Right. Yes. The Fantastic Confabulations of an Ageing Tennis Player. The fourth volume. The “finale”. The “capstone”. The one where — and I think we can all agree on this — everything finally becomes… considerably more conceptual.

Now, I’ll be honest: I’ve always felt the quartet operates less as four books and more as an ongoing atmospheric event. A sort of… tennis-adjacent weather system. There’s narrative, of course, but it’s mainly pressure, movement, sudden fog, and occasionally a goat.

Anyway. Hear the podcast. Here it is. See what I did there?

(Produced by the one-and-only Julian PS with the trusty support of Mork and Mindy down in the Podcast basement. Thanks guys! You’ve been… what can I say? Immense.)

Anyway. Just in case you can’t be dealing with a podcast, here’s the story as I see it.

The early books: a man, a racket, and… an energy

So in Confessions, Courting Lives, and The Norman Conquests, Andy is, broadly speaking, a tennis player (except he isn’t – except he is – except he’s “Lord Andrew Murray” – except he’s in trouble – except none of this is confirmed.) But what is clear is that Andy narrates everything with the swagger of a man giving a victory speech while physically losing.

He tells you he’s in command. He tells you he’s adored. He tells you it’s all going brilliantly. And the reader is expected to do the decent thing and nod politely while the walls fall in. There’s also a coach (possibly a bird), a woman who is (or isn’t) Serena Williams, and a general atmosphere of “I won that match spiritually.”

Book Four: screenplay, drones, and what I can only describe as “admin”

Then we arrive at Volume Four, which makes a bold artistic choice: it switches into screenplay format, which I assume is because Andy has finally gone professional and Netflix are now involved. That’s certainly the vibe. Suddenly there are cameras. Drones. “Monitoring.” People talking as though Andy is both a person and a piece of equipment. It’s all very modern and, frankly, quite unsettling, but in a premium way. And the important thing is: Andy is no longer narrating. Now, I’m told this is because the book is exploring “external surveillance” and “dispossession” and “care regimes” and so on. Possibly. Or possibly Andy has simply delegated the narration, as champions often do.

The “twelve years” thing (apparently significant)

There’s also an absolutely classic moment where Andy believes he’s been in a hospice for a weekend, after a minor knee injury — which sounds reasonable enough, we’ve all iced a joint and lost a fortnight – except it turns out it’s been twelve years. Twelve. Now, do I think the book is being literal here? Hard to say. This could be:

1. a comment on memory,
2. a comment on time,
3. Brexit,
4. metaphor,
5. a typo that nobody caught in proofing,
6. all of the above.

But the key takeaway is that Andy has missed major global events, which is either tragic or enviable, depending on your views on morning news.

Sedation: narrative editing, but with syringes

Andy’s “confabulations” (a word the book uses a lot, presumably because “lies” felt too on-the-nose) are repeatedly interrupted by Mrs Carter, who administers sedation. Now, one might interpret this as the system silencing him – his story being chemically curtailed – a bleak commentary on control and autonomy. Or, equally, one might interpret it as: Andy is simply too powerful as a narrator, and the staff have to keep him under a certain decibel level for the other residents. It’s difficult to be sure.

The mother reveal — which I confess I did not see coming, mainly because I wasn’t looking

And then — the twist — Mrs Carter is revealed to be Andy’s mother. This obviously reframes everything, and I think it’s a brave move by the author to introduce a major character relationship in book four, when the reader has already invested three volumes in not fully understanding anyone’s identity. She speaks with resentment. She speaks as though Andy is a burden. There are references to “payback” and sacrifice and so on. It’s all very human. Or, again: it could be a symbolic device representing England.

The ending: Raducanu, waived bar bills, and… closure? maybe?

Finally, Andy is greeted by young tennis stars (including Emma Raducanu), and he’s told his subs and bar bills are waived. Now this is clearly either:

• a triumphant return,
• a final hallucination,
• a metaphorical absolution,
• a fantasy sequence,
• a customer service gesture,
• or simply the author being kind at the end.

Personally, I read it as the universe finally recognising his greatness. Because that’s what literature does: it rewards belief.

In conclusion (and I do mean that, because I have a meeting)

So yes — the final volume “doesn’t abandon him” but “no longer belongs to him”, which I interpret to mean the narrative has matured beyond Andy and is now operating at a higher organisational level. A bit like NOP, frankly. Andy begins as the author of his own myth. He ends as a man being documented. And the quartet as a whole is a powerful reminder that tennis is rarely about tennis. It’s about identity. And paperwork. And occasionally drones.

(Can I go home now? Please? Pretty please?)