Big Sam was not wrong...
Discussion
Last night, in tandem with my absurd starvation diet (which btw, is going spectacularly well), I continued my reintroduction back into the one activity ever practiced at any time in my life with any consistency and passion, namely, tennis.
Having been somewhat absent from the courts for a good 15 years or so, the inevitable rust appears, after just two sessions, to be flaking, ever so slightly, away.
I'm going to continue, partly for the exercise (I despise the pretentions of the faux temples of vanity, default attendees of which seem to consist entirely of ridiculous 42 year old peroxidal bimbettes called 'Jakki' driving Audi cabriolets, preferring the honest-to-God rigours of a simple, straightforawrd athletic variety, as God intended) but also because apart from golf which is impossibly time-consuming, smashing the ball hither & thither releases a similar endomorph to that when pressing home an accelerative burst to the holy side of 160.
Er, anyway, the thing is this - as we displayed vast committment and little or no actual significant technique on the court, it was immediately apparent that this magnificent municipal facility, a left over arena from the Commonwealth Games, was, bar matey unt moi, bereft of any similarly jumping, bounding and groaning humanity.
Where in the name of Eric Estrada were the thronging mass of youth we hear so often dispossessed of the facilities which might otherwise see them pound our Amercian, French, German, Spanish or (ffs!) SWISS chums into sumbmission? This was 2100hrs.
Which brings me be to BWFC's gruff, heroic svengali, old Big Sam the Al's recent take on the state of our Jabbatastic youth.
"They're all a bunch of lazy bastards."
He's right, of course, so the next time you see poor old Sue Barker, reaching pitifully for some words of encouragement from Messrs McEnroe, Cash or Herr Becker, as to the whereabouts of Fred Perry's Arthurian successor (and wince, for another year, at the sheer embarassment of it all), you know.
He, she, they, are all sitting in a pool of brine, moaning about everything and being utterly motionless.
In a way, a microcosm of everything that's wrong with the country at large and thoroughly, crushingly dire.
We have to be the wettest nation on earth, now comprehensibly loud of bark with a feeble set of gnashers and quite frankly, no balls at all.
With all due apologies to Messrs Redgrave, Jackon, Christie, Coe et all.
Having been somewhat absent from the courts for a good 15 years or so, the inevitable rust appears, after just two sessions, to be flaking, ever so slightly, away.
I'm going to continue, partly for the exercise (I despise the pretentions of the faux temples of vanity, default attendees of which seem to consist entirely of ridiculous 42 year old peroxidal bimbettes called 'Jakki' driving Audi cabriolets, preferring the honest-to-God rigours of a simple, straightforawrd athletic variety, as God intended) but also because apart from golf which is impossibly time-consuming, smashing the ball hither & thither releases a similar endomorph to that when pressing home an accelerative burst to the holy side of 160.
Er, anyway, the thing is this - as we displayed vast committment and little or no actual significant technique on the court, it was immediately apparent that this magnificent municipal facility, a left over arena from the Commonwealth Games, was, bar matey unt moi, bereft of any similarly jumping, bounding and groaning humanity.
Where in the name of Eric Estrada were the thronging mass of youth we hear so often dispossessed of the facilities which might otherwise see them pound our Amercian, French, German, Spanish or (ffs!) SWISS chums into sumbmission? This was 2100hrs.
Which brings me be to BWFC's gruff, heroic svengali, old Big Sam the Al's recent take on the state of our Jabbatastic youth.
"They're all a bunch of lazy bastards."
He's right, of course, so the next time you see poor old Sue Barker, reaching pitifully for some words of encouragement from Messrs McEnroe, Cash or Herr Becker, as to the whereabouts of Fred Perry's Arthurian successor (and wince, for another year, at the sheer embarassment of it all), you know.
He, she, they, are all sitting in a pool of brine, moaning about everything and being utterly motionless.
In a way, a microcosm of everything that's wrong with the country at large and thoroughly, crushingly dire.
We have to be the wettest nation on earth, now comprehensibly loud of bark with a feeble set of gnashers and quite frankly, no balls at all.
With all due apologies to Messrs Redgrave, Jackon, Christie, Coe et all.
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