Trente Quinze

If the French have taught us anything, is that it is not necessary to have toilets which flush at service stations. If they have taught us a second thing, it is that language is a precious commodity, easily diluted, and to be guarded fiercely. Speaking as an avowed advocate of the apostrophe, and a slave to the semi-colon, I can respect their defence of their language.

This occurred to me yesterday as I was watching Andy Murray (English-speaking Scot) and Fernando Gonzalez (Spanish-speaking Chilean) playing in the French Open.

The lingua franca of world tennis is indisputably English. Press conferences are conducted in English, publicity materials are prepared in English, and all the players speak English (although often with a suspiciously American accent).

Specifically, if you were to watch an ATP tournament in Kazakhstan or Kuala Lumpur, all the scoring would be reported in English. No matter where you are in the world, and from wherever the umpire hails, he or she will continue to rattle out “fifteens” and “thirties” in whatever thick accent they may have, but always in English.

Except in France.

The most peculiar of the grand slam tournaments, the French Open has, throughout the years, thrown up far more surprise champions than the other three. Pete Sampras never won there, Roger Federer has never won there. The recent dominance of Rafa Nadal aside, there have also been several surprise winners in recent years – people who never managed to win elsewhere: Gaston Gaudio, Albert Costa, Carlos Moya, Gustavo Kuerten.

It is the only Grand Slam tournament played on the orange clay surface, which appears to make a huge difference to players’ ability to play their game. People who know more about this than I do tell me that the ball bounces higher which lessens the impact of more powerful players and big servers. When you see the players sliding around on it, it becomes apparent that it is certainly a different proposition.

Not only the surface, but it is also the language which marks out this tournament as different. In their usual way, the French have point blank refused to bend to the overwhelming influence of the English language, and the scores continue to be read from the chair in glorious francais.

I like the way the French do this – the Academie francais is the body which protects the language, feverishly condemning the anglicised invasion of words like weekend and email, and ensuring that all Hollywood films are dubbed rather than subtitled, lest French viewers should have their enjoyment spoiled by hearing the accursed and filthy English tongue.

And so, at the tennis, they continue to give the score in French and declare, “jeu, Murray,” or rather more pertinently, “jeu, Gonzalez,” at the end of each game. Rather splendidly, they use the word "egalite" for deuce. This conjures up revolutionary ideas of comradeship, and distracts attention from the fact that "deuce" is actually a French word.