Old Man On Tour

That’s All Folks

2009-05-08T01:28:00.000+01:00

If Castro can do it gracefully, so can I! Today marks my official retirement from tennis and, naturally, this means that the oldmanontour blog settles in its final resting place. I won’t say I’ll never play again, but there are no immediate plans to hit the courts (the last time it took 10 years).

I could cite the obvious reasons - injury, subsequent frustration, the general expense and logistical complications of trying to play competitive old man’s tennis in the UK. I might also mention the shitty calls, the pathetic organisation or even the low key nature of it all. If I were the only drummer to leave Spinal Tap without dying – I would sum it up simply as ‘musical differences’.

But ultimately it’s a bit like splitting up with a girlfriend you’ve been knocking around with for a few years. You’ll miss the early magic, the companionship, the wonderful trips but after a while the arguments, nagging and the requirement to hold in your farts at the dinner table drag you down. Even thrashing the mattress isn’t what it used to be.

If you’ve followed the blog thanks very much for doing so. I’ve had a lot of fun with my full time experiment and would encourage everyone to give it a try – in whatever sport or activity grips your shit. Although, because of injury, I didn’t quite fully explore my potential I look back with no regrets and have a good idea where I stand in the scheme of things (not that high, but high enough to get a free tracksuit I suppose!). If any of you have any questions about the whole project or would like to email me you can contact me through my profile.

But wait…..you’ll notice my profile is now different. The tennis may be over, but you didn’t think I would return back to the hell that is work with my tail between my legs did you? The second depression has arrived just in time to force me to evade work for a little while longer. Now it’s time to get to work on a few running goals I have. You can follow my progress at www.cunningrunt.blogspot.com.

Hope to see you there.

Days 2 & 3

2009-05-05T11:47:00.002+01:00

There was a recent Simpsons episode where Homer attended a rock school run by The Rolling Stones. On conclusion of the week he was told he would be participating in their concert, and so broadcast the fact. When the concert came round he found out he was only supposed to introduce the band and not play his instrument. I have an idea how he felt (alright I don’t - he’s only a cartoon character) as I didn’t get to play again in the event again until the (partially dead) doubles rubber on the final day. Saving me for the doubles is like having Stephen Hawking run the final leg of the 4 * 100m at the Olympics!

Don’t get me wrong, my play on the first day hardly deserved anything else, but we are not concerned with the subject of justice here, more of personal viewpoint.

I’ve never been a good spectator. I very rarely pay to see professionals perform unless they are on horseback carrying my cash or the sporting event is a thinly veiled alibi for an all day drinking session – preferably both. In fact, the first time I called an adult a wanker was as a substituted 13 year old on the sideline during a Godspa Youth football match in 1986. Despite this the number one singles on the final day was a high quality affair with all the associated swings and roundabouts associated with good competitive sport.

Overall the event played out very much like the history of the British Isles. In the over 35s Scotland had their Bannockburn, in the mens 45s the Welsh their Bryn Glas. But overall, the greater depth of England swung the balance in the end, with the Irish inevitably trampled underfoot.

Every veteran event I play I’m enormously impressed by the older age groups. Not that they are better than the younger age groups but the level of play is amazing – particularly considering that some of them probably have to be airlifted out of bed in the morning. This is not meant as an insult, more of a reflection on how I have found at just 36 years of age that, although the muscles and lungs may be well trained, the tendons and joints are less inclined to co-operate.

Day 1 vs Ireland

2009-05-02T23:55:00.002+01:00

A friend asked me the other day whether you got many groupies at these events! Now, he could have been referring to debris amongst your nose hairs but I suspect he meant of the female, gagging kind. It's difficult to describe to non-tennis players how low-key these events tend to be. It's essential to go into these events with relatively low expectations, so perhaps it was naive of me to think that perhaps there may be umpires and we wouldn't have to rely on our own cataract-infested eyeballs to call the lines. There aren't of course and the only real evidence that there is a team event going on is a selection of hideous tracksuits (of which the consensus is that ours are the worst).

The venue itself is a relative rarity in British terms, a bespoke and permanent tennis facility with 7 indoor courts. Quite impressive too (again, working from the low expectations angle!). There are 3 age groups here for each of the countries and for each sex. Our mens 35 team alternates the use of the court with the ladies team, so 6 matches take place concurrently on the one court - 2 singles and 1 doubles for each tie.

Unfortunately the matches are a 10-pt tiebreak in lieu of a full 3rd set. What seemed initially, to be a ludicrous short cut is appearing to be astonishing presience as the day can really drag on. Particularly so, as chairs are banned from the viewing gallery - no doubt by order of the same people who demand 'may contain nuts' warnings on packets of nuts and who are already wearing their swine-flu respirators to go to Tescos. Not to sound like a crippled old fart but standing all day is knackering, so much so that the cod liver oil salesman has just traded in for a Bentley.

As for my own part in affairs, I played number one singles and was utterly abysmal. In new conditions your timing can take a while to arrive but it's unreasonable to expect to still be shanking your shots late in the second set. In the end I capitulated 4 & 3 and I'm ashamed to say that is actually flattering to me. A shocking effort, although fortunately my team mates had a better time of it and we beat Ireland 2-1 overall.

Next up is Wales, who lost to Scotland today.

"...And On The Seventh Day..."

2009-04-28T08:27:00.003+01:00

It’s no wonder the old man upstairs took the sunday off – he must have been knackered after the week he’d just had. I doubt whether he was quite as sore as I was yesterday though.

The first port of call was Hyde Park in London for the Serpentine 'Last Friday of the Month 5k'. Although limited to 200 runners the standard in these races is usually very high. Thus it proved as I only managed 10th but far exceeded my expectations in running 16:44 (5:23 mile pace). I was delighted with that and even more pleased that the shocked old lady out with her daughter for a pleasant stroll managed to resist an imminent heart attack as 200 people charged past.

The account of this would not be complete without mentioning that it now costs over £26 to travel off-peak to London on the train. The insult was crowned by their unmitigated gall in charging me 30p for a shit at Kings Cross station. Being the helpful chap I am I suggest they put that money to work, distributing it as follows: 10p of it in the provision of toilet paper, 5p towards the cost of a lock on the door, 3p to a hanging hook on the door and 4p for putty to block the peep holes in the cubicle wall. The remainder can be used for research into a urine seat puddle prevention system. Maybe they could call it the piss-away.

An England team practice was scheduled for sunday afternoon, rather optimistically for 4 hours (but accurately as it turned out). Unfortunately the 3rd member of the team was unable to attend so the numbers were made up by some good youngsters – by which I mean players under the age of 30. I ended up playing 3 sets of singles and 2 sets of doubles. I was timing the ball pretty well most of the time considering and am now set for next weekend.

A quick tally up of training over the friday to sunday period shows 26 miles of running, ½ a mile of swimming and over 5 hours of tennis. Yesterday consisted of 1 hour of walking and 23 hours of larding about. This was appealing at first, but by the end of the day I was bouncing off the walls through lack of exercise.

D-Day Minus 9

2009-04-23T17:41:00.003+01:00

The first order of business this week was some intense one on one with the ball machine, as I've been netting forehands recently and hitting my backhands wide - not an encouraging combination if your aspiration is actually to win. I find the ball machine is the best method of ironing out any technical glitches in your strokes as you are not at the mercy of the errant feeds of others. Anyway, consider the strokes ironed and pressed.

I also hit some serves today - not the sort of serves which would have your fillings out if you were returning but they were respectable enough. No elbow pain either! Not a moment too soon as well as there is a team practice on sunday.

In my other life I have a 5k race tomorrow in Hyde Park in London. Given some good recent workouts and given the fact I now weight less than 11 stone (154 lbs) in the mornings I will hopefully be giving 17:30 a good kicking.

