Category: Julian Writes…. signals from a waving not drowning Marketing Executive

The Private Diary of Julian Pilkington-Sterne

Day Four at Roland Garros: Jones Falls, Boulter Remains, Djokovic Persists and the Clay Begins Making Demands

Dear resigned reader,

It is my solemn responsibility to report that Day Four of Roland-Garros opened with British interests once again standing on the edge of the continent, clutching a water bottle, a tactical plan, and a slightly damp copy of Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant.

After the previous day’s withdrawal of the British men from the singles campaign — an event which should not be described as a retreat, although several historians have already cleared their throats — attention turned to Francesca Jones, who had carried into the second round the glow of a breakthrough Grand Slam victory.It is my solemn responsibility to report that Day Four of Roland-Garros opened with British interests once again standing on the edge of the continent, clutching a water bottle, a tactical plan, and a slightly damp copy of Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant.

After the previous day’s withdrawal of the British men from the singles campaign — an event which should not be described as a retreat, although several historians have already cleared their throats — attention turned to Francesca Jones, who had carried into the second round the glow of a breakthrough Grand Slam victory.

Hear more here!

Alas, the glow met Marie Bouzkova.

Jones lost 6-0, 7-6(3) in one hour and 36 minutes. The first set was a grim little administrative annexation: brief, decisive, and conducted with the sort of efficiency that causes British observers to start discussing “positives” before the second changeover. But Jones, to her credit, did not depart quietly. She fought her way into the second set, forced a tiebreak, and restored enough dignity to ensure that the match became not a collapse but a brave, if ultimately unsuccessful, resistance movement. 

This leaves Katie Boulter as the last remaining Briton in the singles draw, due to face Anastasia Potapova, the 28th seed, in the next round. One does not wish to overburden her with national symbolism, but by this stage she is effectively carrying British tennis, several Union flags, three BBC live blogs, the hopes of Loughborough, and at least one imaginary goat across the red clay of Paris.  The British position, therefore, may be summarised as follows: the men have left the field; Jones has fallen with honour; Boulter remains at her post; and the clay, like Normandy in a mood, continues to ask difficult questions of anyone arriving from across the Channel.

Elsewhere, the tournament proceeded with its usual blend of brutality, elegance and overheated civic theatre.

Iga Swiatek moved into the third round by beating Sara Bejlek 6-3, 6-3. This was not Swiatek at her most imperial, but even a slightly contested Swiatek on Roland-Garros clay resembles a duchess politely reclaiming a disputed estate. Bejlek resisted; Swiatek absorbed; order was restored. 

The largest shock came when Ukraine’s Yuliia Starodubtseva defeated second seed Elena Rybakina 3-6, 6-1, 7-6, removing one of the tournament’s major contenders in a match of rising tension and late-stage implausibility. In Julian’s terms, this was a classic Roland-Garros castle breach: everything appeared secure, the first set had been signed off, and then someone discovered that the battlements were made of wet paperwork. 

Novak Djokovic, meanwhile, continued his stately procession through Paris, defeating Frenchman Valentin Royer 6-2, 6-2, 6-7, 6-3. Royer did what any decent Frenchman on Chatrier should do: involved the crowd, refused to be decorative, and briefly suggested that a national uprising might yet be available. Djokovic then returned to business, as Djokovic usually does, with the weary authority of a man who has seen every revolution and misfiled most of them. 

There was also considerable drama around Jakub Mensik, who defeated Mariano Navone in a five-set ordeal lasting more than four and a half hours, then collapsed with full-body cramps after winning a fifth-set tiebreak. Mensik called the heat “insane”; Julian has entered it in the minutes as “meteorological aggression by the host nation.” 

The heat, in fact, has become one of the tournament’s central characters. Temperatures have climbed above 30°C, making the courts faster, the rallies sharper, and the players increasingly vulnerable to the sort of slow physical unravelling normally associated with badly planned European campaigns. 

