Emma Raducanu’s win should’ve united us but ‘Brexiteers shouldn’t celebrate’

VOTED Brexit? Then what the hell were you doing, excitedly cheering on Emma Raducanu on Saturday night, you big, racist brute?

Pack up your hooded white gown, and go back to taunting footballers, you regressive Neanderthal.

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Yep, Emma had yet to pack up her rackets, or wipe the sweat from her forehead, before it started: The sour-faced culture wars.

While most right-minded people were simply, and innocently, celebrating the stunning success of a supremely talented 18-year-old, a small minority were busy trying to throw their political jabs.

Because, apparently, the 51.89 per cent of the population who voted to leave the EU in 2016 shouldn’t be allowed to bask in Emma’s victory.

No — the real victory for the hard Left was seen in racial terms: She was born in Canada to a Romanian father and Chinese mother, before moving to London at the age of two. In other words, she’s an immigrant.

For the record, I voted Remain but on social media, no one cares about detail. It is all about one-upmanship.

For many of these blue-ticked omnipundits, the sport is not the tennis, it’s the ruining of other’s people’s merriment.

“Bloody immigrants! Coming over here, making it from qualifying to win the US Open without dropping a set.”

So lampooned one left-wing commentator, shortly before tweeting “never trust a Tory x” — the kiss, presumably, being ironic.

Robotically, by people determined to sound oh-so-clever, Emma’s Grand Slam win was overtaken by political point-scoring. Good Morning Britain’s Adil Ray got the (tennis) ball rolling, tweeting: “If you play in a tennis final you’re British if you’re a builder/delivery man/waitress etc you’re Romanian.”

Obviously London Mayor Sadiq Khan, a man who has never knowingly turned down a PR opportunity, jumped on the bandwagon, posting: “Emma Raducanu’s story is London’s story.

“Here in London, we embrace and celebrate our diversity. And if you work hard, and get a helping hand, you can achieve anything.”

Both men were promptly accused of “politicising” Emma’s win. Piers Morgan’s eldest son, Spencer, told the mayor to “bore off”.

Both Adil and Sadiq meant well. And both have every right to tweet what they did. But isn’t fighting prejudice about not making generalisations, about not reinforcing stereotypes?

Why couldn’t Emma’s New York fairytale been seen for what it was — a once-in-a-generation bit of magic? Let’s face it, Emma is more English than Andy Murray, a man who once quipped he’d support “anyone but England” in the 2006 World Cup.

She grew up in Bromley, a town which boasts its own team of Morris dancers, has two theatres, a cinema, local library and offers the N3 and N199 night bus from central London.

In the famous Monty Python Spam sketch, Bromley was home to the Green Midget Cafe, an establishment offering up only spam in varying degrees. But absolutely none of this needs to be said.

By constantly bringing up Emma’s heritage in an effort to goad the right, or Brexiteers, over their apparent xenophobia, it continues to be a “thing”.

Which, for the progressive Left, is hardly progressive at all. More importantly, thanks to Emma, thousands of young boys and girls spent their weekends hitting balls against a wall, wanting to emulate their young hero.

Only tennis should be about scoring points.

As a side note to Emma’s stunning victory on Saturday night, millions watched on as she was handed her winner’s cheque for $2.5million  . . .  before she had even lifted the trophy.

They would never dream of being so gauche at Wimbledon.

Elton’s newt best friend

LISTENING to the radio this morning, I eagerly Shazamed a song – only to discover it was Elton John’s latest offering.

Which was . . .  triggering. The superstar diva – who has teamed up with Dua Lipa – used to be something of a hero.

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I loved his voice, his little Versace tracksuits, his campaigning, his adorable sausage fingers. I loved it ALL.

After incessantly badgering his poor PR man, I was finally granted an audience with The Big E – and over the next few, happy years regularly got invited to his Oscars parties in LA.

We were pals, basically, I thought. My mum even has a framed photo of us in her downstairs loo. And then I wrote a story claiming Elton was retiring from touring to spend more time with his family.

Elton got cross. Very, very cross. That night he went on stage in Newcastle and moaned about the story. Specifically, me.

“Apparently I’m retiring,” he ranted, spittle flying, to 30,000 fans. “Well, I’ve met the journalist who wrote that story, and let me tell you: She’s an absolute plank. Being interviewed by her was like being interviewed by a dead newt.”

The next day I was bombarded with GIFs of lizards in various states of life, and planks of wood.

So, yes. That was humiliating. (FYI, the following year Elton announced his retirement tour).

Cannot K.O. the royals

POOR ol’ Prince George. Only eight, and he’s already killed off the monarchy.

That is, at least, the view of Booker prize-winning author Hilary Mantel, who reckons the Royal Family will die off after “two generations”. Nonsense.

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Sure, Her Majesty’s sweatless son hasn’t done much to boost the Privy Purse of late, nor have her whining, defecting, private jet-loving grandson and his two-bit actress* American wife.

But it’s going to take more than a putative sex abuse scandal and a pushy, self-obsessed couple crying racism to topple this clan.

This, after all, is a family that’s overcome divorces, beheadings, murders and abdications.

A group of people so tight they can’t be knocked by a spot of toe-sucking, dwarf-tossing or Nazi dressing. And, beyond all other horrors, a brood which survived June 15, 1987: It’s A Royal Knockout.

Picture it, if you will. Princes Edward and Andrew, and Princess Anne, rubbing shoulders with Chris de Burgh, Anneka Rice, Meat Loaf and John Cleese. Paul Daniels refereed.

Snazzy costumes were worn, challenges drawn; Tessa Sanderson hurled a javelin at John Travolta, and contestants dressed as vegetables hurled joints of fake ham at one another.

As I say, this family can survive ANYTHING.

• Actually, that’s unfair – she was good in Suits.

Dressed to spill in corset trend

FIVE and a bit centuries after the Elizabethans made fashion not for the faint-hearted – literally, as people fainted because monstrous corsets were drawn so tight – once again, we are suffering in the name of beauty as the style makes a return.

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Also, the resulting back-fat spillage NEVER looks good (that stuff’s gotta go somewhere) – even if you’re Irina Shayk.

I’m still waiting for the tracksuit bottom to have its day.

Noisy neighbours

NOISY neighbour complaints have soared by a quarter since lockdown, a new report has shown.

I am soon to be one of them, after the arrival of my new neighbours and their World’s Noisiest Toddler®. Neither turning the radio up, nor a slightly passive-aggressive text, have worked – and I’m at my wits’ end. Solutions on a postcard* please.

*Email me: clementine. moodie@thesun.co.uk.

‘Unsafe’ appointments

THE Queen’s former doctor has called for an end to “unsafe” virtual appointments – asking for GPs to start seeing patients face to face once again

Sir Richard Thompson is 100 per cent right.

Sure, a cold or twisted ankle can probably be spotted over Zoom.

But people with more serious health conditions are dying.

My granddad, who died before I was born, was a GP and would apparently proudly boast that he could tell any woman she was pregnant from two feet away – even if she didn’t know it herself.

Like the rest of us, doctors need to get back into the workplace.

Make it stop

OF all the Americanisms we have inherited over the past 50 years or so, none can surely be as hideously narcissistic as the “gender reveal party”. (Although the baby shower comes a close second).

This time it was the turn of Made In Chelsea starlet Louise Thompson and her fiancé, Ryan Libbey, to share with the world the genitals of their forthcoming sprog.

So, in the accompanying video – obvs posted on Instagram – a bat-wielding Ryan is filmed smacking a baseball releasing a puff of blue smoke, right.

Which, despite these gender-confused times, presumably means a boy incoming.

Please make it stop.