Having a spare moment or so between workouts I pottered down to the local auction house (you don't stride purposefully or even walk round one of these places, you potter). And bloody hell, did they have some shit for sale. It's amazing what people will buy in the heat of an auction - particularly when the bidding starts at £2. Perhaps the surprise doesn't really lie in peoples poor judgement under pressure but the fact that, until very recently, a pair of piss-coloured curtains and a dented coal scuttle shaped like a boot actually took pride of place in somebody's house.

It reminds me of my first auction experience as a 9 year old. As the bidding opened at 15p for a pottery cat I jumped up and shouted £1.23 at the top of my voice. At the time I felt proud of myself for gazumping all the slow adults - with the passage of time I came to realise it would have been mine for 20p and I could have spent the rest on sweets. I came away better than Nathan however, who bought his mother a collection of hand bags for 40p - the look of utter bewilderment on her face when he got home has stuck with me ever since.

"We Have Tracksuit!"

2009-04-19T13:30:00.003+01:00

So, what do you think? This is likely to be the material summit of my on tour experience, so I hope you like it. I'm absurdly pleased to get it - not so much for it's aesthetic brilliance (okay, definitely not for that), but moreso because I feel it's clothing earned the hard way. I haven't felt such a sense of achievement from a piece of clothing since completing the last stitch of my self-sewn hessian-sack underpants and wearing them covertly to the local police station.

Despite this it seems highly unlikely I'll be wearing it in public with the exception of the Four Nations Championships themselves. Perhaps in the 1970's I could have gone for a run wearing it humming the (pre-release) Rocky theme tune and I'd have the locals high fiving me, patting me on the arse and wishing me good luck as I ran up the steps. Things are different these days of course and wearing it in public would just invite flung kebab leftovers and shouts of "you fuckin' twat" from the local peasantry.

It also serves as a timely reminder that we are just 13 days away and my time will be best spent on the tennis court and not on the internet. My timing is slowly coming back but from now on every day is crucial.

Not wanting to gush too much at the sight of a tracksuit, I am glad of their issuance as I now have a physical momento of the whole experience. I can just imagine in 50 years time sitting in the retirement home sitting back and declaring "I may have just pissed myself again but I do believe that's an England tracksuit in my wardrobe."

Warwick Aquathlon

2009-04-14T11:58:00.003+01:00

I'd better not delay posting for much longer lest you think I am still floating face down in a piss-filled council pool somewhere in the West Midlands.

Having approached the Aquathlon in a fairly relaxed manner I found myself scrambling for some triathlon shorts, talcum powder and elastic laces on race morning. I failed to find the shorts but came up trumps with the others. The net effect being a relatively swift transition followed by a humiliating run round the public park in swimming trunks and a t-shirt.

The race consisted of a 400m swim, transition and a 2 mile run. As the swim took place in the pool competitors were assigned staggered start times so there were a maximum of two people per lane at any one time. Unfortunately the guy that followed me kept having to swim around me because I was so damn slow. Swimming isn't my thing as I'm a novice doing anything in water except preventing death. However my swim time was so slow as to be plain embarrassing. I now believe I show skill in the pool equivalent to someone playing tennis with a badminton racket.

I'm pleased to say that the run was an entirely different matter. As the blubbery sea lions waddled round the park the drowning greyhound picked them off with relative ease. I did manage to pick up the award for fastest run of the day and was greatly relieved there was no category for wankest swim. However, it being a game of two halves as they say, my overall position was pretty poor. Enjoyable stuff though. The results are here, with the transition time split between the swim and run:

http://www.covtri.co.uk/index.php?page=19&cat=MS

Tennis training is progressing well, balls are now going in with consistent regularity - like any good brothel. There are only about 3 weeks to go before the commencement of the Four Nations Championships and I'll be ready. The new Over 35 World rankings have been issued and I am at my highest rank of 35. Good job to as there is a precipitous drop coming if I don't defend points in the next 3 months.

The Final Countdown

2009-04-08T20:41:00.001+01:00

“I’m going for a walk, I may be gone for some time.” It’s been a while since my last post but unlike Captain Oates I’m back to hog all the rations, slow you down and fart in the tent.

Oil has been applied, rust knocked off and tires replaced and the training for the Four Nations Cup has commenced seriously. To preserve the elbow I won’t be serving until the week before but will be getting match ready in every other way possible. Since my last tournament I have lost a stone in weight (“The Machinist to serve”) and it’s made a big difference in my court coverage. I’ve sacrificed a bit of muscle but it’s more than compensated for by the increase in speed. Perhaps the lesson is that you shouldn’t dress mutton as lamb – I was never likely to land a part in the sequel to 300 anyway despite a predilection for baby oil and swords.

I’ve been keeping the competitive juices flowing through running and I participated in a 10k race on sunday. I came 7th out of 575 finishers, in 37:03. It’s a satisfactory time although the performance looks better as the 575 included some potted plants, a camera and a lot of wheelchair participants who had forgotten their wheelchairs.

Perhaps it’s hubris but as the swimming has been going fairly well I’ve entered an aquathlon on saturday in Warwick. I’m more anchor than swan but I should at least finish as the swim is only 400m and the run 2 miles. All I must remember is when the drowning starts I can just put my foot down.

The Minotaur

2009-03-16T21:34:00.001Z

Bless me father for I have sinned, it's been 4 weeks since my last forehand....

Four weeks in which I, admittedly, haven't seemed to have missed playing all that much. Despite the fact that getting back in the saddle is usually the hardest part I stepped on court with a little trepidation. I fulfilled all possible expectations and didn't enjoy it at all! Henry Ford once said: "Whether you think you can or whether you think you can't, you're right." Too true.

The time off has allowed the virtual world to finally catch up with the real world. My national over 35's ranking now stands at 4, while I am ranked number 1 in the county for both the over 35's and open categories. The next major veterans event in the UK is scheduled for the end of May for which I have no points to defend.

Training off court continues frenetically, totalling 52 miles running last week without complaint. Although the general consensus seems to be that I look as though I need feeding. The running is becoming easier all the time, so much so that I have entered another race on the 5th April. This time it is over 10k, which is the race distance that I loathe most of all:

http://www.stclare-hospice.co.uk/10krun

My swimming continues to improve at a slow rate. Maybe it's mental but since I have adorned the budgie smugglers I do seem to be quicker through the water. It's all relative though and I'm still getting completely burned by middle-aged ladies who don't appear to be trying. One of whom had a pronounced limp on dry ground which just goes to show that in this life you are either a land animal or a sea mammal and never the twain shall meet!

Chilly Willy 5k - FINISHER!!

2009-03-09T21:40:00.004Z

Arrived back from the 5k race and tried on the race t-shirt. A vile yellow thing which fits in nicely with my highly questionable sartorial taste. Unfortunately some bright spark plastered "Finisher 2009" across the front. A dubious boast at best - considering a tortoise could probably complete the distance before lunch - and one that smacks of pride in the pathetic. Perhaps I should throw it in the cupboard along with other pointless memorabilia such as my "Mild head cold survivor '96" t-shirt or my "Trainee Shop Assistant '88" pullover. They were also handing out finishers medals. At the risk of sounding like an ancient windbag, back in my day they made you earn 'em.

Lack of material is making me overly harsh however, as the race was extremely well organised and fantastic value for money. My performance was consistent with expectations as I finished in 18:12. Miles away from my (already fairly weak) PR of 16:30, but without having put in the type of training conducive to going any faster. I think I came 4th, but may have been 5th or perhaps even 3rd. Somehow I missed the official prize giving - I suspect I may have nodded off for a few brief minutes in the cafeteria. I remember a baby crying and......

.....Dementia rules! Perhaps I just dreamed the whole thing.

