Andy Murray v The Bitter and Twisted

In Fleet Street, a journalist siphons strychnine into his fountain pen preparing to plunge it into the back of Andy Murray. Out in the countryside, carts laden with putrid fruit rumble towards stocks, flanked by pundits and former tennis players. In the suburbs, commuters shiver in the gloom sneering, “Told you so; just another Tim Henman”.  This is Schadenfreude on a grotesque national scale. All over Britain flying Hyenas are shitting on Andy Murray’s pedestal.

In the kingdom of insecurity, one man’s achievements are another man’s failures. The successful are shiny full-length mirrors that reflect a life of under achievement for the bitter and twisted. Felicity is eroded by years of regret, each day a callous reminder of faded ambition. The commute to work – a ride on the ghost train – pinstripe ghouls with eyes that glow like red light bulbs in Soho. The office – a civilised concentration camp – where the Starbucks’ Gestapo project-manage your coronary. The weekend…an empty grey caravan that sits in the rain. This is your Stygian world if you let a pique fester into a disorder.

So our advice for the jealous and resentful: instead of spewing pernicious bile, try to be positive and transform your own life. Don’t project your failings onto the dreams of others.

You have been reading a condescending excerpt from “Haggis McSpurter’s Self-Help Manual”, available in all good bookshops.