He did not plant these, they just happened. Poppies we believe. Doing really well in the hot sunshine. We approach the height of the tennis season when I try to hide away as much as possible. I used to play tennis years ago, and I’ve even been to Wimbledon to watch it, but now it leaves me unimpressed, especially on the telly.
Perhaps it’s the fact that the men in particular make the boring bloke on Derry Girls seem like a particularly scintillating speaker who you’d put yourself out to listen to. It’s probably all those hours of hitting little fluffy yellow balls that does it to them.Two dimensional is almost a compliment, and why can’t that Spanish bloke get himself a decent pair of pants, all that fidgeting and faffing before sending down a thunderous serve is just too much.
The fawning comentators don’t help referring back to the days years ago when they played a bit, or when they watched someone who played a bit. At least this year we might be spared Boris Becker. He has something in common with that French Celebrity Chef : Raymond Blanc, neither of them seem able to speak English without an accent that sounds like they’ve just walked off the set of “Allo, Allo”. They’ve both been in this country for yonks and speak almost perfect English but cannot speak without exaggerated accents. At least Raymond is n’t residing at her Majesty’s Pleasure. I wonder if any of those fawning commentators will utter the word Becker this year?
If you want me, I’ll be on the plot.