There were efficient advances, too. Alexander Zverev beat Tomas Machac 6-4, 6-2, 6-2, while Casper Ruud closed the day by defeating Hamad Medjedovic 6-3, 6-2, 6-4. Ruud’s victory set up a meeting with Tommy Paul, and suggested that after his previous round’s medically dramatic five-set wandering, he had rediscovered both his legs and his paperwork. 

Mirra Andreeva recovered from a set down to beat Marina Bassols Ribera 3-6, 6-1, 6-1, which is precisely the sort of scoreline that begins as inconvenience and ends as conquest. Belinda Bencic also moved through, beating Caty McNally6-4, 6-0, her first Roland-Garros appearance since becoming a mother in 2024. 

And then there was Jesper de Jong, the Dutch lucky loser who, having already removed Stan Wawrinka from the tournament, continued his unlikely progress by beating Federico Cina 6-3, 6-1, 6-3. De Jong has now reached the third round after entering the main draw through fortune’s side door, which Julian considers either inspiring or administratively suspicious. 

Day Four, viewed through the British field glasses, was a day of narrowing hopes. Francesca Jones departed with dignity after a career-best run; Katie Boulter became the final British singles representative; and the red clay once again reminded Britain that continental campaigns require more than courage, politeness and an excellent grass-court tradition.

Beyond the British perimeter, Swiatek advanced, Rybakina fell, Djokovic endured, Mensik cramped, Zverev and Ruud imposed order, Andreeva accelerated, Bencic returned with authority, and De Jong continued his lucky-loser pilgrimage through the draw like a man who had accidentally inherited a small Norman estate and decided to keep walking.

In summary: Britain is down to one standard-bearer; France is still theatrical; the heat has become a policy issue; Djokovic remains irritatingly permanent; and the clay is no longer merely a surface but a red continental intelligence with views on empire, ambition and footwork.

And somewhere, between Court 6 and the Bayeux Tapestry, a goat has begun drafting tomorrow’s press release.

Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant: the Audiobook

Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant: the Audiobook

Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant  is now available as an Audiobook on Audible.

£10.00
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Les Conquêtes Normandes d'un Tennisman Vieillissant

Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant

A gloriously absurd tennis adventure in which Andy Murray — or rather Lord Andrew John Paul George Ringo Murray of Kirkintilloch — sets his sights on Roland Garros.

£19.99
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Day Three at Roland Garros: British Interests, Red Clay and the Sad Collapse of the Expeditionary Spirit

Dear disappointed reader,

It is my difficult responsibility to report that British interests at Roland-Garros have entered what the Foreign Office might call “a period of reduced optimism.”

Day Three began with the familiar hope that somewhere, somehow, a British man might cross the red clay with sufficient purpose to disturb the French, alarm the draw, and postpone the nation’s annual conversation about whether we are, in fact, constitutionally unsuited to loose surfaces. Instead, by close of play, Britain’s men’s singles campaign had ended. Hear all about it here:

This was not so much a defeat as a small withdrawal from continental Europe, carried out under heat, pressure, and the faint smell of sun-baked disappointment.

Jacob Fearnley was the first to fall, losing to Juan Manuel Cerúndolo 6-2, 7-6(0), 7-6(7). There were moments when resistance appeared possible. Fearnley steadied himself, worked his way into the match, and even held a set point in the third. But clay is not impressed by moments. Clay demands treaties, logistics, footwork, patience and, where possible, several generations of Iberian ancestry. Cerúndolo, by contrast, looked like a man who understood the surface not as an inconvenience but as a home address. He slid, spun, waited, nudged and eventually extracted the match as though removing an English tourist from a French roundabout.

Then came Cam Norrie, Britain’s senior campaigner and a man who normally gives the impression of having been assembled from discipline, angles and moral fibre. Against Adolfo Daniel Vallejo, Norrie had four set points in the opening set and could not convert them. This, in Julian’s view, is precisely the sort of thing that should be escalated to a subcommittee before it becomes symbolic. Having lost the first-set tiebreak 9-7, Norrie retired while trailing 7-6(7), 2-0. Thus ended not merely a match, but Britain’s presence in the men’s singles draw: quietly, uncomfortably, and with the unmistakable air of a campaign that had misread the terrain.

One should not overstate the matter, of course. This was not Agincourt in reverse. No one lost a duchy. No monarch was captured. But there was, nevertheless, a sense that the British expedition had crossed the Channel, inspected the red earth, and decided that discretion remained the better part of athletic scheduling.

The women’s draw, mercifully, retained two British outposts. Katie Boulter, having won the previous day, remained in the tournament, as did Francesca Jones, whose earlier victory over Beatriz Haddad Maia still glowed in the national memory like a small but perfectly serviceable signal fire. Britain, therefore, was not entirely absent from the singles map. It had simply moved from the men’s department into the care of women who appeared rather better prepared for practical adversity.

Elsewhere, while British tennis was packing away its men’s singles hopes, the tournament continued to behave like Roland-Garros: which is to say, like a large red theatre designed to expose frailty, test ambition, and occasionally humiliate the over-seeded.

The day’s largest shock came when Adam Walton, an Australian wildcard, defeated Daniil Medvedev 6-2, 1-6, 6-1, 1-6, 6-4. Medvedev’s relationship with clay remains complicated. At times he appeared to be playing tennis; at others he looked like a man disputing the terms of a tenancy agreement with the surface itself.

For British viewers, there was some consolation in this. At least we are not alone. Even great powers suffer on clay. Even top seeds can be reduced to puzzled gestures and administrative despair. The red earth is no respecter of passport, ranking or self-image.

France, meanwhile, discovered a teenage hero in Moïse Kouamé, aged 17, who beat former US Open champion Marin Čilić 7-6(4), 6-2, 6-1. The crowd, naturally, responded as though Normandy had been reconquered, the Republic renewed, and a promising young man had been handed responsibility for the emotional wellbeing of the entire nation.

This was exactly the sort of thing British tennis finds difficult. The French do not merely support a teenager; they convert him instantly into a cultural event. One minute he is winning a first-round match, the next he appears to be representing history, youth, clay, destiny, and possibly a very good regional cheese.

Aryna Sabalenka opened her campaign with a firm 6-4, 6-2 win over Jessica Bouzas Maneiro, striking the ball with the sort of authority that suggests she would be an excellent person to chair a hostile merger. Coco Gauff, defending champion, recovered from early resistance against Taylor Townsend to win 6-4, 6-0, tidying the second set as if clearing the minutes of a difficult meeting.

Naomi Osaka also moved through, beating Laura Siegemund 6-3, 7-6(3). She spoke afterwards of nerves, slipperiness and trying to smile more, which Julian has marked for inclusion in the forthcoming NOP pamphlet: How to Maintain Grace While Standing on Treacherous European Dust.

The women’s draw also supplied a major upset when Kim Birrell defeated fifth seed Jessica Pegula 1-6, 6-3, 6-3. Pegula became the highest seed to fall so far, undone after a commanding first set by the sort of reversal that Roland-Garros seems to keep in a locked cupboard for dramatic purposes.

And finally, Jannik Sinner arrived in the night session, beating French wildcard Clément Tabur 6-1, 6-3, 6-4. Sinner did not appear troubled by the heat, the crowd, the surface, the occasion or, indeed, the human condition. He advanced with alarming neatness. If British tennis is currently a field note in uncertainty, Sinner is an instruction manual printed in three languages and laminated.

In conclusion…

Day Three will be remembered, from a British perspective, as the day the men’s singles effort came to an end: Fearnley fought but fell, Norrie battled but withdrew, and the red clay once again reminded the nation that empire, lawn tennis and queueing etiquette do not automatically transfer to Paris in late May.

Yet all was not lost. Boulter and Jones remained alive in the women’s draw, carrying British hopes with rather more resilience and considerably less historical baggage.

Beyond the British perimeter, Walton ambushed Medvedev, Kouamé became France’s latest teenage cause célèbre, Sabalenka and Gauff imposed order, Osaka smiled through danger, Birrell toppled Pegula, and Sinner proceeded like destiny in sponsored shoes.

