Oh Fuck (most of) YOU WIMBLEDON GITS

Here's an odd bit of trivia. Some 15 or 20 years ago, I used to look forward to Wimbledon as "something to do" on the July 4th weekend. More or less. With nothing going on except obnoxious firecracker noise and no place to go that wouldn't be hot and humid, I could at least watch Wimbledon.

They had interesting players then. It wasn't always Serena and Federer winning everything.

Why Wimbledon always coincided with the 4th of July, I don't know, but most years it did. Not this year, of course. Fortunately, I no longer look to "amusement" of this type to distract me from anxiety and/or depression.

It's supposed to distract a lot of people. Americans are always supposed to go nuts because Serena Williams is an American (ah, but what color) and maybe some American guy gets into the quarter-finals at least. Mainly, it's supposed to mollify the Brits. It's their biggest sports event. And gee, LOOK AT ALL THE CELEBRITIES.

Really? With the Giddy-Yapping lately, and Iain Dunkin' the Country, and Camoron, people WANT to see the Royals (I spared you Kate and hubby grinning at each other) and that fucking Beckham twit, and all those toffee-nosed herring-gut idiots? Duke of Wessex Sussex Essex and Kinky Sex? Who ARE all these idiots? And where's the Duke of Earl?

Frankly, I didn't recognize a lot of the names (Gary Lough? Matthew Pinsent?) but I accept that, as I accept not knowing who the funny impressionist on "Britain's Got Talent" was doing. It's a Brit thing. But even so, THESE clods are worth looking at? Hell, the idiots on the COURT aren't worth looking at!

I've been bored with the men for 10 years now. 15. They're almost all charisma-challenged robots. From Sampras to Federer with various goons in between...I could care less. The women? I still mourn the passing of the tennis skirt, in favor of the dykey shorts that Navratilova introduced. At 15, Hingis was a joy on a windy day. Very skimpy knickers, and sometimes they'd be wedged in her crack, too. Then came the shift to thigh-length shorts under an unyielding dress. It's rare when any woman's skirt flies up as she races around the court, and it's rarer when it's worth looking when it does.

At a time when England's fortunes are sinking, the pomp and excess of Wimbledon comes off as pretty snotty. There's also nothing too stereotypically British when most of the players are loudmouths, swarthy, and prone to fist-pumps. Or as Flanders & Swann sang, "they argue with umpires, they cheer when they've won, and they practice beforehand which ruins the fun."

Now there are four major tennis events and they come at you very quickly. The novelty of Wimbledon being played on grass, and a helicopter shot of Big Ben have long worn off. Andy Murray and the sight of royals and idiotic "stars" like Beckham keep the host country's viewers glued to their sets? Kind of pathetic.

So FUCK OFF, (most of) you GITS. The exceptions? Well, you can excuse Billie Jean King and those types of people for showing up. They have nothing better to do. They have to remind people, and themselves, that they are still alive.

Second, I excuse the Duchess of Kent. I always liked her. She'd hand out the trophies (why her, I have no idea) and she'd always be especially kindly to the LOSER. The microphones were off, but it was obvious she was consoling the loser with a thorough knowledge of the game, and an older woman's sense of assurance that there would be more opportunities in the future.

I thought it was quite British that instead of her ugly, inbred goofy husband, she was the live wire, same as Princess Diana was compared to Prince Charles. Same as the whole "God Save the Queen" bit, which always suggested that there was no king because he probably was still alive but was locked in the loo.

As I understand it (and my eyelids have been at half-mast on this for the past 5 or 10 years), My Old Dutch retired from giving out trophies years ago, and some years, wasn't even there, due to internal problems. Maybe she got an operation or something, and can now sit for three hours watching boring matches, and even ingest strawberries without discomfort. Whatever the story is, from what little I've read about her, she seems like one of the few "titled" people who isn't a toffee-nose, and who teaches kids, and appreciates her wealth and title and tries to at least justify being on the planet.

That's the DUCHESS OF KENT, not Prince Michael of Kent or Princess Michael of Kent, whoever the fuck THEY are. And sitting nearby, is that the name of a pasta sauce or a person: Francesco Ricci Bitti. Tell you what, Senor Bitti, you can be a hero if you take a pound of uncooked spaghetti, and slap the smug smile off Beckham's face. And his kid, too.