As imagined by Brian Beacom

YOU want to know what all the fuss is about? To be honest, so do I, and I’m hoping Scots tennis fans will sign the petition to get me out of the Melbourne hotel – which my dad describes as a torture chamber – where I’m being held.

All I know is that Tennis Australia love me. A visa was granted for entry, but now that does not guarantee entry. So what does entry mean if you can’t actual enter – and then you are asked to meet entry requirements?

The Australian government is saying the health information I supplied is questionable. So I’ll make myself clear. I am not saying I am an anti-vaxxer, even though I have sympathy with those who think that anyone who takes a vaccine is in effect putting the blood of Satan into their veins. And there is a very real chance they will produce cloven-hoofed children who speak in tongues and believe Boris Johnson to be of strong character.

But I do believe in “natural” healing. I once suggested that polluted water could be cleansed by the power of positive thinking, that science had proved “that molecules in the water react to our emotions”. So why can’t I turn the Omicron virus into Ribena?

And there are other reasons why I should play in Melbourne. My dad says I am the greatest tennis player of all time, with 20 grand slams to my name, and it would have been 21 had the American linesperson not leapt in the way of the ball I fired loosely in her direction during a fit of temper. Fifteen love to me.

I have the support of some the greatest free thinkers in the world over my libertarian stance, such as the cream of Fox News presenters. Thirty love.

I also have a great hair line, which means I will long be a poster boy for tennis. Forty love. And my dad says I’m the Spartacus of tennis, the one-true voice for the individual around the world.

Game to Djokovic.

As a supporter of peace and love – and my own Covid-ridden Balkan’s tennis tournaments – it’s a little difficult for me to back the Serbian government’s discussions on whether to declare war on Australia. And it’s not true I would be prepared to have Aussie Prime Minister Scott Morrison tied to a fence and serve tennis balls in the direction of his groin, even though Serbian television would pay heavily for the rights to screen this.

But I know you Scots support me in principle. You cried when contained by the tyranny of authority when you couldn’t get pie faced at the New Year with your pals. You want me on the court. Not in court.

So, it’s down to the question of exemption. Well, I have an exemption, of course I do. It is from all moral and personal responsibilities, to other players. And if have you a two-handed backhand like mine who’s to say I’m wrong?