The divorce from mapquest is now final though as I had to park about a mile away and run to the start of the race. Nothing like a set of directions that get you 'nearly there' and then turn around and say "fuck it, no idea from here". Not helped by the fact that Peterborough is Britain's Bermuda Triangle.

I got fitted with some new running shoes today as the others are giving up the ghost and my knees are starting to get sore. I found a great, and fortunately un-British, running store where they do video gait analysis and run through the results with you as you try each shoe and run on the in-store treadmill. With all the footwear I have to buy for tennis and running I will be applying for the Imelda Marcos Platinum card soon.

...On The Western Front

2009-03-02T21:45:00.004Z

Today was two weeks since the cortisone jab. Cortisone is supposed to work its magic for a period of two weeks, after which the inflammatory benefits wane. Not particularly encouraging then that it hasn't yet reached 100%. It is like praying for a horse to fall at the last when your student grant has been wagered on the horse struggling along in second place. I'm sure it will be totally cured in the morning, and that my wardrobe will still lead to Narnia in the afternoon.

I have entered another road race on sunday, which is at least keeping my mind off not being able to play tennis. It's just 5k this time which should be more my cup of tea, although God knows how slow I am going to be. It's cunningly titled the Chilly Willy Men Only 5k - which sounds a bit like a Siberian retreat for homosexual communist party members. It's for a good cause I am told, that being "mens health" - hopefully the prizes don't include a rummage round your prostate and the umbrella clean out.

It's weeks like this where it would be useful to have a job to pass the time. Forgive the sacrilege, but a 14 mile run still leaves with you a few spare hours to kill.

Sleaford Half Marathon

2009-02-22T17:51:00.005Z

A departure from the usual 'occupation' today as I had decided to run a half marathon race. I'm not entirely sure why - particularly as it's not the sort of thing that suddenly catches your interest, such as "I quite fancy a pint" might.

Having only done easy mileage this year I contemplated adopting a nom de race to avoid having my time stain my already modest running cv. Time to re-introduce Mr Carey Hunt or Mr Hugh Jwilly to the running public perhaps? In the end I decided against it, particularly as I didn't fancy explaining to the Stazi-bureaucrat why the name on the cheque didn't match the one on the entry.

My pre-race prep was pretty good and I was feeling particularly smug when the toilet paper inevitably ran out, as I'd bought my own supply having been burned in this regard in the past. There were certainly some sheepish expressions on the faces of people leaving the cubicles as I was waiting in the queue. Naturally I adopted my very best "I know you've had a shit and I know there was no toilet paper, so what did you do?" expression. I'd be willing to bet some of them had a tough time later explaining to the wife how they'd spilt peanut butter on the inside of their briefs.

The pre-race plan was to run comfortably at 7:00 pace and then pick it up for the last 3 miles. As usual, it didn't turn out that way as I kept spotting people ahead whom I didn't feel I should lose to so I kept a steadier pace throughout. The course was undulating and the wind very strong. Obviously it was racecourse magic wind which you can only feel when it's in your face and which seems to drop when behind you.

I finished the course in 1:28:12 which was reasonable considering the type of training done beforehand. I basically ran 6:44 per mile throughout despite a stitch that hitched a ride for the last 8 miles. As I didn't go all out I should get away with some light soreness tomorrow, enabling me to get ready for a 5k on the 8th of March.

It felt good to be racing again, the marshalls were enthusiastic, the organisation excellent with impressive value for money. Maybe I've been amongst tennis players too long but runners are much friendlier despite the fact that plying their trade is significantly more unpleasant. Seeing the people finish today was like watching a trail of depressed donkeys carrying large packs and being whipped across America by Brigham Young and co. But no doubt the fun lies in the challenge and the tall tales afterwards.

Plan B Version 3.75

2009-02-18T12:37:00.004Z

Back under the needle again yesterday. The Doctor performed the injection a little differently this time. Rather than a quick injection followed by a cigarette whilst gazing at the ceiling he left the needle in for about a minute and simultaneously pecked (30 or 40 times) at the tendon to induce some breakdown in the belief that it will induce an improved response. I suppose this trick originated from Wilding Davison's "A Wife's Guide to Getting Your Own Way". I'd better be wary of royal horses in the meantime.

I'd love to regale you with a story of straining at the shackles, biting through wooden gags and being held down by well padded nurses. The fact is with the anaesthetics used the pain is negligible, certainly hurting less than a slice serve did on monday. I was unable to straighten my arm for the rest of the day, but today it seems far better than at this stage last time if memory serves correctly. I hope this isn't a sign of compression of the whole cycle as it would mean my elbow would start hurting again a week on thursday.

So, looking ahead. 3 weeks before I start playing again, 3 weeks easing into full play and 3 weeks of tournaments topped off by the Four Nations Cup in early May. Beyond that depends on the health of various body parts, mind and solar systems.

When I started, the goal was to play full time for between 1 and 2 years. Assuming the plan above is successful it lands me in the middle with the possibility of continuing if a permanent solution is found - if I'm not bored by it all by then. As insurance I will give some thought to rejoining the workforce. Timing is everything and it's fairly typical that I start looking for a job while everybody is losing theirs. I'll guess we'll see if the field of contrarian economics spreads to the world of jobseekers!

More immediately I expect to run a half-marathon this sunday. Understandably I'm well over racing weight and have only been running at an easy pace to date but I have to attend anyway and have never been very good at standing on the sidelines watching others.

Corby British Tour

2009-02-16T19:40:00.005Z

I resolved to push the boat out to prepare my elbow for the match. Gym at the crack of dawn, continual stretching, persistent massage, coomprehensive warm-up and scoffing Dicloflex like a kid who's successfully completed a sweet stealing raid at Woolworths (RIP). My first practice serve told me all I needed to know - it was going to be a painful day.

My strategy on serve was to concentrate on placement with topspin. Any slice serves were uncontrollable because that motion tends to invoke the tendon of the inside elbow. Not much of a mitigation plan really but the alternative was an underhand effort.

Throughout the match my footwork was extremely patchy - I ended up hitting a lot of lazy shots because my feet weren't in the right position. My footwork seems to shadow my concentration, or is it vice versa? Either way, both were up and down like Ron Jeremy's backside on set. I was striking the ball fairly well but as the match progressed it became increasingly difficult to direct my forehand because of the pain. In the end I lost 6-1, 4-6, 5-7 and to be honest, with the next match scheduled 30 minutes later, there was an element of relief. There's only so much abuse one can take in the name of fun. Either way I don't like the decision being taken out of my hands by being beaten, but the better man (or rather boy, as I was giving him 19 years) won on the day.

One must be philisophical - I shouldn't really have played and I got what I expected in terms of pain. The plan was to get the cortisone shot anyway and the level of abuse beforehand doesn't disrupt its effectiveness - the needle being like a 'Men In Black' memory wiper, albeit one that takes 2 ponderous weeks to work.

After getting home I headed out on a 6-mile punishment run to absolve me of my sins. It didn't work of course and the elbow throbbed like a pencil-sharpened pecker throughout. The cortisone appointment has been moved forward to tomorrow morning where the final phase of the 'full time' experiment will begin.

Little Things Improving

2009-02-14T12:05:00.013Z

My blog entry on the 15th January included scaremongery regarding man boobs on the horizon. Since then I've trained hard and lost 8 lbs and 3% body fat. I now weigh 164lbs with 7% bodyfat (the bodyfat is useful only as a relative measure). I certainly feel a lot quicker round the court - in a couple of months I may be breaking out the Rocky dvds and start trying to catch the chicken round the courtyard (not a wank analogy by the way). A couple of months after that there's the possibility of earning a few quid as an extra in the plethora of holocaust themed films being released. One day, 'The Machinist' perhaps.

