Tennis, bloody hell
The most remarkable thing I did aged 18 was blag myself a child’s fare on the bus.
And yep, that doesn’t *sound* impressive.
But by 18 I was already a lanky streak of piss with more hairs on my top lip than a Travelodge plughole.
’HALF TO TOWN, PLEASE…’
I clearly wasn’t fifteen. So it was *kind of* impressive.
Emma Raducanu was immense.
I know nothing about tennis but it’d be great if this was just the beginning for her.
It’d also be great if overweight, fifty-something men with no sporting background would stop offering mental health critiques of elite athletes.
Never mind world-class performers with the world at their feet, I’m not sure any of us should be taking tips on mental resilience from a man who walked off his own show when the fucking weatherman disagreed with him.
And talking of gargantuan bellwhiffs on the telly, Jeremy Kyle is the latest to claim he’s been ‘cancelled’. He then promised to tell us all about it if we listened to his new show on NATIONAL RADIO.
These cancelled folks get an awful lot of airtime don’t they?
Call me old fashioned, but I remember as far back as late 2020 when that word used to mean something.
Along with ‘literally’ (which *literally* now means metaphorically) the word cancelled has been wheeled out more often than a first year student's pasta bake recipe.
I’m calling it now - the word cancelled should be cancelled.
Either that or we should start demanding cancellation for minor, everyday grievances.
Dog barks at you? Cancel the owner ❌
Someone puts milk in before the teabag? Cancelled ❌
Hold a door open for someone without a thank you? Cancel the bastard ❌
To be fair, those last two are pretty abhorrent.
But you get my point.
I wish all the luck in the world to Emma Raducanu.
Especially in the face of all the usual ghouls who criticised her a few months back and are now doing mental gymnastics to congratulate her.
Those parasites aren’t fooling anyone.
I hope she wins Wimbledon next year.
I hope when she’s serving for the Championship, she takes a wild swing at the ball, swatting it high up into the air.
As the commentators speculate on what on earth she might be playing at, the ball flies out of SW19 like an arrow.
Into the stratosphere.
Reaching it’s peak at 20,000 feet, it starts it’s descent, swooping towards a particular house on millionaire’s row.
A heatseeking missile.
The ball smashes through the upstairs window, bounces down the stairs like a slinky, off the hatstand in the hall and into the living room.
Piers Morgan looks up from his TV to see what the commotion is.
As the perfectly weighted tennis ball collides head-on with his piping hot cup of tea.
Spilling it down his crotch.
Game, set & match.
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