My sister and her friends were watching the conclusion of Arthur Fery’s third round tiebreaker with Aperol-laced bated breath. Curiously enough, the match had already finished. Finally Fery began to speak: ‘oh thank God, he’s posh’, exclaimed one friend. Fery is this summer’s heartthrob, and a major coup for those who thought the posh boy had had their day. There’s been requisite time between the Hugh Grant heyday that it’s become novel and cool again; Leo Woodall laid some strong groundwork in 2024’s One Day, but it took Wimbledon’s Centre Court to cement the return.
I think the heatwave has a lot to do with it. It awakens the blood memory of the handsome new colonial official shaking up the staid imperial country club, setting the local wives’ hearts aflutter, and making the old guard grumble. Where better to display one’s mettle than in tennis whites on a grass court in front of the Queen?
Fery’s brand of posh boy seems to be the latest variant: more Clapham than Chelsea. One of the biggest tells is his friend in the box with a Stella Artois baseball cap: beer memorabilia is a major Clapham signifier. Throw in a mullet, ear piercing, and suspiciously shiny signet ring (the Stowe trinity) and bingo. If you’re in search of the phenotype, you can do no better than going to the smoking area of Clapham nightclub Inferno’s of a weekend.
Fery playing as a Wimbledon wildcard also helps feed a new gentleman player image. Underdogs are always fun to root for, and the posh boy whose name no one knows harks back to the amateur era. I like to imagine him casually picking up a wooden racquet with catgut strings aged 17 and realising ‘oh gosh, I seem to be rather good at this’. The truth is a bit different, with Fery, born with a raquette d’argent in hand. His parents are both French: his father founded a hedge fund and is worth £275m, while his mother played in the French Open and worked for the LTA. I wouldn’t be surprised if his first word was Babolat.
The good news for British fans is this means he’s actually a decent player. Watching Fery’s straight-sets victory in the Quarter-finals against ninth seed Cobolli, my sister added with confusion ‘he’s genuinely quite good’. It’s true, you learn not to expect much as a supporter in British sport: we tend to win on humbleness and politeness but soon get annihilated by the more aggressive do-or-die continentals. Every time a British player goes further than we expect at Wimbledon, one supposes they’ve got there on champagne fumes and a finite supply of crowd-induced gung-ho play (reaching the third-round earns them future tenure as a BBC Wimbledon commentator).
The celebrated poshos of old may have been bumbling, but they were also often very capable
We’ve had charming well-spoken British players before, but the trick this time is it’s combined with a desire and ability to win. For a while in sport, we’ve tended to believe winning is something other countries do. The celebrated poshos of old – picture a wartime officer singing Gilbert & Sullivan – may have been bumbling, but they were also often very capable. Fery’s stint playing at Stanford must have done him a lot of good for his confidence and drive to win, removing the English attitude where doing well and trying hard are perceived as mildly embarrassing.
A similar phenomenon has been taking place with the rehabilitation of traditionally posh events. Events that for a while were considered a bit embarrassing in their explicit poshness are now back in vogue. Orwell wrote that the English intellectual ‘would feel more ashamed of standing to attention during ‘God save the King’ than of stealing from a poor box’. For a while, those hiding their poshness would prefer to be pictured at a crack den than at Ascot. There are still holdouts, the public school equivalents of Japanese soldier Hiro Onada, who retain their ripped Palace x Supreme hoodie, second-hand Pioneer DJ deck, and wannabe roadman voice, but the posh boy is on his way back.
Fery will earn a minimum of £900k for getting to the Wimbledon semi-finals, as well as a whole host of new admirers; he’ll also have improved the coolness level of a clutch of plummy-voiced men. I wouldn’t be surprised if a good amount of his earnings end up spent on magnums of AIX rosé at Clapham posho stronghold the Pear Tree Café. This morning I asked my sister about her thoughts on Arthur Fery. ‘Love him. Only downside is he’s short’ (Fery is in fact a very respectable 5’9). It seems you can’t win them all.
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