In summary: the British men have left the field; the British women remain at their posts; the French have found a boy hero; the Australians are causing mischief; and the clay continues to behave like an ancient continental power with a long memory.And somewhere, just beyond the umpire’s chair, a bilingual goat is laughing into a glass of Normandy cider.

Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant: the Audiobook

Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant: the Audiobook

Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant  is now available as an Audiobook on Audible.

£10.00
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Les Conquêtes Normandes d'un Tennisman Vieillissant

Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant

A gloriously absurd tennis adventure in which Andy Murray — or rather Lord Andrew John Paul George Ringo Murray of Kirkintilloch — sets his sights on Roland Garros.

£19.99
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To our dear, dear readers: the French Open de Roland-Garros a commencé!

From: Julian Pilkington-Sterne, Acting Assistant Deputy Director of Narrative Clay-Court Interpretation
To: Anyone still emotionally solvent after Day One
Time and Place: Roland-Garros, Sunday 24 May 2026

Who would have thunk it, but the French Open has begun, and I have been charged with the responsibility of providing you, our dearest of readers, with up to date daily reports of the thrills and spills that make up our most favourite of clay-court tournaments.

Day One flew by and already the clay has behaved less like a sporting surface and more like a committee meeting with weather.

But what about our very own Lord Andrew John Paul George Ringo Murray of Kirkintilloch I hear you all ask indignantly?

You can hear all about his challenge for the Franch Grand Slam in part one of our audiobook Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant! here:

Elsewhere, the first major incident was the removal of Taylor Fritz, seeded seventh, by fellow American wildcard Nishesh Basavareddy, who won 7-6(5), 7-6(5), 6-7(9), 6-1. Fritz briefly appeared to have staged one of those muscular American recoveries after saving a match point in the third-set tiebreak, but Basavareddy regrouped magnificently and administered the fourth set as if chairing a disciplinary panel. It was his first top-10 win and, one suspects, a substantial inconvenience to several draw projections. 

Meanwhile, Novak Djokovic, now apparently less tennis player than recurring institution, survived an early ambush from Frenchman Giovanni Mpetshi Perricard, who took the first set and briefly made Chatrier sound like a municipal uprising. Djokovic then remembered he was Djokovic and won 5-7, 7-5, 6-1, 6-4, progressing to face Valentin Royer. This was also Djokovic’s record-breaking 82nd men’s singles Grand Slam appearance, surpassing Roger Federer, which he treated, naturally, as merely another administrative formality. 

In British matters, the afternoon was divided into tragedy and resurrection. Emma Raducanu lost to Argentina’s Solana Sierra, 6-0, 7-6(4) — a scoreline which began as a collapse, became briefly a resistance movement, and ended as a reminder that second-set gallantry does not, by itself, constitute a tournament campaign. 

Then, in a much more stirring development, Fran Jones produced a fine comeback to beat former Roland-Garros semi-finalist Beatriz Haddad Maia, 1-6, 7-6(4), 6-2. This was Jones’s first Grand Slam main-draw win, achieved after losing the first set in a manner that would have caused lesser departments to cancel the meeting and reconvene in September. 

Elsewhere, Alexander Zverev, seeded second, moved through with the minimum of fuss, defeating Benjamin Bonzi 6-3, 6-4, 6-2. There was very little drama here, which is always suspicious at Roland-Garros, but one must occasionally accept competence where it presents itself. 

The women’s draw contributed a properly operatic upset when Hailey Baptiste beat former champion Barbora Krejcikova 6-7(7), 7-6(6), 6-2, saving match points along the way. This was less a tennis match than a three-act escape from a locked filing cabinet. 

Marta Kostyuk also advanced, beating Oksana Selekhmeteva 6-2, 6-3, under deeply emotional circumstances after learning of a missile strike near her family’s home in Ukraine. It was, by all accounts, one of the day’s most human moments: sport continuing, but not pretending the world outside the court had politely disappeared. 

