Anyone for tennis?
Or, love all, or, Wimblequeue, or, what the deuce, or, sprawl in the dirt like the bitch you are!
Mate,
Off to Wimbledon! Madness, obviously, but good lady insists that we have to leave the house and garden at least once during our break. I argue that we have all the comforts of home, and many of the pub, right here at, well, home and so why should we bother going elsewhere? My argument is lost and I fire up the interweb to investigate tickets to Wimbledon, or, more rightly, the English Lawn Tennis Association. Turns out that if one turns up after five in the afternoon when, apparently, the queues are less long than at other times, one can buy a 'grounds ticket'. This allows you oink status, that is, you can't get in to centre court or number one court. I believe this is entirely appropriate as no self-respecting Englishman would want to be seen on centre court where the final is played.
Hoping to at least see a couple of sweaty lezzers grunting, or failing that, tennis, I pack my storm brolly and a jam sandwich and we head off to pick up the nephew. I have to say that I was travelling lightly - I had feared that the WLTA was the sort of place that stopped you bringing in even your water bottle, making you, as in a Victorian jail, purchase everything once inside. Not so, in fact, one may take into the grounds 'a reasonable amount of alcohol'. I have a note from my doctor explaining my status as an alcoholic and pack three wine boxes. Once empty, the silvery innards double as pillows!
Pick up young nephew, who has abandoned love of all things Arsenal for a week to start the proper occupation of pretending not to be interested in women's tennis while playing with himself. We strolled towards the train in a state of great excitement, brought on by an outing and the consumption of half a pound of sherbet fizzers I had unwisely gifted the little fellow. I always feel a little uncomfortable taking children on public transport, as one never knows if one will sit next to some loony or Turet's type and the child will, at some point in the evening, come back from the trip to ask their parents what a 'm******f*****g c**ks***ing a**w***' is. The answer is, of course, the sort of uncle who exposes the child to this sort of language. Usually, of course, the loony is me, so that's okay.
Train loony free. 'Shuttle' from station to ELTA is in fact a double decker bus. Alight with one eye on child and other on clouds and make way to end of queue, which is about 80 yards long.
I thought.
Turns out this is the 'break' in the queue, which resumes over the road. It takes ten minutes to reach the end of the queue. Along the way one admires the many nutter's camping out in the hope of early morning tickets and one is drawn to the South African and Oz flags. I was also impressed by the entrenuperial zeal shown by some of the locals who had thrown a couple of barbies together in their front gardens and were charging a quid for a burger and 50p for a can of drink.
I of course would have charged a quid for the use of my loo, three quid for solids and a fiver for a shower...just be sure not to mist up the web-cam darling.
Not all the campers were shiftless colonial oiks. Some were middle aged types, sheltering under a cagoul and uncorking their second bottle of chardonay at five in the afternoon!
Eventually reached the end of the queue, where I was handed a certificate to say I had reached the end of the queue. This is to stop queue-barging (you can't enter the grounds without a queue certificate), although looking at the length of the queue I was confident I could auction mine on ebay and have it sold by the time I got to the turnstile to pass it to its new owner. You also get a glossy brochure, not the programme for the championships, but a programme for the queue. I kid you not. lots of tips about queue etiquette, maps and a small short story, 'the phantom queuer'.
Queue moves very quickly and, as the heavens open, we reach the turnstiles. Lightening flashes and thunder rolls as the stewards explain that it's unlikely that we'll see any play, that our tickets are non-refundable and that's ten quid each please.
It is, indeed, raining. The ELTA is very large, although many of the courts are crowded together. Centre court is huge, number one court is bigger (newer too), everyone is very polite and very helpful. Linen, when wet, clings to the arse of the posh bird wearing it.
Everyone was incredibly nice, all the stewards trying to make up for the fact there was no tennis by letting people in to centre court (where you can retain your seat if play re-commenced). Sadly, the rain drove on and it was soon time to go. Exiting, I approached a young female security guard and asked the way to the shuttle bus. I was expecting the usual grunts one gets in response to questions asked of those of minimum wage and lower IQ, but was forgetting that the ELTA recruits locally. A young lady with an accent that could cut teak and was obviously just doing this job to meet a rich husband or pay for her skank habit, pointed me in the right direction.
Secretly, I was glad that we saw no tennis. Obviously one's first reaction to seeing women's tennis is an act of self-pleasure. Fine at home but this might, watching live, have offended the person seated in front at the point of conclusion.
All in all, great fun. Considering the lack of, you know, tennis, nephew was thrilled to have visited ELTA and didn't kick up once. ELTA itself is an oasis in rip-off Britain. Nephew was not charged fare on shuttle-bus, nor charged entry to ground. Instead of leaving thinking 'well that's the afternoon and a tenner wasted then', gave serious consideration to returning at some point. Imagine, if that's how good it is without seeing tennis...it must be excellent actually seeing the stuff!
Although...are you allowed to scream 'sprawl in the dirt like the bitch you are' when the player falls over? Maybe just get a wide screen telly then. SNES tennis was better.
