She's spent the last fortnight waddling around court like a crippled duck, giving a set start to each and every opponent and still swatted them away like a minor irritation thereafter. Not because she's warmed up, got her creaking part-time muscles going, ditched the zimmer frame and morphed back to her old self, but because her opponents have sniffed the finishing line and gone as soggy as an over-dunked biscuit.
Most of them are one-dimensional baseline thwackers, off Bollettieri production lines, led by Queen “I smack the ball well hard me” Sharapova who has only managed to do as well as she has because at least she has courage. The rest not so much. Start losing and it's all tears and fake injuries.
Worse, get within sight of victory and, lord, if I hadn't earned so much money from laying them on Betfair when they're serving for the match, I'd give up watching altogether. Safarova, in that situation just now, conjured up four double faults. For fuck's sake, she might as well have served underhand. Actually that would have worked because when she did get some serves in at all of 25 miles an hour Ivanovic - possibly the dumbest tactical sportsperson the world has ever seen, bar a couple of jockeys I still haven't forgiven – who only needed to keep the ball in play to win pat-a-cake off a frazzled wee girl with daddy issues, instead belted her returns straight into the net.
They'd be better off televising me and Pete Davis down Park Hill, Croydon...