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We played tennis today … but not like they did

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The Gentlemen’s Singles Final at Wimbledon was on this afternoon – Novak Djokovic, the 36-year-old defending champion from Serbia, played against the 20-year-old Carlos Alcaraz from Spain. Both wanted to win, and both nearly did, but only one could claim the trophy.

The match went to five sets, with the two circling around the court like leopards, their reactions so quick, their bodies so supple, their concentration so intense. To be present, even from a distance, felt a huge privilege. It was like watching an epic duel through Attenborough eyes – two males of the same species, fighting for one prize – domination – their families waiting anxiously behind them. And it wasn’t just any two males, it was the ultimate two, the final pair, the bravest and best, the winners of endless contests to reach this point.

In the end, after over four hours, the victory went to Carlos Alcaraz, the third youngest winner in Wimbledon history. The man who lost, Djokovic, accepted his defeat like a player among players, head high, wearing his wounds lightly, and acknowledging the achievement of the first team to have knocked him from his Wimbldedon centre court pedestal since 2013.

What a moment in tennis.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

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Thinking of those under the heat in Europe

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The photograph above is of Naples, Italy with Vesuvius in the background, and the Tyrrhenian Sea not far away. We spent two years there, 2014 to 2016, and I remember how hot it did get, but it was not as hot as it is this year.

I grew up with heat in Africa, and experienced it again when working during the summers in the south of Spain, but it was not until we moved to the outskirts of Naples that I got a glimpse of the pressures of urban heat, especially for those living without air conditioning. Even though we never experienced the current extremes we still felt the intensified level of stress that heat in a city produces.

Down in the old heart of Naples, on hot evenings when the sun went down, people flooded out on to the streets, leaving their tightly connected appartments to head for the sea front. On lucky nights there would be a light breeze blowing in over the water like a blessing – an antidote to the heat trapped in the buildings along its edge. Sometimes, if we were there around midnight, we’d see families still up, enjoying time without the burning sun, some taking chairs out on to their balconies to spend the nights there.

I think of everyone now, and of Rome where there is no sea front, as they try to look after themselves, as well as catering for thousands of tourists.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

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The writers’ strike in America, and its expansion

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The Writers Guild of America and the Screen Actors Guild are on strike, telling us that their members are without sufficient income, and that they are deeply worried about the threat posed to their work by artificial intelligence.

‘Oh’, you might say and scroll on to the next thing, but it feels like a big ‘oh’ to me, an ‘o’ that comes from my s-o-ul.

I love stories and film, and those who create and deliver them – those who are seen, and those who are not. Together they produce the ultimate emotional takeaway for us to consume almost anywhere, at any time. They fill our worlds with the rest of the world, and way beyond its boundaries, making entertainment that is now so easy to access it’s almost impossible to understand how much work has gone into its making. Embedded in our lives, and loved by all of us, we take it for granted, but sadly its earnings don’t seem to be filtering down properly to its creators.

I hope a way can be found soon through this tangle. It doesn’t feel like a good time to be without the imaginations that help us see so much of what it means to be human.

Here’s a link that provides more information about the strike.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023