Smashing Luv, absolutely smashing!

Damn, where the hell have I been? Well where the hell have you been? This ain’t all on me, you know. A while back I was getting some serious heat about updating this thing. Ok, maybe not serious heat, but heat nonetheless. I appreciate that, I truly do. But such has been my vagabond existence lately that aside from an afternoon of drunken debauchery with Senator Gleyze (yes I know, the words “debauchery” and “Gleyze” are redundant) and Gimpasaurus Rex on Hong Kong’s bucolic south side, there has not been much to say or show. Honestly, you need pictures of moving vans in front of my flat? Of course not.

But now summer is here and I have finally found my way back to work thanks to Uber Editor Pietro’ Comparelli and his glossy tai-tai rag-mag Prestige. So here we are in foggy London town, where I have been sent on assignment to write something on the Wimbledon fortnight. Jolly good. But one thing is missing in foggy old London town: fog. I packed a whole bunch of cold weather gear including a few rain coats, or as they call them in England “Macs” (don’t ask, apparently you have to have pasty flesh and bad teeth to understand http://blogs.guardian.co.uk/sport/2008/06/23/serena_plays_herself_into_unse.html).

But as the man says, the weather has just been smashing around here. Sunny and temperate, even old Nelson Mandela showed up for his 90th birthday party in Hyde park the other night wearing nothing more than a smile and a light sweater (sorry luv, I meant a wooly jumper).

So here I am, thanks to the generosity of Lord Dow of Famulak, no more than a few blocks away from Hyde Park, shipwrecked in Belgravia with all the other poseurs floating around Harvey Nick’s and Harrods. And here I will stay until it rains again. I ain’t leaving London until I get wet. After all, what am I going to do with all those “Macs” in me bag?

Roger and Me (Wimbledon 2008)

Don’t look for me in the above picture because I aint’ there. This was a shot I took of THE Royal Box from my seat not too far away on Wimbledon’s center court. Just below us, Roger Federer was elegantly kicking some chump’s ass in a most routine manner. Roger was only moderately sublime because that was all the sublimeness he needed to beat one Robin Soderling. This being me second day on center court, it was all so damn routine, even a tad boring. Glancing around the joint I couldn’t help but notice the legion of sartorially bedecked sycophants in THE Royal Box, where one MUST wear a tie and jacket.

Well, you know I live for people, and moments, like this. There was Lord-what’s-his-name in his straw hat nodding off whilst his wife, Lady Chattering, was leaning over him and flapping up a storm with some pearled-out-Duchess-wannabe. Two seats over, another striped shirt sycophant had half his finger up his nose. When he withdrew it to inspect the contents, I quickly reached again for my trusty camera. But before I could get off a few snaps, Sir-Striped-Shirt thought twice about the royal booger and simply shooed it off his finger. Drat, another shot missed.

Even Lord-what’s-his-name had aroused from his stupor and was now nodding his head on cue at Lady Chattering’s endlessly inane banter. “Oh yes, my dear. Well of course, yes. Quite, quite, yes – aha, aha, jolly good love.”

It was all so civilized and rarefied, truly a thrill for someone like me who possesses an abiding respect for the inherent elegance of the landed gentry populating THE Royal Box.

Still, as riveting as it was, once again I focused me gaze towards the tennis but soon found meself unable to parry this enormously pregnant woman a few rows below who had stood up and effectively blocked out most of center court. Before I get into that, let me back up the manure truck and digress an hour or so here…

… There are moments when I wish me sister Kerry and her encyclopedic knowledge of trashy pop culture was nearby and one of those occurred during me time in the Rolex suite at Wimbledon. There was a crew of us journalists on assignment from “China”, nine to be exact, who were graciously afforded the opportunity to eat drink and be merry in Rolex’s suite just off center court with a great perch of the entire Wimbledon complex.

Trying to be the best possible guests we could, we decided it would be rude to turn down all that delicious champagne and Pimms on offer and even though we were working we started every day the way one should: with a claret or two of superbly chilled champers. We would troop off to center court for a bit, do a stroll around the lovely grounds and then come back for another delicious lunch. The great thing about the Rolex suite, at least according to one of the official Wimbledon photographers stationed nearby, was that they intentionally keep their numbers low. Instead of having 50 or 60 visitors, there is never no more than 20 or so.

Well after a couple of laps around the grounds I decided to head back to Rolexville and throw meself into a pile of refreshing Pimms. Sitting on the terrace all by me lonesome, I could not help but notice the woman who had come out and settled in two tables away from me. Even I could recognize that it was Roger Federer’s long-time girlfriend Mirka Vavinec. Federer, of course, is not only Swiss but he is a huge Rolex guy and features prominently in all their marketing. She nodded and smiled ever so slightly and then within minutes Federer’s American agent, perpetuating every stereotype you ever had about sports agents, was swooping about. He grabbed the Rolex guy and then disappeared before reappearing minutes later with some big old pregnant blond woman hiding behind a huge pair of designer sunglasses and some guy wearing a black t-shirt and blue jeans. And to think that I was feeling a tad under dressed in the Rolex suite.