Aswell as a slight diet adjustment and copious quantities of tennis, biking, running and swimming I have been monitoring my weight every day. Diligence is easier when faced with the facts and figures every morning. In the same vein I've been tracking the results of my new dedication to stretching. A few years ago I took part in a YMCA fitness test where I was graded 'very poor' for a man over the age of 65 on the sit and reach test (feet flat against the wall, legs straight - how close to the wall can you reach). This appalling lack of flexibility has no redeeming effects except perhaps a degree of inbuilt safety when picking up stray soap in a public shower facility.

A month ago I could only get within 30 cms of the wall. Today I was 19.5 cms away, which is a significant improvement and may get me back on the chart as very shit for a 112 year old man. Progress nonetheless and proof, once again, that consistency is one of the most underrated facets of any training programme.

The British Tour event starts on monday where I play a 5.1 in the first round, which is a decent draw. It's mine to win, assuming I will be able to serve without too much discomfort.

Back in the real world I have commenced a mass clear out. It's finally time to say goodbye, via ebay, to all the old coloured vinyls, picture discs and gatefold sleeve records. I certainly used to buy some irrelevant crap, amply demonstrated by a Megadeth Limited Edition 12" Gatefold with Life Size Vic Rattlehead Mask. Nostalgia being what it is it still hurts to part with something you haven't looked at for 20 years. If any of you have an interest in 1980's Heavy Metal memorabilia and the odd tennis related item take a look:

http://shop.ebay.co.uk/merchant/Moztennis_W0QQ_dmdZ1QQ_ipgZ50QQ_sopZ12

Don't leave me hanging!

A Tall, Cool Yellow One

2009-02-08T10:57:00.004Z

Back down to earth with a bump in the latter part of the week as my elbow is on fire at the moment and serving is out of the question. It's not good timing considering I have a British Tour event starting on the 16th of February and another the following week. I am being very diligent with the bra-wearing and stretching, but at the moment it seems to be aggravating it more than anything - maybe it has to get worse before it gets better. (No, I don't believe it either).

I've only managed to play tennis twice this week with two other outings scuppered by the weather preventing my opponents making it. There has been snow in the UK this week and you'd think we were witnessing 'Deep Impact' with the disruption that has been caused. A couple of inches meant millions were unable to make it into work - but that didn't stop Mr Fat Wanker making it to the park and hitting me with a snowball while I was running. I have nothing against people avoiding work wherever possible, indeed one could argue I am a leading proponent, but at least be honest about it and don't pretend you're snowed in.

The limited tennis meant I have got in 42 miles of running, 3 hours of biking and 2 miles of swimming this week. The swimming has finally clicked and I am no longer in the death throes after two lengths. This means I am swimming a lot further but with the consequence that I seem to be drinking a lot more of the pool. Dusting off the school maths book and dividing the cubic litres in the pool by the average bladder size gives me a small % figure representing the amount of other peoples' urine that I drink per mile. The result is not enough to change the colour of your drink of course, but disconcerting nonetheless. It's also given me a stomach ache.

Selected To Represent England!

2009-02-04T00:01:00.001Z

It felt good writing that! It may well be the only time I get selected to represent my country in anything other than a flatulence related capacity so you'll just have to allow me my moment - it's my blog after all.

I received a text yesterday from a friend congratulating me on being picked to represent England over 35's in the Four Nations Cup in early May. It was the first I had heard of it and it certainly beats hearing from your next door neighbour that your clothes have been shredded and are lying in the front garden. After a quick check of the calendar that it isn't the 1st of april I loaded the website and there you have it:

http://www.vetstennisgb.org/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=211&Itemid=78

You'll notice of course that my name is spelt incorrectly - something that has happened throughout my life. Morgahan, Morahan, Moorhen, Morgan, Moragan, Moran - I've had them all. A local newspaper article from my youth in particular sticks in the memory - 'Moron scores a hatrick'. Perhaps it should have read 'Hatrick scored by Moron'. Having said that it would be terribly embarrassing if unknown-player-with-extremely-similar-name is already there and warming up when I arrive!

As you can imagine I am delighted to get the call up and am looking forward to my long weekend in Bolton (how often can you say that). I probably looked like Michael Jackson in the Billie Jean video as I went to get the paper this morning - except I couldn't get the pavement to light up. Maybe it only does that for paedophiles made of plastic...

As of this moment I know nothing more except what I can read on the website but I will report on developments as they occur. Since I started this project there have been so many highs and lows that if the pattern continues I wouldn't be surprised if my foot suddenly dropped off whilst having a crap. To think in December I was close to jacking it in due to injury. There's a lesson to be learnt there somehere but I have no idea what it is!

All Trussed Up and Nowhere to Bra

2009-02-02T13:54:00.002Z

Some might say I'm too old for all this because of my lack of comprehensive tennis background or because my tendons, joints and muscles are no longer resilient enough to withstand the pounding. For me the realisation occurred when my injured elbow resulted in the wearing of a fuckin' bra. It seems like the sort of thing Hermann Goering might have slipped on to rein in his belly before persuading Marlene Dietrich to drop her draws and 'do her bit' for Deutschland.

The tournament physio approached me of his own volition last week with the intriguing opening gambit “I know why you are having problems with your elbow”. Nothing is guaranteed to get my attention like that except maybe “my young, melon-breasted sister is over there and wants to cover you in baby oil and ride you into next week”. Initially he didn’t introduce himself as the physio, so I adopted the standard ‘sceptic approached with Brooklyn bridge bargain’ pose. It’s a measure of my desperation that I didn’t shout “unhand me immediately sir” and spill his snake oil over the floor.

I made some enquiries and found he is well respected in the tennis community and his philosophy of treat the cause not the symptoms made a welcome change. Rather than pound the wounded area with needles, thumbs and ultrasound (analogous to picking a scab apparently) he advocates addressing the reason for the pain. Previously I had been looking at equipment, overuse, technique and whatever the runestones predicted that week. Being a muscle mechanics expert he identified the root cause as being poor posture. At least I wasn’t kicking myself for not thinking of that!

What follows is my layman’s explanation of the cause of my golfers elbow. My posture isn’t quite that of fine upstanding Roman citizen (neither is it a stooped Quasimodo I hasten to add), meaning my shoulders are a little too rounded. This causes tight pectoral muscles, causing related tightness in the bicep which in turn means that the triceps are weakened and stretched. The tendons aggravated in golfers elbow are attached to the triceps and therefore become stretched over the bone at the elbow causing inflammation, bad moods, time off tennis and a proclivity for more hangovers. This imbalance also applies to my forearms, everything being connected the way it is.

After some physio designed to free up the chest, shoulder and triceps I found the elbow pain was significantly reduced. So, I feel this avenue is worth pursuing, and it consists of three areas to address:

1) Posture, using the Goering bra above for 2 hours a day.
2) Stretching of pectorals, shoulder and biceps.
3) Self massage of pecs, biceps and underarm (which is bloody painful).

Easy, but exceptionally tedious and I now live in fear of being ‘outed’ in a public place with my corset on.

That Small Window

2009-01-31T09:47:00.002Z

Rather than risk the vagaries of 3 motorways and 3 sets of roadworks I decided to travel down for the semi-final the night before. Being on a budget I stayed at a hotel owned by the Oxymoron Group Ltd chain - the Comfort Inn. No complaints saving the peasant conference in the breakfast area the next morning.

Everything went smoothly in the morning – up to the match at least. It looks like my match preparation (in order) of huge dump, bicep massage (more in the next instalment), jog, movement drills / dynamic stretching, hitting and serve practice is spot on despite taking about an hour. The only further improvement is a championship tie-break as further sharpening up.

