Barry: My ball's now in another court

Jun 24 2009 By Barry Gibson

IT’S Wimbledon time again or, as I like to call it, National Care About Tennis Fortnight.

Though the interest of the average British viewer may not hold out for the full two weeks if the home-grown players don’t stay in the tournament. It could end up being National Care About Tennis Week.

There are high hopes this year for the third best male player in the world, Andy Murray. Will he become Britain’s first singles winner since 1977, or will he crumble under the burden of expectation?

Either way, the young Scot will be assured of the raucous support of thousands of English fans.

But, as my fellow Examiner columnist Denis Kilcommons pointed out yesterday, this support only goes one way.

While the English will support any Celt against a "real" foreigner, the Irish, Scots and Welsh do not reciprocate. In fact many Celts cheer anyone who takes on the Sassenachs at anything, from football to tiddlywinks.

For years, I was one of them. I was happy when an English sporting team failed.

I am ashamed of this now, as it was mean-spirited and said more about me than it did about the English.

The only thing I can say in my defence is that I’m a product of my surroundings.

I grew up in Belfast in the 1980s, where almost everyone around me disliked the English. We thought our Saxon neighbours were arrogant and ignorant.

Of course, Belfast being Belfast, our reasons for hating the English varied. Many Catholics despised the English for being in their country, while many Protestants loathed the English because they thought they would betray them when the chance came.

It’s complicated history. But the relevant point here is that nearly all of us shared the animosity.

When I was 17 I got a summer job at a KFC in Belfast where one of the bosses was English. When he told me to do something mundane like fry some more chips, my blood would boil at the sound of his accent, ordering me around like it was the days of the Raj.

There was quite a lot of anger there. And when the English failed hilariously at some sporting endeavour or other, well let’s just say I didn’t cry myself to sleep.

I think I knew at the time that hating any group of people was a pointless and dangerous waste of energy. But I just looked to the history books and found all the justification I wanted.