Footy gets the Tennis Elbow

After a weekend of FA Cup hoo-hah and a transfer deadline looming you might think a man who bleeds the letters F-O-O-T-Y when he cuts himself shaving would have plenty to talk about.

And speaking as a bloke who couldn't get a hit at our local tennis club cos I never could get that bluey-whiteness in my clothing that them hoity-toity bastards insisted on (I swear they'd have thrown me out cos my snot was the wrong colour) you wouldn't expect a ringing endorsement of the Australian Open tennis tournament.

Nevertheless, I don't think I've ever seen owt like that match. About 2 years ago we were wondering how many titles Nadal was going to rack up.

Federer couldn't beat him - and still can't when it matters - and everyone knew that the old smoothie was the greatest Swiss export since Ricola cough pastilles.

Nadal though was brutal. A terminator. If ever he looked down and out that Mallorcan light would blink on again and the beast would reassemble itself and give his opponent an almighty twatting.

I didn't warm to the bloke at first. He has none of the ease and grace of Federer. And it didn't help that the Mrs watched him with a nascent moistness about her, like Rafa was a sort of swarthy mystical gypsy who might drop off the back of his horse-drawn caravan and muscle her into the undergrowth for some Iberian love-making.

Trouble is, the man is just an utter gent. The way he conducts himself is even more faultless than his tennis. At times it seemed that the only thing that could stop him was a pair of knees that made Michael Owen's look robust.

Djokovic was just one of them also-rans. Talented but unfortunate enough to be playing in an era where the best were way too good.

And suddenly the guy is unbeatable. Again he's not one of them blokes who makes you purr. I don't think I've ever seen any sportsman get into the positions he achieves without summat snapping. In slow-mo it makes you wretch a bit. He's Dr. Octopus to Nadal's Sandman.

There's also his endurance. I note some posh explorer chappy (Olly, inevitably) has announced he wants to be the first man to row round the world. (Its always the toffs who do this, isn't it? Never the people who have to make a living.) Djokovic could do that and still have enough gas left to fend off a late Andy Murray revival.

But Novak's accomplishments seem all the greater when you look at who he's had to beat to get there.

The gluten-free diet seems to have helped him. I've looked into it and frankly you're cutting out a lot of important foodstuffs like bacon sandwiches, Dolmio pasta and possibly even lager. (If you're planning to row round the world then please translate that last sentence into 'proscuitto ciabatta, linguine arrabiata and ermm... lager.)

It'd be easy to major on the Serb's fitness and flexibility but we should remember that beyond that he's hitting the ball better than the others. That's why he's winning. He is the best player out there.

So we are in a quite exceptional time for men's tennis. As opposed to the women's game which continues to turn out Aryan Amazons from eastern Europe who play a form of tennis that would be entirely monotonous were it not for the variety of their ejaculations.

I'd like to gag the lot of them. Not cos it's unladylike - it's nowt compared to the eardrum-wrecking caterwauling you get in Stockton High Street of a Friday night - but cos it's unnecessary - and it's used to put your opponent off. You're hitting a tennis ball, love, not auditioning for Kill Bill 3.

Mercifully Azarenka made short work of Shriekapova and Melbourne's earplug vendors were left to rue the fact that women can't last 5 hrs 56 minutes.

And what of our lad? Andy Murray. Part of the Fab Four I'm told, but still playing Ringo. Occasionally allowed the lead vocal ('will you still need me, will you still seed me, when I'm 64?'... 'I get beat with a little help from my friend').

Well, let's face it he got close. Much closer. If Djokovic is the mountain-top then the boy's going to need some shit-hot crampons. But unless one of these heavyweights gets crocked for a Slam then you can't see him beating two of them to get to a title. He just can't sustain the level of brilliance that the top two achieved on Sunday. And it's probably unreasonable to expect it.

In the meantime, we will still get the odd bleat from a big time Charlie manager that his poorickle footballers are a bit tired out from playing 3 hours of football in a week! Pah! I think I used to think tennis was a game for refined genteel woofters. Not anymore. Given that you're not allowed to tackle anyone these days I think the jessies are very much the petulant, sulky ones in the pink and orange boots.