During the match warm-up my groundstrokes weren’t quite clicking for some reason – I was a little tight and the pace and spin of my opponents forehand took a little getting used to. Unfortunately this continued in the match where I just couldn’t string together a series of convincing shots. This always was going to be an experiment of balance between not pushing my shots and not overhitting – in the first set I blew up the lab and set the teacher’s hair on fire.

It took being 6-1 and a break down to get my feet moving properly and to perfect the balancing act. At that point I also started to crank my serve (albeit a small crank of the sort you would observe in a fine watch) and started to win some free points. Because of my elbow it’s been about 9 months since I had that luxury. After winning 3 service games consecutively I had a fleeting glimpse of what might have been with a break point on his serve at 3-5 down – but yet another unreturnable serve put paid to that.

Overall an encouraging week despite the crowning 1 & 3 arse-kicking. I was far too slow starting and paid the price which will resolve itself with more practice and matches. Specifics I need to work on:

1) I give away too many points on returns against big servers. I need to develop a block return.
2) I need an Amy Winehouse serve - hit the lines and hit 'em harder. For which I need an elbow that doesn’t scream like a Beatles fan each time I serve.

Best Served Cold

2009-01-28T10:24:00.000Z

This week has been a stark reminder of the sporting concept of specificity. I’m pretty fit at the moment – at least with my running shoes on, my feet clipped in or my goggles on. The lack of serious tennis has left me with thigh muscles that feel as though they’d been pummelled by a Turkish strong man. On the one hand it’s a good sign as it means I was moving properly and getting low on my shots, but it really is a childlike effort in cross-sport adaptability.

So, yesterday’s match... Pre-match I’d been keeping fairly quiet about the fact I lost to this guy 6-0, 6-0 back in 2004 (although I like to think there were mitigating circumstances at the time – such as, I was shit). I wasn’t going to let that happen again.

I started very well, hitting aggressively, chasing every thing down topped with a high level of consistency. Every now and again you strike it clean, your opponent is slightly off form, your mind is quiet and you click off games like Gordon Brown spends money – to the extent that the scoreboard read 6-0, 5-0. Every reader who has played tennis can probably relate, and perhaps sympathise, to what happened next. My mind got involved, considering the irony of the total reverse of a double bagel – what better illustration of the progress that has been made over the last year or so.

Such premature hubris has no place until post-handshake and perhaps inevitably the rivets started to pop on my unsinkable ship. A game here and there – a more relaxed opponent, the odd unforced error by myself and then trying to force the issue too much. So much so that my opponent toed the line on his serve at 6-5 up!

The only saving grace is that I’ve played so much tennis over the last year that I understood what was happening and didn’t get angry or panic. I managed to break again and close out the match 7-6 (4). I can now add a new recipe to my book – ‘joy to relief in 30 minutes’.

The on-site physio also approached me offering the solution to my bad elbow, which sounded convincing and, after a bit of rummaging around, seemed to ease the pain. I’ll report back after I’ve seen him again.

So I march on to the semi-final on friday where I am likely to play the number 2 seed and Great Britain over 35’s captain who has a few ATP points knocking around. I’m really looking forward to the test to see where I stand. Perhaps I should give Tonya Harding a quick call to compare notes beforehand………..

Avanti!

2009-01-26T19:54:00.017Z

Today at least, any parallels between myself and Andy Murray ended at us both being seeded 4th in our respective tournaments and both having extremely poor haircuts. That's because the filthy Jock lost his match whereas I swept gracefully through to the next round.

The journey to the venue was spectacularly mind-numbing, unless you have a fetish for 70's tower blocks and motorways - also prolonged due to my 'rush-hour' match slot. I followed my usual pre-match ritual of having to bolt out of the car and hurdle the club barrier in a game of 'race the turtlehead'. Once there I unfortunately only managed to catch the headphones of my ipod as it dipped it's head into the water (pre-flush naturally) - a sort of bungee jump into perilous waters as it were. In any case I don't recommend you purchase the ipod brown, it's crap - literally.

I deliberately arrived early in the hope that an extended warm-up might help reduce the elbow pain and prevent any recurrence of shoulder problems - hell, it may even help my knees, back and abdominals from complaining too much. I try and steer clear of any semblence of optimism these days (the bitter pill of experience) but the hour of rubbing, massaging, cajoling and stretching did seem to help a little bit - the pre-match service practice being a dull throb as opposed to the usual marching band with flying batons.

My basic plan was to be more aggressive on the forehand side and to use my backhand to set up the forehand. I executed well and even served reasonably winning 6-3, 6-2 - the only concentration lapse occurring late on after a little bet with myself on the first heart attack on the next court (over 75's you see). It seems like a long time since my last singles match and my first with the new racquets but I felt very sharp and was moving well.

Tomorrow I have a very tough match against a player new to the age group (bloody young upstart) who took out the number 5 seed en route. I'm hitting it well and feel confident.

Btw - I went to the newly refurbished gym this afternoon. Distinctly underwhelming to be honest and the disappointment reminded my of a day trip to a maze taken in my youth where the hedges turned out to be only a foot high. Makes it a tad easier to 'escape' that way.

British Vets Indoor Nationals 2009

2009-01-19T20:09:00.011Z

The draw for the National Vets has been released in record time. The draw is here and I am seeded 4th:

http://lta.tournamentsoftware.com/sport/draw.aspx?id=26732&draw=1

Usually the entry must be submitted 3 years in advance with the draw released the day prior. Maybe the turn of the century has finally caught up with British Tennis. If so, there will be an influx of carrier pigeons on ebay in the near future and you can expect the nostalgic bidding for 'Speckled Jim' to be fiercely contested.

The prayers for a better seeding this year have been answered - a combination of last year's results and a different seeding methodology helping enormously. This year they appear to have used world rankings in the first instance meaning players with a stamped passport (like me) are given preference over UK-based players with bossy wives. How ironic then that the higher seeding coincides with months without regular competition and half my limbs not working. Here's hoping my opponents are similarly disabled - it was always more amusing at school to watch the uncoordinated fat kids fight than the sporty ones.

Plenty of good players are entered who are certainly, as I am, looking forward to counting the boarded up pubs and burnt out cars in the surrounding area this year now we've actually hit a recession. All that is missing is having courts 1 - 3 full of Palestinians and courts 7 - 9 full of Israelis. Hamas doubles anyone?

I practiced yesterday for a couple of hours and the shoulder seems better but the elbow is back to where it was last summer. It remains to be seen how I should approach serving in next week's matches although if my groundstrokes don't improve before then it will be a moot point anyway. I suspect we have reached the point of no return in any case so I will just eat lots of pills and grit my teeth. Could the end be nigh?

Nice Tits Mate

2009-01-15T16:50:00.013Z

I've been transitioning my running from treadmill to roads and it's been quite an unpleasant shock - I'm more Penguin Bingham than Vitesse Poulet at the moment. Some of the old breathing problems have resurfaced and I'm also too bloody heavy. Looking at my records, this time 2 years ago I was 154 lbs with 5 % body fat - now I am 172 lbs with 10 %. I must have been eating like a Northerner just released from Scunthorpe prison. It’s time to ratchet up the training to 11 (1 louder than 10!) before I grow a pair of those ridiculous man boobs that I see bouncing at the gym.

Thrashing out the miles on the lifecycle bike at the gym has been resulting in a horrendously sore arse after about 20 minutes. In way of a solution I wore cycling shorts to provide the padding to which my glutes can only aspire - despite the fact they feel like nappies (that's diapers for you "septics"). Cue a particularly distressing moment today where my entire groin area had gone completely numb. It's one thing lying on your arm to enforce some numbness because it "feels like someone else" but when the opposite occurs and "it feels like your feeling someone else" it's mortifying.

