6am - need to leave for work. Check the weather on the telly and the skies. Looks like a good day coming up!
30 mins later, halfway to work... DOWNPOUR!
And there's me in T-Shirt and light shirt with no brolly.
So I arrive like a drownded rat. Tired after last night revellry & knackered from an hour's trek in the deluge. Oh, well, won't be here long! it's only a small change I'm supporting!
Oh, soapy titwanking shitnadgers. Organisation-wide failure. Looks like I'm here for the long haul.
And when I'm finally released, I've missed the Grand Prix and Wombles invading the tennis courts.
Tennis!
Upper class wiff-waff with oversized paddles, more like!
Well, what a damp squib that was!
As opposed to a damp squid. Which would probably do a better job, what with having an octogany of tentacular appendages to beat their opponent with on the drizzle drenched court.
But, typicically, Britain's Finest, Pluckliest, Talented Sportsbloke ballsed it all up, and crashed out. So he's back to being a Scotch Scumbag, only fit for stuffing his sporting stomach with Scotch Eggs, Haggis, Quaker Oats, Shortbread and Whiskey. Shouting dunken loutish abuse at the referees in their high chairs.
High Chairs! It is some pre-requirement of poncified ping pong that to be a referee, you have to have a fetish for pretending to be a brattish child in a restaurant, for whom it's parents have inconvenienced everyone else by demanding the waiter cart a bloody awkward bit of furniture to the table, and stick it at the most inconvenient point of the table so it gets in everyone else's way, so the little cherub can smear it's greedy chops in chocolate cake?
Probably.
Anyhoo, in recognition of the useless sporter of sporrans, they've renamed "Henman Hill".
It's now "Murray's Minge"
Or something...