They seemed to be friends of Mirka and after exchanging French air-kisses settled down for an afternoon tea. A friend from Hong Kong sat next to me, nodding toward their table he murmured, “Gwen Stefani.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Gwen Stefani,” He said, “You know, the singer.”

“Oh yeah, of course , sure, sure,” I replied half embarrassingly and immediately I thought of my sister Kerry with her face in a copy of Hello or People magazine while watching the E! Channel. She would have been all over this like a hobo on a ham sandwich and would have instinctively told me not only how many months pregnant Gwen was (a whole bunch by the look of things), but that the dude in the black t-shirt is her husband Gavin Rossdale, lead singer and guitarist of the band Bush and a huge tennis fan. I knew none of this of course…

… Now about that enormously pregnant woman in the family and friends box who was blocking my view of center court. When she turned around, I couldn’t help meself and said to no one in particular: “Isn’t that Gwen Stefani? Damn, it is. And I think that’s her husband, Gavin Rossdale, you know the guy from Bush?” And of course everybody within earshot nodded and ooohed and aaahed and got out their cameras to take a picture of the celebrity couple thanks to my ultra-perceptive peepers.

I didn’t bother to mention that I had overheard them talking in the Rolex suite and that it was the same kind of inane banter that you or I might indulge in. Gav was saying how tired he was from carrying all of Gwen’s shopping bags on her most recent bout of retail therapy. Sounds awful familiar, doesn’t it men?

After the match, we (Gwen Gav, Mirka, moi) all adjourned back to Rolexville for some scones with clotted cream. Rumors were rapidly circulating that the man himself was on his way to the suite after barely breaking a sweat against Soderling. And sure enough, no more than 30 minutes after his match the Swiss maestro appeared looking incredibly refreshed in his stylish Wimbledon limited edition cardigan.

There could not have been more than 15 or 20 of us in the suite and try as we might, we kind of knew that out of respect to our host Rolex, we could not make a big deal of Fed being there. No pictures, no fawning, no contact. I knew instinctively it was best to leave him be as he went over and snuggled up next to his girl while exchanging hugs and air kisses with Gwen and Gav. This was the Rolex suite, a refuge from the madness for Fed. But you just knew that certain members of the Chinese media would (unknowingly) breach protocol and sure enough a couple started unabashedly snapping off shots of Fed and his celebrity laced coterie. Well the Rolex folks quickly popped up and clamped down on the offending mainland shutterbugs and while this semi-commotion was going on my camera, exhibiting a mind of its own, snapped off a contraband shot or two.

Now I have to explain that I just, and I mean JUST, got this camera before leaving for London. I have no idea what it can and cannot do. I am really learning all of this on the fly, often with embarrassing consequences. The very first time I used the camera was when I met up with Senator Gleyze who was on a brief stop over in Hong Kong from his fortified compound in the Philippines. The Senator and I spent a brilliantly sunny afternoon at one of the more obscure and hidden beaches in Hong Kong. Between the copious Corona’s and the Senator’s endless babble, I was still trying to figure out how to turn the power switch on the camera. When I finally got it under control I just pointed the damn things and let it shoot. Suddenly this woman walks in the way of my camera. Uhm, uhm, excuse me…

Before I could yell “Cover up woman!” it was too late. The shutter went off and I am still trying to figure out how to erase the picture, this being a new camera and all. If any of you are also using a Sony Cybershot DSC-H9, can you help me here? Can you do that for a brother? Because technophobia strikes deep in the heartland and I clearly cannot be held responsible for what this mutant camera is doing.

Now where was I? Oh yeah. SW19. All England Lawn and Tennis Club. Wimbledon. Strawberries and Cream. You know the routine.

Whose your daddy, Paddy?

My father, God bless him, had few rules that were iron-clad in our household on the beautiful shores of Thorold, Ontario. My older brother, Sean (God bless him as well while we’re at it) and I could get away with the seemingly treasonous act of not supporting the old boy’s beloved Hamilton Tiger Cats and Montreal Canadiens, choosing instead to invest our passion in the Ottawa Roughriders and Chicago Blackhawks.


But if we didn’t openly pull for any team with a shamrock on their uniforms or Irish in their name, Joe Noonan made it clear that we would get whupped upside our head with the family shalale. Even the hunchback of Notre Dame, it didn’t matter if the guy was French or that his name was Quasimodo, as far as my dad was concerned he was playing for the Fighting Irish so he got nothing but love in our household.

Somewhere along the line the rebelliousness in my brother got the best of him and he eschewed the shamrocked Boston Celtics in favor of the putrid showbiz hues of the LA Lakers. This was back in the day when were just discovering the NBA and every season we would bet our allowance on who would go further, his Lakers or my Celtics. Thanks to the likes of Dave Cowens and John Havelick (I was too young for Bill Russell's Celtic dynasty), I would usually win and my brother would punctually pay up.

