Screen Break

I cannot decide which is the easiest job in the world: being Gary Lineker, a newspaper columnist, or being a television tennis commentator.

Lineker, you may recall from the Harry Kewell libel case, sits in the green room at Match of the Day on a Saturday evening enjoying those little triangular sandwiches they do so nicely at the BBC while some journo chats to him on his mobile telephone, a conversation the hapless hack then has to turn into 900 or so well crafted words, to appear beneath a generous picture byline of Britain's favourite silvery-haired purveyor of potato-based snacks.

Money for jam, you might think, and I have to say I have wondered if there might be some sort of reciprocal arrangement I could benefit from, under which a former England international striker, obviously one of the more articulate ones - Tony Woodcock, say - might write this column for me based on a 10-minute phone call. It would certainly help streamline my very busy schedule and might free me up for any cheese 'n' onion crisp ads going spare.

Failing that, I reckon I could do Andrew Castle's job.

Castle, I believe, was once Britain's No1 tennis player, or fairly close to it, during an era admittedly when we were not very strong in the sport (Tommy Cooper, I think, was the No4 at the time), so he brings to Wimbledon coverage a smidgin more credibility than I might (only a smidgin, mind). But is that relevant at all?

I was watching a match last week when a 22-stroke rally, during which Castle was rightly silent, was ended by an exquisite forehand pass, to which he responded: "Oh, yes." Oh yes? Oh bloody yes. Talk about an easy life.

Not only that but, for Saturday's big one between Andy Murray and David Nalbandian, Castle's duties in the commentary box were shared by the former Wimbledon champion Jimmy Connors and another former British No1, John Lloyd (from the era when Keith Harris and Orville, I think, were No4). Castle seemed very much the gooseberry in this threesome. As far as I could tell, his role was to serve up a series of fairly excruciating cliches - "people say he is the next Tim Henman, but he's still working on being the first Andrew Murray" and "you couldn't have written a better script" were two of the choicest - while his colleagues gathered their thoughts about the tennis.

Connors is quite good, without McEnroe's mischief but with a similarly sound instinct for what you might call the tennisness of it all. "He should try moving his feet a little more," he advised when Murray began to flounder a little in the first set. "When I was nervous," he said, "I used to concentrate on the movement of my feet, take my mind off the inside feelings and work harder on the tennis."

As it happens, the "inside feelings" we thought might blight Murray's progress in Saturday's tie or in the previous one against Radek Stepanek seemed to play little part in two marvellous matches, with Murray's most uncomfortable moments being in the stilted conversations over the breakfast table he was obliged to share with Garry Richardson as part of the BBC's build-up to his big matches.

"Did you sleep well last night?" asked Garry. He had slept fine. "Are you keeping a scrapbook?" he asked Murray's mother Judy. No, she was not. "Well, there will be more from here later," said Garry.

"There's no way I'd let Garry Richardson into my house" was Pat Cash's comment on this riveting exchange. Clearly there are lessons the 18-year-old can learn from seasoned veterans.

I am not sure exactly what the BBC expected to get from Murray anyway. He is after all, despite all his facility with a racket, still an 18-year-old, and being blessed with a couple around that age at my place I know how uncommunicative they can be, unless they want money. At some point in the week the wunderkind told us he liked to listen on his personal stereo to something called Black Eyed Peas, but that was about as far as it went.

On which subject, when exactly did sport become more rock 'n' roll than rock 'n' roll? We have surely reached that point when the language at Wimbledon is worse than at Glastonbury.

There was nothing at all at the pop festival to frighten the horses, with undisturbing rock music from the likes of The Killers and Kaiser Chiefs, whose rock posturing was achingly familiar to those of us who grew up with Deep Purple and Whitesnake, wholesome troubadours such as KT Tunstall, who would be perfectly at home in a 70s folk club, and cheery children's telly presentation from Vernon Kay and Lauren Laverne.

At Wimbledon, meanwhile, Tim Henman was demanding a Coke in the style of Joe Pesci in Goodfellas, Pat Cash was calling Sue Barker "a short arse" and Sean Connery, collared by Radio Five Live after Saturday's match, during which he bagged almost as much screen time as Murray, let loose an extraordinary tirade against the tennis authorities and the government, whom he urged several times to get off their "arshes and do shomething". "That's bullshit" was his terse response to a fairly mild comment from his Five Live interlocutor.

It can surely be only a matter of time before Andrew Murray turns round and tells Garry Richardson to f*** off.