The English summer continues. Ascot has, thankfully, passed into memory and George has two tickets to watch the Murray v Haas game at Wimbledon. Caroline has tickets for the second week. George, it has to be said, has absolutely no interest in Tennis. His tastes are for full contact sports like rugby, but even George was surprised when a New Zealand mate of his phoned from New Zealand to name the four England players, allegedly involved in absolutely nothing at all, and certainly nothing of note in terms of exciting play or even vaguely interesting or diverting opposition against the All Blacks, and then moved on to talk about spit-roasting.
Caroline has been offered a post by her ex-boss and is spending the day at her old office to get a feel for things before making a decision on whether to accept the offer.
George has invited Rick, a musician who enjoyed some success with a band in the eighties. They arrived at Wimbledon shortly after 2.00. Two women were playing tennis, so George and Rick went off for some drinks and a bit of Class A
Rick: I can’t stand f******g tennis. Why are we here? I mean look at ’em. The place is crawling with chinless wonders, and…. see those two caber tossers with the Scottish flag painted on their faces. I mean… who the f**k plays tennis in Scotland?
George: Apparently the guy with the curly hair is a Scot… Andy Morgan… or something…. No… I can’t stand tennis either, but free tickets are free tickets – and they come with £200 in crisp twenties for drinks which should see us through. Champagne?
Rick: Nah…. I want some Pimms…. undiluted…. on the rocks and no F*****g fruit. I’ll have an umbrella in it though. I’m off to the bog for a sharpener.
Rick nips off to the lavatories to powder his nose. George organises the drinks and buys Rick a treble Pimms on the rocks. There were no umbrellas available at the Bar for the drink, so George put the Wimbeldon Lawn Tennis Club umbrella supplied with the tickets into the tall glass of Pimms and opened it up ready for Rick’s return. People nearby look on with mild disdain. Their disdain was soon to turn to severe disdain and a lot of middle class muttering and clucking. Rick returns, sees the Wimbledon umbrella stuffed in his glass of Pimms and starts laughing maniacally… and very quickly.
George: I’ll be right back. This is a bit of a Class A joint… so when in Rome…. time to get the Dyson out.
Rick: OK…see you in a mo, mate.
The two men drink for about an hour, talking quickly at each other, glance occasionally at others wandering about not watching the tennis, and get fairly drunk. Rick didn’t enjoy his Pimms so he went and bought a couple of double Vodkas for himself and a bottle of Champagne for George. He also bought some strawberries, mashed them into a pulp with his fist, licked the strawberry juice off his hand and poured the pulped strawberries into his two glasses of Vodka. After several more visits to the lavatory and further drinks orders, the two men make their way out to their seats for the Centre Court Murray v Haas match. The game starts soon after.
George: Come on Tim!….
Rick: Who is Tim?
George: He’s over there in The Royal Box.
Rick: Yeah… but who is he?
George: A tennis player…. he didn’t win Wimbledon…. . but few do. In fact, if you think about it… only one person a year can win Wimbledon… he was a good player but just did not make it despite the hopes of a nation…. but made piles of cash being British about not winning…..
Rick: Bit like most of us in the rock biz.
George: Same with our lot, really… in fact probably true of most people. A lot of people are pretty useless at what they do and get paid for it. I mean take newsreaders. Why do they earn shedloads for reading?
Rick: Yeah, mate…. same with Gordon Brown… “Started well, f****d up, still in power….. and he complains about that buffoon Mugabe being elected with no opposition candidate!”
George: You have a point…. not a great point, and certainly not set point, but a point nevertheless… and does it matter?… they’re all on the make… dodgy expenses, nannies who can’t type doubling as secretaries…. failing to comply with their own regulations….
Rick: Yeah… and some of those f*****s also cycle and don’t stop at red lights, ride on the pavement and cycle the wrong way down one way streets….C***s…
George: Yes… they are…. F**k I’m pissed…. that tennis ball is going incredibly fast…. Well done Tim!… play up… play up… play the game.
Rick: Who is Tim?…. ah… F**k it… I can’t watch this shit… I’m going back to the bar… fancy a drink?
George: Yes…. this is tedious.