It also had me pondering how long is safe for the blood supply to be cut off before it "withers on the vine". The consequences of not paying attention can often be severe, reminding me of the salesman who made the news for getting frostbitten feet by driving in bare feet with the air conditioning on full blast.

The obvious solution is to dust off my racing bike and use the turbo trainer from now on as insurance against the unlikely wish to procreate in the future. Although, this country doesn't need any more unemployed bums in this economic climate.

My first match time is through for the British National Indoor Vets Championships. I start on the 26th January at 10:15 in the morning - that'll be a pleasant drive near scenic Birmingham at rush hour. In the meantime I am steering clear of any tennis until sunday as my shoulder is finally healing and therefore I hope to be back to just the one tedious, nagging and persistent elbow injury, which is manageable. It's like being married but at least the noise stops when I step off court.

Stalin The Cuckoo

2009-01-09T20:03:00.008Z

You recognise insanity settling in when you catch yourself talking out loud on your own and making witty asides to the audience as you take a walk into town. Mix this state of mind with a friday night at home and four weeks of alcohol abstinence you will find yourself watching a television documentary on the cuckoo.

What an eye-opener it was - it turns out the cuckoo is the homicidal maniac of the bipedal, endothermic vertebrate world. Not only does it lay it's eggs in another birds nest, it then throws out the resident eggs and when the new cuckoo emerges it kills off the other hatchlings. The bereaving parents, although the original victims of the infanticide, then proceed to feed the cuckoo until it fucks off. There are no doubt lessons to be learned, parallels to be made and analogies to be observed - mainly it appears that the second stage of madness involves writing about cuckoos on a tennis blog.

This week's training total will be 3 hours of tennis, 2 of swimming, 4 of biking and 3 of running. I appear to have my sports muddled but the hope is that my fitness base is improved while my shoulder improves (magically cures itself). It's a pretty motley crew of training and not particularly tennis specific but sometimes you need to throw out the plan, due either to injury or a need to follow where your motivations lead.

The next tournament is getting uncomfortably close. While I was hitting quite well on wednesday I immediately regretted hitting an instinctive smash as it was accompanied by discomfort in the shoulder. Procrastination isn't the healer it once was.....

26 Days Ago

2009-01-06T22:27:00.009Z

I haven't played since the last entry. I've had enough of this trying to be sensible - a few days of resting my elbow, shoulder and sundry while not consuming any ale has resulted in one of the foulest moods on record (general displeasure with frequent flashes of violent rage along with gusty wind). I will be back on court tomorrow, but not hitting any shots above shoulder height. Physically perhaps not the best thing to do, but a matter of mental necessity if I am to avoid Dr Krafft-Ebing's probing stethoscope.

All of my life I've been the antithesis of nonsense such as Weight Watchers and Jenny Craig. I only had to look at a treadmill and I would burn 200 calories. Strangely this Christmas eating 3 tons of mince pies, raiding Woolworths of all their remaining quality street and spending a lot of time on my bean bag picking my nose while trying to find something worthwhile in the Radio Times seems to have taken effect. There is a small, but distinct, ring of blubber around the midriff. Not a full gut by any means - more of a small gut-ette - but a sign of the effect of the passing years on the metabolism nonetheless. This is about as welcome as a terd in a church and certainly less amusing.

As a result I have been hitting the treadmill, roads, pool, people who chew gum with their mouths open and bike with a vengeance. Subsequently my racing spirit is stirring and I find myself perusing the online racing calendar. Typically I have got carried away and already have an ironman planned in the distant future. Such Walter Mitty thinking (along such relics as the monkey supermarket fiasco - don't ask) has no place in my schedule, but during the dark days of winter motivation must be gleaned from wherever possible. Anything but the new 99p a pint promotion in Wetherspoons pubs, the tagline of which should be "beat the recession by getting arseholed on 10 quid".

Tennis-wise I am trying to rehab but I have entered the British Veterans National Indoor Championships at the end of this month. It remains to be seen whether that will see me serving like a middle aged adonis or hitting underarm serves like "the only gay in the village". It could be the final bow.

Annus Dogshitus

2008-12-30T15:10:00.007Z

It feels like a while since I was involved in a farcical tournament so a timely reminder that for some the simplest of things prove quite impossible.

The doubles tournament has historically been based on a group format with the best pairs going through to a semi and then a final. This year in their wisdom they decided to place the 11 pairs into 4 groups and play a best of three sets with a championship tiebreak in lieu of a third. Without appropriate scoring of course - playing the first to 5 in each set with just a normal service game at 4 all (anyone want to serve first?!).

Finally, in a more personal, yet still brilliantly designed twist, we were in the group of 2 but were only told upon completion of our match. Fortunately we won 4-5, 5-2, 10-4 (I even feel like a tool typing the score) before having to wait ages for all the groups of 3 teams to finish both their matches. With just one match surely we could have at least played proper sets?

We proceeded to lose in the semi-final - deservedly so. Our opponents took the first 5-2 and had the opportunity to serve out at 4-4 in the second. Annoying? Slightly, but the eye-rollingly dumb organisation somehow softened the blow.

However saving the worst news to last my elbow started to hurt after about 5 serves hit at about 75% pace. The cause seems to be beyond all known causes now as I've changed everything and experiencing pain whilst hitting batty-boy serves seems to suggest that even technique isn't the root cause. The pain arrives so easily that I feel as though I am Achilles, albeit with the rest of me being an old, chewed-up star wars figure with sellotape keeping my gun in place - rather than an indestructible Brad Pitt.

Not wanting to be left out my shoulder also gave up the ghost. I started having a few problems while rehabbing my elbow a while ago and 4 sets of serving appear to have totally wrecked it - to the point that it was hurting on forehand groundstrokes and volleys. As you can imagine this has done wonders for my already heady good humour and has left me wondering who I can take out my fury upon. It was once said about British sprinter Linford Christie "Linford is a very balanced person, he has a chip on both shoulders". I am beginning to empathise.

In a wonderfully symbolic moment for the end of 2008 on my way home I felt that unmistakeably comfortable sensation as my deeply gripped trainers crushed a large, smelly dog shit. Fuckin fantastic I thought and briefly considered throwing my racquet bag in the River Ouse.

Shoot Me I'm Not Dead Yet

2008-12-26T12:46:00.010Z

I've waited long enough before posting in the vain hope that I would have something positive to say about what is undoubtedly the most tedious and nauseating time of year. Suffice it to say I'm still clutching at straws and totally regretting the timing of my sabbatical from the perils of alcohol. I'm delighted to see that the BBC are really stretching themselves to earn their license fee with a pathetic diet of My Fair Lady, A Goofy Movie and their Boxing day extravaganza Big with Tom Hanks. For fucks sake, is that all they can manage? Big was released in 1988 - maybe we should all start wearing acid-washed jeans and fingerless gloves to really celebrate the occasion.

In the old days at least Christmas came with the consolation that I didn't have to dress for work. Obviously this isn't the case anymore and in fact all it means is that the indoor centres are shut and nobody is available to play.

Relief may arrive tomorrow in the form of an annual indoor mens doubles tournament nearby. At least I assume it is on because with it being the mid-80's around here they obviously don't have a website and I can't phone the centre because they are all at home splitting their sides at 12-year old Josh Baskin in the body of Tom Hanks.

Merry Christmas indeed.

There's no such thing as old age, there is only sorrow.

2008-12-19T23:25:00.015Z

I turned 36 years of age yesterday. The slow, inexorable grind towards death continues! I'm no longer sure whether the memories of my teenage years are accurate or are subject to the effect of rose-tinted lenses. I certainly don't remember hangovers lasting 3 days and I'm positive I didn't have to walk around like yoda for the first 30 minutes of every day because of bad knees, shoulder, back and elbow. One shudders to think what sort of state I'll be in when I turn 40.

