be an issue in his retirement. Which he’ll probably spend either as a pundit, a commentator or possibly by attending the charm school which he managed to miss out completely in his formative years. And later years. All years.

But…

His intention to retire speech had me in tears. Not as many as were shed by him, but tears. Because its not fair. Not right. He should have a few more years in him yet but no sportsman wants retirement in a wheelchair and I dare say that 5-set tennis at 90mph is not the best ‘therapy’ for a really dodgy hip. He wants to play knock-up tennis at 60 like proper people. Like English people.

But…

No, I mustn’t. Not today. Today its farewell (either after the Aussie tournament now, should he survive it, or at Wimbledon in the summer) to Andy Murray. The best BRITISH tennis player EVER. Not even any competition for that title. Double Wimbledon winner, US Open winner, double Olympic gold medalist and one of the top four players in the world, when the world was blessed with 4 incredible exponents of the game.

But…

No! No mention of whingeing, not a word about whining, nothing to do with the inherent Anglophobia, nothing about miserable bleeders AT ALL. Not today. Not allowed. Today I come to mourn Murray, not to bury him.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx