So Roger Federer is ranked the number one tennis player in the world again, the relatively old chap of his sport has clawed his way back up to the top of the pile to be named the absolute best at knocking a bouncy ball over, and let’s be honest, a pretty low net once more. But he’s not, is he? He can’t have that accolade heaped upon him for one very good and totally logical reason.
And he’s not alone in this debacle, there’s many ‘No. 1’ title holders in all sorts of arenas and each and every one of them is a fraud for the self-same reason as the Swiss cat-gutted racquet swinger. (And that’s not ‘swinger’ as in throwing his car keys into a fish bowl at a party of complete strangers…although. No, definitely not in that sense of the word; our poor editor is suffering from a nefarious toothache at present, the last thing he needs is suing for all the money he hasn’t got.)
Yes, I concede Mr Federer can claim to be a No. 1 but only amongst the elite members of the Association of Tennis Professional (ATP) as much as Lewis Hamilton is the top ranking driver of the Federation Internationale de l’Automobile (FIA…isn’t that what Thunderbirds used to say? FIA, Virgil). Both are ranked No 1 in a very limited field…whoop-de-fucking-do, I say. How many professional tennis players and racing drivers are there; a dozen of each at most, I reckon? Big deal.
There are 7 billion people on the planet and there is no way Mr Federer has played every one of them at tennis ball and proved himself worthy of his title of No. 1. Firstly I know this is a fact because he’s never played me, maybe he’s too scared to? Secondly, and I think this is the clincher, because for him to do so would take him 31,250 average lifetimes and even with all the (alleged) Nazi gold in Swiss banks, and the rabid organ harvesting I know happens in Geneva, I think that is beyond even his skillset. The same goes for Lewis H, he hasn’t had the bottle to race me between lights, let alone on the mean streets of Monaco where I know I would be an absolute master. I am the world’s best driver bar none but more of that in another rant.
And don’t be getting smug yourself. I can sense you sitting there drinking your PG Tips out of a No 1 Dad or Mum or Grandparent or Fisherman or Golfer or Sheep Worrier mug. How do your kids or friends know you’re No. 1 at anything, have they taken detailed studies of all other participants in the specified sport or hobby or family status? Has the fruit of your loins ever tried out a different parent to see if you stack up…however much you wish they would at times?
I know for a fact I was taken from the hospital by the wrong people, my biological parents are somewhere right now leaving several million pounds and an estate, possibly Berkshire or Twatshire*, to a complete bastard of a changeling. Granted my theft parents (I say theft, it could have been a labelling mix up) did their best but they just weren’t loaded enough to allow me to feck about all my life never having to work and swerve all the dreary shit I’ve had to do to keep body and soul together thus far. I would have been a great member of the Bullingdon Club. I’d have shaved Boris’ head for a start, the tousled tosser, and got pictures of the bacon-based romance of another prominent member…pun intended.
But back to the sporty No. 1 conundrum. Until all these ‘top of the pile’ pretenders to the throne have played me at whatever it is they get grossly overpaid for doing, the highest rank they can possibly lay claim to is a provisional No 2. I am totally confident in my abilities to beat anyone at anything that I know the only reason I am not No 1 at everything is lack of life opportunities. And the fact that I know this, and these usurpers haven’t proved otherwise, the logic of my argument is flawless.
From now on I want a proviso attached to every claim of No. 1-ness to the effect that they are pencilled in as No. 1 and it won’t be inked in until a match or race or game or whatever they are claiming dominion over has taken place between them and me. So-called No. 1s can be announced as such as long as the sentence ends: ‘…pending the defeat of Sif.’ For example ‘Roger Federer is once more the world’s No. 1 tennis player, pending the defeat of Sif.’ And John Humphries has to say it to give it the official gravitas it demands.
This is Sif, the undisputed No. 1 ranter for The Bicker Press (TBP), signing off knowing full well Mr. Federer couldn’t even get close to my level of bitching bollocks banter or my perfect pun placement or my awesome alliteration acumen…and yes, he has tried.
* That class gag is courtesy of Rik Mayall & Ade Edmondson’s ‘Bottom’ and it still makes me smile all these years later.