I’ve held my tongue for long enough. I need to vent. Excuse me…
…all of you drive me up the bloody wall with your high-pitched shrieking and union jack waving mindless hysteria. “C’mon Tim”, “C’mon Tim”, “C’mon Tim”. Ad bastard nauseum.
Hey! You in the union jack girlie-vest jumping up and down on that unexercised rump. What exactly is it you know about tennis apart from the fact that it only lasts for two weeks every year ? Or less, usually - depends when the last Brit mumbles an excuse and slips out the back door. Does your tactical awareness extend beyond the best sun screen to wear for a day on Centre Court or whether to wear your shades atop your head or hanging coyly from your vest ? I’d hazard not. Does your appreciation for the sew-sawing mental anguish of a battling five setter outweigh the cuteness of a pair of athletic legs ? I’d say no, you retarded wailing banshee who can’t get laid despite a generation of 18-30 holidays. Be gone you pathetic double fault.
What about you, Madam ? Yes, you with your aren’t-we-wacky-in-the-middle-class-suburbs union jack felt hat. Do you know where your husband is today ?. He’s left you. That’s right. He’s had enough of you and your mind numbing conversation about the neighbour’s new lawn mower. Yes, the damn mower makes a noise but it’s friggin Brahms compared with your inane dinner table wittering about your special recipe Sunday roast gravy. You know something else ? He chain sawed his way through your precious, highly polished High-Street-chic living room furniture before he left. And that garden ‘feature’ fishpond with the boy figurine spouting water which affords you so much joy ? He shat in that and something unspeakable and brown is pouring from the bastard’s mouth. And the final humiliation ? He didn’t leave you for another woman. No, he left just to be rid of you: “Good riddance” he shouted as he slammed the front door on 30 years of utter, unmitigated purgatory. But what a fun day out it was, wasn’t it. Wasn’t it you empty vessel of a net twitching neighbour ?
And you Sir! Yes you with the union jack waistcoat under a moth eaten sports jacket that might have fitted you 20 years ago. That was before you got fat and lazy and resorted to trying to be a Centre Court ‘character’ in order to validate your petty and increasingly pointless existence. Oh yes! How the crowd respond when you stand up and do ‘something silly’. But isn’t it lonely when no one wants to talk with you outside, when people avoid your eye, when you trudge back home to a take-away meal and the neighbours Hi Fi booming through the walls. Until, that is, you glimpse yourself on the highlights show. Validation! A sense of pride, of self-esteem ? The clown Prince once more! Bugger off, Sir, and impose yourself, instead, on your own sad lost cause of a life.
Good day to you all.
And before you ask; no, I didn’t receive tickets in this years ballot.
May I just add Persil Automatic onto your list of idiots for thet STUPID STUPID advert, with Henman throwing his clothes to the dumpy woman in the crowd.
A-farking-men L_C. The crowd drives me insane with their “Look at us, we’re so kooky with “TIM” written accross our foreheads, branding us for gormless twats we are!”.
The people who shout two seconds before he’s about to serve are the worst. If they gave a shit about the tennis, they’d be quiet now, not doing to verbal equivalent “Hi mum! Your son’s being a dickhead on telly!”
[sub]Crusoe - please tell me you’re actually going to use the tickets. When should be looking out for the chick-magnet in the crowd clapping politely?[/sub]
Ooh!! L_C, you just KNOW that these are the same people who go to “Last night at the Proms” and pretend to conduct the orchestra during Land of hope and glory.
Francesca : I went last Tuesday. Queued for Chang vs whoever he was playing, but got bored and went to watch Maleeva vs Viollet. Wandered round catching moments of Scott Draper, Amanda Coetzer (mmmm) and eventually blagged my way into Centre Court to catch Ancic vs Federer.
Is it really hard for y’all to understand ? I mean Coldie understands and he speaks real foreign stuff ? Anyways…
I think you’re dead right Twisty. All these people take their cue from the Last Night of the Proms. Yet they’re somehow a sub-species who wouldn’t queue up all night for a musical concert but would for a little teevee validation.
Actually, the baton-waving Prom Prat is, himself, a poncy geeky Britannia-rules-the-waves variety of the slowly dying species known as the (acne’d and angst ridden) air guitar player. One day I’ll draw a flow chart that explain it all…
As frustration grows, I’m now within a hairs breath of adding the smug and self-important ‘Corporate Hospitality’ honcho’s to the list of candidates for the revolutionary wall…
Francesca – Please don’t get me started on the sub face-paint people…
Steve - Absolutely agree with you re garrotting and cheering double faults. Can I put my knee in their backs and hold 'em by the hair as you administer the rusty blade ?
Diane – yes, the commentators are also saying there’s a little extra moisture on the turf today…must be something in the air. Mixed doubles eh, you sure your service game is up to it…?
And I’m not remotely envious of Mr Bjorkman playing mixed doubles with Ms Kournikova I’m absolutely not thinking of how the hell he manages to coordinate a serve with that pert little arse squirming around directly in front of him …because I’m watching the tennis…<whimper>
BTW, who’s this rather attractive Slovakian (more so with her hair down). I’m slightly disconcerted that her nipples appear to stare sideways but that aside…goodness me. New balls, Matron !
Finally, John McEnroe…God-like commentator ? I thought this last year but now he really is possibly my favourite commentator in all sports at the moment.