Then the 80’s hit and all hell broke loose. Magic Johnson and Showtime versus pasty Larry Legend and the Celtics. When the dust cleared on the 80’s the Lakers won five titles, the Cetlic’s three. Now I could handle losing a few bucks to my brother and I could even handle the abuse heaped up on me by the likes of Ray Holden and Jim Longo, who vicariously reveled in the Laker’s success like it was their own. But what I could not handle was before the season started in 1985 when my brother, whose Lakers were defending champs, told me he didn’t want to do the bet this year because the Celtics had picked up Bill Walton in the off-season and nobody was going to touch them. He was right, nobody did touch them that year. They rolled to the title and actually went 40 and 1 on their home court. But despite their great season I was still pissed off at my brother. "There’s no backing out of this bet," I told him, "it rolls over into perpetuity and you know what else, now I know why the Laker’s wear the color yellow. It's because they want to honor their fans."

It's been 22 years since the Celtics last won a title and it's been 22 years since my brother wouldn't bet me. During that time the Lakers won five more titles.
Well as I am sure you are aware this year both the Celtics and the Lakers have had a remarkable renaissance and found their way back to finals. Yipeee, huh?

Personally I didn’t care who the Celtics beat for the title just as long as they won. But, if you could choose a dream opponent to bitch slap, well it might as well have been the Lakers because outside of the citizens of England, I can think of no group with a greater sense of entitlement than Laker fans. And as much as the Brits whinge and whine, they got nothing on the snivelers supporting the yellow Lakers. Led by their Zen Master coach Phil Jackson (and since when has whining been zennish?), all series long Team Yellow were crying.

Actually, I think he looks more like Mark Twain with constipation than a Zen master. But at any rate, Phil and Team Yellow were whining about the referees, about the Celtics playing too physical, about how the Lakers would suddenly awake from their funk and restore order. You see, according to Laker fans, and the overwhelming majority of the American sports media, the Celtics weren’t winning the series, the Lakers were losing it.

The Lakers were a big favorite coming in. Why, I’m not really sure because if you like basketball, actually if you like sports, than you can appreciate the 2007-08 Boston Celtics. Now, I did not say like them, because for some of you Celtic haters that would understandably be too much of a load to bear. I said appreciate them, sort of like I did with 96' Yankees. Even Laker fan's can understand that. These Celtics played hellacious team defence all year and shared the ball. I know its sounds hokey but it’s true: Five became one. They were a team and the best TEAM easily won.

And for all you Laker whiners who are moaning about the Celtics having been thrown together over night with the recent additions of Kevin Garnett and Ray Allen - Garnett has actually played twice as many games in a Celtic uniform as that Spanish squid Pau Gasol has in Laker yellow. And the Celtics gave up a potential all-star in Al Jefferson to get him while the Lakers gave up some day old quiche and two bottles of Jack Nicholson’s Viagra to get Gasol from Memphis. So don’t even start, yellow ones.

If anyone should see Jim Longo or Ray Holden, and all those other Laker Ho’s who were so damn certain that their beloved Show Timers Part Deux would run their way to another title, tell them Garloe Roach and I said hello. And tell them it’s okay to come up for some air. Team yellow is finished for the season.

Lance, my cousin from LA’s fiancé , is a true died in the wool “I even remember watching Bill Sharman and Gail Goodrich” Lakers fan. Now him, I feel somewhat sorry for. He invested a fair degree of emotional energy into every single Laker’s game this year, and I mean every single game, and was generous enough to share his High def TV with me in his loveley Redondo Beach abode to watch a bunch of games this past season. We even made it to Staples Center to see team yellow pull one out over the TrailBlazers thanks to tickets from the Lakers Asian scout and the pride of Hamilton, Ontario, Gary Boyson and Associates. Good work, Corktown. Big Gary and Lance are very gracious human beings. But the rest of you, most notably the astonishingly ill-informed and beguilingly still employed American sports media, single digit IQ’s are quite becoming. Seriously, be thankful that you still have a job.

To me, at least, the Celtics pounding of the pussified Lakers has absolutely NOTHING to do with either the Red Sox or the Patriots, a couple of borderline odious franchises. I’m not a Boston fan, I’m a Celtics fan. I realize that at some point, the myopic and self indulgent Northeast media mob will keep blowing the Celtics ad nauseam and they will get mythologized and overexposed and fawned over and become just as despicable and nauseating as the Red Sox nation (yecch) and that scheming, hooded cheat Bill Belichik. But for now, as of this writing, the Celtics are still fresh. And while we’re at it, wherever you are Sean, you owe me your allowance.

So who’s your daddy, Paddy? Well it sure as hell ain’t you, Laker bitches. And just in case some of you may have missed it:

Hey Hey, My My

Willet Bird, who I have the utmost and enduring respect for, was asking for an update. Now you know why I have the utmost respect for him. Here are a couple of pics and while I want to tell you that I will post something next week from Wimbledon, who the hell knows. I sure don't. For those of you who don't get out often that's the Senator and the Gimp. Of course...and one more time

There is no place in this man's universe like Hong Kong on a clear (albeit extremely rare) day.