EARWIGGO, Earwiggo, Earwiggo then. As punctual as Mermaid roses and overpriced strawberry messes in June, the revolving year comes round again. It will make a change to hear the Pimm’s-emotional fans screeching, “Come on, Tim-bo”, rather than “In-gur-lund”. But they too will be wearing St George’s tatty dress and face-paint in the hope of attracting the attention of the Cyclops eye of television, poor nerds.
Wimbledon is for the middle classes, whatever they are, and for the yobs, whoever they are. I hope that they are sporting enough not to cheer double faults by Tim’s opponent, nor to shout to distract the players and attract attention to themselves. But, of course they will. Let us hope that the non-sporting clients being lushed up in the corporate hospitality tents abandon their Widow and salmon for long enough to occupy their seats for at least part of the afternoon. But of course they won’t.
This was the only fortnight in the year for which Eric Patridge, the great lexicographer of the shady side of language, deserted his regular seat in the round reading-room of the former British Library. I was allowed to sit on that sacred spot once during the Wimbledon fortnight. I guess that if you spend your life in the pursuit of the roots of words down the arches of the years, there is relaxation in watching people batting balls endlessly backwards and forwards over nets. Or these days, serving them at 150 mph with nil return. The inventors of the game had the good sense to introduce frequent little climaxes into the monotony with chances to turn triumph into disaster, and vice versa. In order to bring back some sporting variety, they should now abolish the second service, or rename the game “Servis”. They won’t, of course.
Disappointingly Partridge has little to say about the semantics of his favourite sport. Perhaps he thought that it was sacred, and so above the sardonic eye of a linguistic line judge. All he has to say about “love”, the endearing tennis slang for Nuls Points (that we hope Henman scores as seldom as possible), is that it is SE (Standard English). Well, although it is imprudent to disagree with Partridge, I think that there is more to be said about love than that. The slang may well be influenced by the Old English lufu meaning “that disposition or state of feeling with regard to a person which (arising from recognition of attractive qualities, from instincts of natural relationship, or from sympathy) manifests itself in solitude for the welfare of the object, and usually also in delight in his or her approval”. That is, the sort of feelings that we all have for Tim, at least until he bombs out next week.
But I think that love comes from L’oeuf, the egg, or zero. (Cf a duck’s egg, meaning a score of zero in cricket, which is the type of hearty jocularity that amuses sportsmen. You can’t prove that love means egg. But it is French, and real tennis, sometimes called royal or court tennis, was the rude forefather of lawn tennis. Similarly “deuce” is an English attempt at à deux de jeu (each side has won three points). And tennis comes from tenez: Watch out, I’m about to serve.
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So it is curious that the French do not use the English tennis slang, n’est ce pas, for tennis originated in France as the jeu de paume, (game of the palm, ie glove) and is the parent of pelota, fives, and nearly all court games. Many of them used love for zilch before lawn tennis. The earliest evidence of the game is found in monastic records dating back to the 11th century, when it was invented as a decorous recreation in monastery cloisters. Safer than footy or sex. The structure of a real tennis court, especially in the penthouses, dedans and side galleries, replicates monkish cloisters. Regular (largely ineffectual) bans on tennis were imposed by the ecclesiastical authorities.
In the Middle Ages the game was taken up by royals and other aristos. Like the bishops, the nobs tried to ban the “lower orders” from playing tennis. But they too largely failed. In any case, you needed money or connections to gain access to a court and the kit. From France tennis spread, first to Scotland where it was known as caitchspeel. In English the first record of the word appears in Gower in 1399: “The tenets to winne or lese a chace.” Like golf, tennis attracts senior citizens as well as monarchs. Perhaps because cunning can beat mere athleticism, and the rules are arguable over by such shrewd and formidable wrinklies as Henry VIII.
Of course, Wimbledon is worthy of much improvement. Why not raise the net to five feet, sagging in the middle, as it was in the primitive days when it was called sphairistike, in order to blunt the service of the single-stroke blasters? Why not reduce the power of the modern rackets and balls? I know the answer to that one. Yet the high tech kit makes us feel that we serve as fast as Andy Roddick. Of course it was folly not to put a retractable lid on top of the new Number 1 court. Cliff Richard should be muzzled, if allowed in. But the normally dull suburb blooms with an exotic excitement next week. As the ball boys scamper to and fro, to and fro, O my Rosewall and my Partridge long ago, and I wheel Molly in the push-chair up and down beside the waterfall off Henman Hill.