KING JOHN, THE MAD

It is almost half past eight on a wet Friday evening when he enters the court for the Legends Cup, but already the demons are swarming like wasps.

He thought they were playing in Brussels – they drove him to Liege!

He thought they’d be staying at a nice hotel beside the tournament venue – they drove him halfway to Luxembourg!

He’s jet-lagged; his back aches; he’s picked up an anger-rash from the press conference and just when he thought his head was going to explode, just when he thought things couldn’t get much worse, they’ve sent him out to play the lovable Frenchman, Henri Leconte.

Henri, Le Doux.

Leconte with the sweet disposition.

Leconte with the permanent smile.

Leconte charming the umpire and throwing water and cola to the crowd. Leconte.

Within four games of the opening set, Mac has had his fill . . .

“FFFUUCCCKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!”

In the fifth, he savages the umpire.

In the sixth, he flings his racket to the ground. He loses the set, fights his way back and then loses the match in a tie-break. Boy, is he pissed off.

One watches, waits for the storm to abate.

There’s no handshake. They exchange heated abuse at the net and Mac storms from the court without granting an interview or an autograph.

King John, the triple Wimbledon singles champion.

King John, one of the finest we’ve ever seen.

King John, the outstanding broadcaster.

King John, The Mad.