But at least my zest for life and enthusiastic, positive outlook remains completely untarnished by time!

New racquet fever continues unabated - although I'm taking it easy with my elbow so I'm not yet serving. Discretion being the better part of valour I will build up gradually and also use a retard contraption on my elbow - at my age it is what people expect anyway, along with wee-stained shorts and overgrown nasal hair.

The new ITF calendar is now published on their website:

http://www.itftennis.com/seniors/news/newsarticle.asp?articleid=19570

According to tradition I will have to visit at least new 3 countries in 2009. There is certainly no shortage of options - Macedonia, Libya and Thailand being among the more interesting prospects. Some aggressive begging may be in order accomodation wise so if someone has an outdoor latrine they could rent out near an ITF tournament let me know.......

P.s. I got the most brilliantly offensive birthday card of my life today. If you are of a delicate disposition I suggest you avert your eyes now, although (as in the garden of Eden) a carefully placed sticker may prevent your blushes.......

Hallowed Be Thy Frame

2008-12-16T13:06:00.012Z

With my new sticks I feel like an unmarried mother with a newborn child who has just received her increased benefit payment. I'm playing with them at every opportunity and when I'm not, I'm pinching their cheeks in admiration. What's more I am already reaping the benefits on court. Apart from on low volleys and short balls of course, where I am currently bound by the 'Seven day statute of limitations' which dictates one is not allowed to go for shots that may result in scratches on new frames within the first seven days of purchase.

This feeling can't last of course. Soon they'll be banging the floor with regularity and I'll be leaving them home alone while I blow the cheques down the Dog & Duck. In all seriousness I am appreciating the extra feel and also the fact I can now swing with abandon (sounds like a Sex In The City episode) without launching the balls into the stratosphere. No elbow problems so far and I will gradually work in serving at the end of the week.

No doubt jealous of my new racquets the gym at which I train are refurbishing the changing rooms and some of the training areas. It's certainly about time to - the changing rooms had peeling floor and smelled like a granny's douche bag (I would guess). It was a slap in the face every time I showered in that I was paying for a gym that had a 15 second cut off on their showers and water pressure like an Ethiopian water slide. I'm sure they must have bought them off a maximum security prison as the water cut off whenever you had shampoo in your eyes - probably serving as a distraction for the 'shawshanking' about to occur.

This being a British-based operation it's not all good news of course. Rather than minimising disruption they seem to have hired a bloke called Bert to do the whole thing - and then given him the Christmas holidays off. The net result being that it may not be completed until the end of January. This of course would be utterly unacceptable in the USA but here, people tolerate and moan amongst themselves whilst wearing the stupid blue vinyl shoe covers to get to the temporary changing area. Yes, me included.

Why do I feel as though this country's culture of resigned toleration predisposes us to the inevitability of a few years of a democratically elected Gordon Brown. It can't happen, surely?

Retooled

2008-12-12T19:35:00.007Z

There are some new arrivals in the family! I opted for the Fischers in the end as I felt that the BB11 had a little too much uncontrollable power and was too much of a compromise in other areas. I think perhaps fate took a hand in the decision as I also managed to land a partial sponsorship with Fischer racquets (http://www.fischer-tennis.co.uk/). I've been delighted by the prompt service and deep discount - let's hope the good start continues on court.

In total I contacted 4 companies regarding sponsorship - mostly the smaller manufacturers. Unlike Fischer the others felt it unnecessary to spare less than a minute replying with a no, preferring to ignore the enquiry. If there's one thing guaranteed to wind me up it's being ignored. Even I make eye contact with the Big Issue sellers before telling them to fuck off - and it's not even my job.

If, for whatever reason, you enjoy vindictively inflicting pain I recommend you take your potential victim to see the film 'Four Christmases'. I cannot remember seeing such unadulterated tripe in all my years and this is the first time I have ever walked out half way through a movie. Admittedly the departure was initially forced upon me by the need for an enormous leak courtesy of 3 points of pre-screening Stella Artois. However, the prospect of returning to watch more cliche-ridden shite was too much - if Reese Witherspoon and Vince "fat man" Vaughn can't be arsed to act properly I can't be bothered to sit there.

Unfortunately that meant I ended up back at the bar and I was still complaining about the film at 1 a.m. The net result is I'm nursing a hangover today and I'm bringing forward a new years resolution - no more alcohol for me.....

Communist Bloc

2008-12-08T13:51:00.004Z

I had narrowed down my search to 3 racquets. The Fischer M Comp 95, the Boris Becker 11 and the Boris Becker 11 mid. Unfortunately, this being the UK, there is nowhere in the whole country that stocks the BB 11 mid. I feel like a middle class inhabitant of the mid-80's Soviet Union. Greedily eyeing the capitalist pigs' wonderful Disney merchandise which is unavailable to me, an enrolled communist.

Ordinarily I would write off the differences and choose one of the racquets I can demo as being "good enough". But having got caught up in the minutae of racquet selection I feel obliged to pick the ideal racquet. Not to do so would mean perpetual nagging in the back of my mind for the next year or so - personally I can do without my own mini-wife in my skull. Life was easier in the old days when there were just four frames within my budget and I could just choose the one with the coolest colours.

The exceptionally irritating thing is that while I prefer the Fischer over the BB11, I have reason to believe that the BB11 mid may well be an amalgamation of the best points of both frames. Unfortunately I cannot sit here waiting for glasnost and perestroika to take hold in the UK - I have tournaments to play and trips to foreign parts to organise.

Tennis Guff

2008-12-04T14:35:00.000Z

That being guff as in paraphernalia rather than over-active shorts. The hunt for new racquets began in earnest this week, already having tested 9 demos after a lot of pre-weeding using a spreadsheet and knowledgeable friends.

I'm certainly a lot wiser with regards to my preferred racquet specs than I was and have managed to narrow it down to racquets with the following attributes:

Length: 27"
Headsize: 93 - 98"
Unstrung Weight: 315 - 330 grams
Balance: 6pts HL or higher
Swingweight: 330 or less
RDA Flex: 60-65

There is a useful tool for doing this here: http://www.tennis.com/yourgame/gear/racquetfinder/index.html - it apparently being much safer to trust the USRSA figures over the manufacturers' own. In fact, Wilson are notorious for inconsistent specs within the same model – a sort of expensive lucky dip.

The tool also helps you sift through the plethora of ridiculous names and retina-burning colours in the market. Give me a break - I'm 35 years of age and would prefer not to take to court holding the rather gay 'Diablo' or the laughable ‘Triple Threat Scream’. Perhaps I should start manufacturing frames myself – the Moz Headless Rapist Pro Tour and the Moz Milf Banger Oversize.

In the end I had to drive to 2 shops in London to try and find the appropriate frames - and even then many are unavailable. One shop did provide a hitting net in the backroom which was slightly helpful. The best thing about it being the memories of my last trip to Harrods about 20 years ago when Ambrose’s forehand cleared their hitting net and entire sports department.

We never discovered where the ball landed and always fantasised that it broke a priceless ming vase or hit an employee on the perfume counter in the tit. Needless to say, at the time, we didn’t hang around to find out. No doubt the owner of Harrods, the maniacally paranoid Mohamed Al-Fayed, had already contacted his lawyers by the time we'd found the exit (incidentally, not an easy thing to do in a shop with over 1,000,000 sq ft).

Anyone interested in 5 Babolat APDC Pluses?

The Long Cold Winter

2008-12-01T22:28:00.004Z

It really does feel as though the 2008 tennis season has come to an end. There is about a 4 week lull where one would have to scour the length of Britiain to find a tournament to participate in - it's like finding a pube in seaweed. Perhaps the timing is prescient as my play hasn't exactly been stellar lately, even the LTA is telling me to stop. The tournaments really seem to get going immediately after Christmas at a time which, in my younger days, I would be staggering around in possession of a severely pickled liver.