Among the younger forces, Mirra Andreeva beat Fiona Ferro 6-3, 6-3, while João Fonseca advanced past Luka Pavlovic 7-6(6), 6-4, 6-2, accompanied by what Roland-Garros described as a carnival atmosphere. Translation: Brazil has arrived, brought drums, and has no intention of using its indoor voice. 

There were also heat-related difficulties, with temperatures around 33°C, retirements, and the usual Parisian sense that everyone was playing not only their opponent but also a terracotta casserole dish. 

Day One has delivered the essentials: a top seed fell, Djokovic survived, Raducanu departed, Fran Jones rose, Baptiste escaped, Zverev behaved efficiently, and the clay began whispering to the ambitious. In short: Roland-Garros is open for business, the stationery is already on fire, and nobody should trust a two-set lead, a wildcard or a French crowd after dusk.

Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant: the Audiobook

Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant: the Audiobook

Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant  is now available as an Audiobook on Audible.

£10.00
Shop now
Les Conquêtes Normandes d'un Tennisman Vieillissant

Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant

A gloriously absurd tennis adventure in which Andy Murray — or rather Lord Andrew John Paul George Ringo Murray of Kirkintilloch — sets his sights on Roland Garros.

£19.99
Shop now

Welcome to Roland Garros: Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant

It’s time for the French Open at Roland Garros!

Welcome, ladies, gentlemen, ball-kids and baffled bystanders to the podcast series that bravely asks: what if Roland Garros is less a tennis tournament and more a literary ambush? Alors… bienvenue, mes amis. 

Today we’re going neck-deep into Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant, where our “hero” — the ever-modest, entirely reliable, definitely-not-spiralling Lord Andrew John Paul George Ringo Murray of Kirkintilloch — takes a polite tumble down a rabbit hole of grandeur. And who’s holding the ladder? Lewis Carroll, of course. The Red Queen practically runs the warm-up: speak in French and remember who you are — advice which Lord Andrew interprets as: become a legend immediately, preferably on clay, and preferably while hallucinating. Très chic. Très officiel. Très… oui.

Ready, steady…? Allons-Y!

(Podcast generated by Julian Pilkington-Sterne with a little help from Mork and Mindy down in the Podcast Basement)

We unpack the rhythmic pop-ups of the ball boys Dum and Dee (because nothing says “elite sport” like a nursery-rhyme metronome), and the moment his opponent Corentin Moutet commits the ultimate crime: he gets turned into a pig on court -a glorious little nod to Carroll’s Pig and Pepper logic, where reality is negotiable and dignity is optional. Mon Dieu. Quelle surprise. Ooh là là. (I’m fluent now, apparently.)

Then there’s the recurring “awoke with a start” motif – the book’s way of winking at us and whispering: this entire Grand Slam may be a dream-state. Letterboxes widen into walkways, tennis balls develop French accents, and the court itself starts behaving like a sentence that’s forgotten how to end. C’est n’importe quoi. Pas possible! Mais… voilà.

And just when you think it’s all pure nonsense, we drag in Jean Cocteau, that delicious phrase about being plunged back into the night and suddenly the comedy has a bruise underneath it. Because these Carrollian fragments aren’t just playful flourishes: they’re masking something darker. A dazed, fractured consciousness. A man trying to narrate himself into glory… after a glider crash near Calais. Quel drame. C’est la vie. Je suis fatigué.

So yes – bon… on y va — come with us as we lovingly dismantle the “Greatest GOAT’s” fantasy layer by layer… until what’s left is not just satire, but a strangely poignant story of delusion, denial, and medical distress — served, naturally, with a side of French and a pig in the baseline. Bien joué, hein? D’accord, d’accord. And if any of that was wrong, look: on fait comme on peut. Voilà. À la fin!

And yet, it all begins here, with the strange going ons in a certain Liverpool tennis club with one bird watcher getting strangely interested in an ageing tennis player. Over to Louis Theroux to explain…

Les Conquêtes Normandes d'un Tennisman Vieillissant

Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant

A gloriously absurd tennis adventure in which Andy Murray — or rather Lord Andrew John Paul George Ringo Murray of Kirkintilloch — sets his sights on Roland Garros.

