Friday, 8 July 2016

Outsized Ping Pong.

I'm going to level with you: I need help. I've got tickets to the Wimbledon Women's Singles Final tomorrow and I'VE NO IDEA HOW TENNIS WORKS. 

Don't got me wrong; I know there's something about a net. I've got an inkling that Cliff Richard's involved, though I could be misremembering it. I hope so, as there's only so much shakey airy singing one man (or fifteen thousand men and women) can take before they stave their own head in.

It's not just the Women's Singles i'll see tomorrow, but the Male and Female Doubles Finals too. I've never been close to such big sporting events without running a gig on the same night, and wondering why nobody's turned up. We're like dowsing rods for sporting tournaments.  

It should be a hell of an experience. If you're going to see a handful of folk get into battle mode in a sporting contest, you may as well see the best; though I plan to spend the whole day showing everyone I can that trick where you fold a tenner to make Charles Dickens' hair and the Queen's face morph John McEnroe. It's good clean fun.

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