Need something to read whilst you’re waiting in that queue in SW19? Or a little light reading for that holiday just around the corner?
Confessions of an Ageing Tennis Player is the must-go-to humorous guidebook about dreams, disappointments, failures and triumphs; a satirical mid-life-crisis handbook for everyone who has never quite fulfilled their fantasies on the tennis court, or anywhere else – and is now available on audiobook!
The ‘Sporting Confessions’ series offers some rare insights and humour into what it is to be an athlete at the top of their game. Confessions of an Ageing Tennis Player is the first book in a quartet of books which follow our hero, Lord Andy John Paul George Ringo Murray of Kirkintilloch through the Tennis Grand Slams around the world, in Melbourne, at Roland Garros in Paris, and finally, Lord Andy’s journey to immortality is told through the Fantastic Confabulations of an Ageing Tennis Player at Flushing Meadows in America.
‘Forget Sports Personality of the Year, because ‘Confessions of an Ageing Tennis Player’ wins my Sports Hero of the Decade! In a world where fame sometimes sleazily schmoozes with ability, Nick Owens’ salvos slyly obliterate the pretensions afflicting grand spectacle. Written with cheery lunacy, the rollercoaster of crazy is a joy and a credit to serving both a fine read and a smashing volley, earning a final score of everything-to-love.’ (Rick Hoegberg, writer)
“The idea of an epic battle between the common man and the forces, trying to keep them at bay is always a winner with me. Nick’s brilliant balance between humour and tragedy had me cheering for Lord Andrew whilst at the same time wishing he could find someone, anyone, to just sit down with for a serious talk over a cup of tea … Iparticularly enjoyed recreating a well known – and cringeworthy – interview with a certain political leader on the BBC!”
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 Bejlek6-3, 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 Rybakina3-6, 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 Royer6-2, 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 Machac6-4, 6-2, 6-2, while Casper Ruud closed the day by defeating Hamad Medjedovic6-3, 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 Ribera3-6, 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 Cina6-3, 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.
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.
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 Cerúndolo6-2, 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 Medvedev6-2, 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 Čilić7-6(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 Siegemund6-3, 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 Pegula1-6, 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 Tabur6-1, 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.
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.
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 Bonzi6-3, 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 Krejcikova6-7(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 Selekhmeteva6-2, 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 Ferro6-3, 6-3, while João Fonseca advanced past Luka Pavlovic7-6(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.
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.
It’s 10pm in the NOP Office and Paul has vey kindly stayed back to help me craft the perfect song to woo the perfect woman.
“Rule one,” he asserts. He can be quite assertive when he puts his mind to it, can Paul I thought. “Kevin Coyne never sang pretty. He growled, he cracked, he groaned. His songs were the sound of a man trying to wring meaning out of a damp Tuesday in Derby.”
“I can groan!” I’m cheered up already.
“Not theatrically!” he’s now insistent. “Authentically.”
“And the difference is…?” I’m already feeling out of my depth.
“One is pain. The other is you. Rule two: Coyne wrote about people, not abstractions. No metaphors about “brand ecosystems” or “emotional synergy.”
“Right. No synergy. No ecosystems.” I cross them out of my notebook discreetly.
“And rule three: Deep down, Kevin Coyne was tender. A bruised tenderness. Not your usual “Federer of Feelings” theatrics.
I nod solemnly. “I can bruise tenderly if I have to.”
“God help us.” Paul starts pacing the floor, looking this way and that, on the search for something, I’m not quite sure what.
“Cigar?” I proffer. He looks at me in a strangulated kind of way and looks to the ceiling.
Want to know why Maja is so struck by the work of Kevin Coyne? Just take a look here!
