Bartoli and the Beast

Bartoli and the Beast: an easy title for a touchy subject. Yesterday during Marion Bartoli's storming performance in the Wimbledon final, John Inverdale posed the following question:

"Do you think Bartoli's dad told her when she was little: 'You're never going to be a looker, you'll never be a Sharapova, so you have to be scrappy and fight'?"

Well done, Marion. Well done. Against all the odds, ugly as they may have been, you have achieved the impossible! With your scrappy skills and fighting spirit you beat that pretty little blonde thing from Germany and brought home a Grand Slam. Shame though really, Sabine would've looked much better with Djokovic or Murray at the Championship Dinner... Inverdale's comment was sexist and it was ignorant, but what's worse is that this incident is just the tip of the iceberg with regards to attitude towards sportswomen, female presenters, and even the female companions of men in the game. Inverdale's comments were positively generous compared to some of the vitriolic bile on Twitter:

This isn't everyday or 'casual' sexism, it's hate speech. The language is of the animalistic and sexual persuasion associated with female insults, and the trivialisation of violence and rape is truly disturbing. Perhaps the most revealing of them all is the comment by Steve Cremen (fourth on the left) that Bartoli "cannot be the new face of Wimbledon." That's what female tennis players have been reduced to: faces. But an exclusively pretty face, mind. If Marion isn't good enough, who is? Lisicki? In all honesty, Bartoli's pretty blonde opponent is being equally demeaned by these comments. By placing her as the counterpart to Bartoli's beastliness, she becomes a somewhat creepy Tennis Barbie-bot, detracting from the fact that, like Bartoli, she is an extremely talented and extremely pleasant woman. 

It seems astonishing that 40 years on from the Battle of the Sexes between Billie Jean-King and Bobby Riggs, tennis is still tinted with sexism. But in this context, the origins of the issues are not only between the men and women in the tour, but rather the pundits and presenters who are responsible for broadcasting to millions. Inverdale isn't the only Wimbledon bod guilty of patronising women. Just look at the way the ladies of the players' boxes are treated. Well treated may not be the right word - rather they are zoomed in on, played in slow motion and are often to be found "fighting for their men." Andrew Castle is particularly guilty of this, waxing lyrical about the fact that Kim Sears apparently has actual magical powers that affect boyfriend Andy Murray's decisions on court with every flick of the hair. Yes, this is arguably a personal gripe at a fairly innocuous turn of phrase, but it touches at the roots of the wider problem. Inverdale described his comments as being meant in a "nice way", and once people start veiling blatantly sexist remarks under the banner of good old British banter, or jolly ruddy good Wimbledon fun (pass the Pimms), we lose sight of real problem at the heart of female sport. 

There are countless examples of the double standards in tennis, from the camera's focus on players' girlfriends rather than boyfriends, to the constant argument about how much noise women make on court. Unfortunately, these gender binaries are often perpetuated by the players themselves. Recently, Jo-Wilfred Tsonga proved that his science isn't as strong as his serve, suggesting that women aren't as consistent on the tour due to "hormones". Hormones. He may as well have blamed it all on periods. Equally, Gilles Simon complained that women's tennis is less exciting than men's in a public interview, to which Serena Williams retorted:

‘Women's tennis is really awesome. We fought for years with Billie Jean King, to get equal pay ... Maria (Sharapova)'s right – a lot more people are watching her than him. She’s way hotter than he is."

Yeah, girl power, Serena. Gilles may be a bit of a shit but at least Maria's smoking hot. She probably deserved to win Wimbledon, for 6ft blonde women everywhere. For all the "Sharapova's." Here we see the problem is as rooted in the players as it is in the pundits. What exactly is it to be a "Sharapova"? Inverdale succeeds in both dehumanising a champion tennis player, and creating her as the mould for every attractive, leggy non-Bartoli out there. Inverdale's idiocy aside, I'm not sure Bartoli would ever want to be a Sharapova, (currently embroiled in a love rivalry with frenemy Serena Williams instead of powering her way to a Grand Slam title as Marion did so beautifully.) In all the nastiness and superficiality, Bartoli played the match and reacted to the incident with a grace that has nothing to do with looks. Her response to Inverdale encapsulates what is truly at stake in professional tennis:

"It doesn't matter, honestly. I am not blonde, yes. That is a fact. Have I dreamt about having a model contract? No. I'm sorry. But have I dreamed about winning Wimbledon? Absolutely, yes. And to share this moment with my dad was absolutely amazing and I am so proud of it.

There's a lady with her priorities straight and her dignity in tact - that's pretty hot to me.

Only Connect and intellectual snobbery

I love quiz shows, I really do. I love getting the answers right, I love pretending I got the answers right, I love mocking the contestants when they do not get the answers right. Though apparently not as much as Jeremy Paxman and his quizzical brow do. They are a chance to prove one’s unequivocal knowledge of the culture capitals of Europe, or films starring Kevin Bacon; essentially they are a great way to feel like a bit of a clever clogs whilst a wordless word document stares at you from across the room. However, the time of lording my superior knowledge of all things uninteresting over my family and friends whilst they try to enjoy their evening viewing has finally come to an end.

'Only Connect’, the most viewed show on the somewhat haughty and grown up BBC 4, is like an intellectual punch in the face. Scheduled to begin just as University Challenge ends, it maintains the mood of civil Monday night viewing (or in my case, aggressive fact fighting), but forces you to climb several rungs up logic ladder. As opposed to reeling off random facts potentially overhead at a pub quiz, the teams actually have to, well, think about things. The basic format requires the teams to make connections between seemingly random images, words, or pieces of music, meaning you have to be able to link stuff like “things made out of melted guns”, or “tube lines if they were translated as snooker ball colours.” It’s torturous. It’s also genius.

Everything about this program is clever, sharp and a teensy bit elitist. From the titular E.M Forster reference, to the fact that teams choose their question by selecting a hieroglyph (seriously), no academic is left unruffled. Even the classically stringy introductory music gives everything a sense of seriousness. If-I-get-one-right-I’ll-be-a-better-person-ness. Cleverest of all is the show’s presenter, Victoria Coren. I don’t want to be quizzed by her, I want to be her. The somewhat unnerving lack of a studio audience does not phase this lady, as she embarks on monologues and witticisms, gently mocks the teams (most of whom look like they followed University Challenge when Bamber Gascoigne still presented it), and makes us believe she really did already know the answers to all the questions. To top it all off, she’s a poker player, the sister of Giles Coren and the fiancée of David Mitchell. Just imagine what their dinner parties are like.

So, though quiz show fans may have a more relaxing time watching QI, or a more successful evening watching The Weakest Link, nothing says ‘wild Monday night’ like a quiz show that repeatedly assaults you with stuff you didn‘t know. All it needs now is a drinking game.