Mate,
Off to Wimbledon! Madness, obviously, but good lady insists that we have to leave the house and garden at least once during our break. I argue that we have all the comforts of home, and many of the pub, right here at, well, home and so why should we bother going elsewhere? My argument is lost and I fire up the interweb to investigate tickets to Wimbledon, or, more rightly, the English Lawn Tennis Association. Turns out that if one turns up after five in the afternoon when, apparently, the queues are less long than at other times, one can buy a 'grounds ticket'. This allows you oink status, that is, you can't get in to centre court or number one court. I believe this is entirely appropriate as no self-respecting Englishman would want to be seen on centre court where the final is played.
Hoping to at least see a couple of sweaty lezzers grunting, or failing that, tennis, I pack my storm brolly and a jam sandwich and we head off to pick up the nephew. I have to say that I was travelling lightly - I had feared that the WLTA was the sort of place that stopped you bringing in even your water bottle, making you, as in a Victorian jail, purchase everything once inside. Not so, in fact, one may take into the grounds 'a reasonable amount of alcohol'. I have a note from my doctor explaining my status as an alcoholic and pack three wine boxes. Once empty, the silvery innards double as pillows!
Pick up young nephew, who has abandoned love of all things Arsenal for a week to start the proper occupation of pretending not to be interested in women's tennis while playing with himself. We strolled towards the train in a state of great excitement, brought on by an outing and the consumption of half a pound of sherbet fizzers I had unwisely gifted the little fellow. I always feel a little uncomfortable taking children on public transport, as one never knows if one will sit next to some loony or Turet's type and the child will, at some point in the evening, come back from the trip to ask their parents what a 'm******f*****g c**ks***ing a**w***' is. The answer is, of course, the sort of uncle who exposes the child to this sort of language. Usually, of course, the loony is me, so that's okay.
Train loony free. 'Shuttle' from station to ELTA is in fact a double decker bus. Alight with one eye on child and other on clouds and make way to end of queue, which is about 80 yards long.
I thought.
Turns out this is the 'break' in the queue, which resumes over the road. It takes ten minutes to reach the end of the queue. Along the way one admires the many nutter's camping out in the hope of early morning tickets and one is drawn to the South African and Oz flags. I was also impressed by the entrenuperial zeal shown by some of the locals who had thrown a couple of barbies together in their front gardens and were charging a quid for a burger and 50p for a can of drink.
I of course would have charged a quid for the use of my loo, three quid for solids and a fiver for a shower...just be sure not to mist up the web-cam darling.
Not all the campers were shiftless colonial oiks. Some were middle aged types, sheltering under a cagoul and uncorking their second bottle of chardonay at five in the afternoon!
Eventually reached the end of the queue, where I was handed a certificate to say I had reached the end of the queue. This is to stop queue-barging (you can't enter the grounds without a queue certificate), although looking at the length of the queue I was confident I could auction mine on ebay and have it sold by the time I got to the turnstile to pass it to its new owner. You also get a glossy brochure, not the programme for the championships, but a programme for the queue. I kid you not. lots of tips about queue etiquette, maps and a small short story, 'the phantom queuer'.
Queue moves very quickly and, as the heavens open, we reach the turnstiles. Lightening flashes and thunder rolls as the stewards explain that it's unlikely that we'll see any play, that our tickets are non-refundable and that's ten quid each please.
It is, indeed, raining. The ELTA is very large, although many of the courts are crowded together. Centre court is huge, number one court is bigger (newer too), everyone is very polite and very helpful. Linen, when wet, clings to the arse of the posh bird wearing it.
Everyone was incredibly nice, all the stewards trying to make up for the fact there was no tennis by letting people in to centre court (where you can retain your seat if play re-commenced). Sadly, the rain drove on and it was soon time to go. Exiting, I approached a young female security guard and asked the way to the shuttle bus. I was expecting the usual grunts one gets in response to questions asked of those of minimum wage and lower IQ, but was forgetting that the ELTA recruits locally. A young lady with an accent that could cut teak and was obviously just doing this job to meet a rich husband or pay for her skank habit, pointed me in the right direction.
Secretly, I was glad that we saw no tennis. Obviously one's first reaction to seeing women's tennis is an act of self-pleasure. Fine at home but this might, watching live, have offended the person seated in front at the point of conclusion.
All in all, great fun. Considering the lack of, you know, tennis, nephew was thrilled to have visited ELTA and didn't kick up once. ELTA itself is an oasis in rip-off Britain. Nephew was not charged fare on shuttle-bus, nor charged entry to ground. Instead of leaving thinking 'well that's the afternoon and a tenner wasted then', gave serious consideration to returning at some point. Imagine, if that's how good it is without seeing tennis...it must be excellent actually seeing the stuff!
Although...are you allowed to scream 'sprawl in the dirt like the bitch you are' when the player falls over? Maybe just get a wide screen telly then. SNES tennis was better.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home