£19.99
Shop now

Julian Writes: The Day the Dog Arrived

There are days in one’s professional life which announce themselves with quiet inevitability: a meeting rescheduled, a kettle failure or an email sent too widely.  I have the lived experience of all three. And then there are days which arrive which are uninvited, unstructured and with a tail.

I noticed him first at 09:12. Not because I was looking, but because something – some subtle shift in the atmosphere suggested the presence of an observer not accounted for in the organisational chart. He was standing just beyond the glass doors. Still, composed and regarding us with what I can only describe as administrative curiosity.

A dog. Medium-sized, indeterminate breed although my grandmother might have referred to them as the Heinz 57 breed with eyes of unusual seriousness and the bearing of someone who had seen things and chosen not to comment. I assumed, initially, that he belonged to someone but this was my first mistake of the day.

At 09:17, the door opened – neither dramatically, nor symbolically but simply because Alex was bringing in a delivery and he brought the dog in with him.  Or rather, the dog entered of his own volition and didn’t seem to be following orders with no hesitation, sniffing or uncertainty.  In another world he might have been a viable contender for the doggy version of ‘Just a Minute’, the well-loved Radio 4 panel game but in this world, he walked in as though he had always worked here and as though we had been expecting him.

It was uncannily still.  He didn’t bark, beg or steal.  He just stood there in the centre of the office and looked at us, one by one. I felt, quite distinctly, and a touch unnervingly  that I was being assessed. Not judged – that would be too crude – but evaluated, gently, assessing my room for improvement. It was just five minutes before the chain reaction washed through the office.

Alex: “Whose dog is that?”

Clare (from reception): “Not mine, but he’s very polite.”

Paul: (did not look up from sketching) “He’s been here before.”

Maja: (sipping coffee, observing) “He has chosen this place.”

I found this comment unexpectedly affecting and had to hold back a sob.

He walked – not wandered, but walked – to the corner near the radiator, turned once, lay down and exhaled. He had made the decision to stay. Within thirty minutes, we had without any formal agreement entered into a discussion of what to call him. Suggestions included:

  • “Biscuit” (Clare)
  • “Shadow” (Paul, without explanation)
  • “Invoice” (Alex, I believe as a deterrent)
  • “Novak” (someone, inevitably)

I suggested “Atticus”, on the grounds that he possessed moral gravity. This was not adopted and we were left in limbo with a thus so-far unnamed dog.  It became increasingly clear that the dog belonged to no one in the NOP universe and this introduced a tension into the proceedings. Two schools of thought emerged:

The Adoption Faction (Clare, myself, increasingly Maja)

  • “He’s clearly comfortable here.”
  • “He chose us.”
  • “Look at his cheeky face.”

The Sensible Faction (Alex, though not without softness)

  • “He might be lost.”
  • “We should call a shelter.”
  • “This is not how employment works.”

Paul abstained, stating only: “he will decide.”

It wasn’t long (10.40 to be precise) before I summoned up the courage and approached him with care and respect. He opened one eye – just one – and in that moment I experienced something I can only describe as recognition. Not affection – not yet at least – but acknowledgement, as though he were saying: You are not entirely unsuitable.

By 11:05 he had become indispensable to us and us to him. By mid-morning, he had:

  • declined two biscuits (Clare, affronted)
  • repositioned himself closer to Maja’s desk
  • ignored Julian (briefly devastating)
  • accepted a cautious ear scratch from Alex

He had, in effect, begun to curate his own relationships.

By the end of the day, I had learned a lot and changed subtly, I thought, as a human being. We had not planned for him and we had not prepared for him. And yet, by 5pm, it felt impossible to imagine the office without him. There is, I think, a lesson in this, something about presence, choice and the quiet authority of simply arriving and remaining. Tomorrow, we will discuss what to do but tonight, however the dog has taken up position by the radiator, Maja has not asked him to leave, and Alex has not yet made the call to the vets, the PDSA or the waste disposal people of our managed office space. Which, in NOP terms, amounts to a form of acceptance.