In the meantime I have decided to start frame-shopping. I love my racquets but I don't seem to be able to volley or slice too well with them and think I need one with a little more control. No doubt to the chagrin of any female readers that means a smaller head, a shorter shaft and a beam that is slightly less stiff (sorry, couldn't resist it). My racquet always seems to be a step behind my game, with me using an oversize racquets before picking up the Babolats. I think I'm ready for the change and have started demoing.

Changing your racquet is a time consuming and worrying period in a full time tennis player's life. It's a bit like changing your wife - there's a period of "free-loving" which feels a bit like infidelity, followed by a narrowing down of your specs (fat or thin, tall or short, pox-ridden or relatively disease-free) and finally a time at which you make the expense financial and emotional commitment. (I would also mention selling the old one but that perhaps belongs in a different century on a different continent - just ask John McCain's ancestors).

I'll keep you posted.

Wtf Mr. Darling?

2008-11-25T12:53:00.007Z

I'm beginning to feel like a sex-starved elephant - a bit fed up with these bloody heavy balls. There's something peculiarly unpleasant about playing outdoors when the temperature is less than 5c / 40f. Quite apart from the fact it causes nipple-grate on clothing the balls seem to weigh a ton, are difficult to control and the courts never really seem to dry properly. Off indoors this evening......

Our club presentation evening took place on friday night during which, due to injury, I only had a couple of trips up to collect awards and they were the Peasants Cup and the Beggar's Challenge Trophy. A good evening and I am relieved to inform you that I never got drunk enough to indulge in that daft Ceilidh dancing. It's always amusing to watch the resigned expressions on mates faces when their wife fancies a dance.

Everybody still must have been drunk on monday evening when they agreed to my election as Club Captain at the AGM. A moment of bad judgement followed by a year of payback! It's good to see the return of the rotten borough to British politics.

Talking of which the Chancellor of the UK has once again displayed breathtaking ignorance of economic conditions while introducing a new raft of measures designed to improve the ecomony. One of them is to reduce VAT (UK sales tax) from 17.5% to 15%.

A triumph of slide rules over common sense. No doubt someone at the treasury has an elasticity of price demand chart that states a 2.5% drop in prices results in a x% increase in demand. Back in the real world can you imagine the rush of shoppers to a store offering 2.5% off all prices? No, I can't see them either. The Poundstretcher chain of shops must be especially pissed off as they now have to spend a fortune rebranding themselves as 97.5p-stretcher.

The UK economy has now entered the reality of "oldmanontour economics" - trying to survive on £300 a year while spending over £10000. I wonder which will go bankrupt first.....

Motorhead & Saxon at Cambridge

2008-11-18T11:24:00.012Z

As a change of topic, and because my ears are still whistling, I will dedicate this post to the concert I attended last night. If you tuned in expecting tennis you may want to stop here as we are tennis free today.

On the second occasion this year I took the opportunity to jump into the time machine, set the dial back to 1980 (the last time these 2 bands played in Cambridge together) and witness second time round the New Wave of British Heavy Metal. Now known as the Geriatric rogue wave, the bill featured Motorhead, Saxon and a band I had never heard of who had finished by the time of my arrival. I was a little surprised to see a sign advising the use of ear plugs as we are all metal heroes - I didn't take up the offer as 35 years of ear wax had my back.

Safety first however - having seen Biff Byford's protruding eyebrows on a BBC documentary I decided the wisest place to sit was up on the balcony out of harms way. The old boy can certainly still sing and when he screamed you could feel your winnets breaking loose. They put on a good show playing most of their classics (excluding Wheels of Steel), but I admit that I cringed a little when their new song 'Live To Rock' commenced with "When I was a boy, I didn't know what I should do". It just didn't seem fitting as the lead singer is 57 years old and, from a distance, bears a disturbingly close resemblance to Gandalf! Saxon were apparently the major inspiration for the classic film 'Spinal Tap' and you can see why. They put on a good set, although no sign of a miniature Stonehenge monument.

While Biff can sing pretty well Lemmy Kilmister is a too cool to need to. To describe his voice as gravelly would be like describing Adolf Hitler as "a bit of a cock". I love Motorhead but, and maybe this is just old age, they are too loud live. Not in a cowering servant beaten by his master sort of way, but it just makes it difficult to distinguish the sound. Too often it veers over the fine line of a good loud concert to white noise. The net effect being that you have no idea what their new songs sound like and even the old classics you are straining to hear. But that is Motorhead - it always does what it says on the tin! It was nice to hear a couple of songs from Another Perfect day which, in my opinion, is one of their most underrated albums.

An enjoyable evening overall and I'm pleased to report that the old man didn't have to stand up throughout so my back actually bends this morning.

Proof Of Life

2008-11-16T15:39:00.000Z

Yesterday I moved right of centre on the bell shaped curve of my misery index which means there is still a heartbeat somewhere deep inside. I played a fellow 4.2 in the first round of the British Tour in Nottingham and lost 7-6, 5-7, 1-6. Pissed off that I lost but my play was much better and I, dare I say it, actually enjoyed it. It turned out to be a bit of a marathon as my opponent was of the very high topspin brigade and some of the rallies were interminable particularly as the balls softened. It was 3 hours before I walked off with my tail between my legs. My match fitness needs some work but that is to be expected having not played many matches recently.

I'm not sure how his second match went but I am sure the next round opponent was licking his chops while watching the Phyrric victory cum bloodbath:

"Another such victory over the Romans and we are undone,"

He was a splendid chap and I hope he won.

As soon as the match finished my thoughts turned to sinking a few beers with a good friend whom, through an unforgiveable lack of attention, I haven't seen for ages. I always was "the devil of a boy for a drop of the crature" - especially after losing a match I should have won. The night out started brilliantly with us having to prevent a middle aged man beating the crap out of his wife (or perhaps it was his Daschund - hard to tell). Welcome to the streets of Long Eaton! I want Neil as my chief negotiater if I end up in the Colombian jungle. Anyway a great night was had by all and it was great to catch up with his wonderful family despite his 8 year old son trying to trick me into seeing his dad's hairy arse!

Finally, a public service announcement: ensure your laces are tied before visiting a petrol station toilet otherwise they absorb all the piss from the floor....

Drafting A 250lb Full Back

2008-11-14T08:48:00.009Z

In the 2002 season the Pittsburgh Steelers subconsciously morphed into a pass-happy offence under the direction of ex-insurance salesman Tommy Maddox. What followed was an unsuccessful departure from their traditional smash-mouth offence into a big play highlight reel type of team without substance. It took them a whole season to regain their identity.

During my time off a similar thing seems to have happened to me - my tennis becoming more gadget play based rather than just handing the ball off to Jerome Bettis so he can fall over and squash the opponents. By which I mean I've moved away from consistent heavy topspin rally balls to trying to hit flat winners, smacking everything too hard and then mixing in short slice rubbish. I need to incorporate that sort of variety but it should be the nipple tassles on the bra that get the tips not the whole damn outfit.

Sometimes you have to take a step backwards before taking two in the other direction and this tactical hiccup is part of that journey (if that sounds like bollocks, it probably is), but it's back to basics with lessons learnt. Hell, temporary idiocy happens to everyone at some point. Even the Germans opened a museum celebrating their sense of humour this year! So, it's back to off-tackle runs from the I-formation, nicking all the sun beds and a sausage based diet for me.

Just in time as well, as I have another British Tour tournament starting tomorrow at Nottingham. I'm determined not to become one of those relatively highly rated players that everyone wants to play because his pumpkin has turned to terd. Let's hope the enthusiasm is fully returned under match conditions, we'll see - I really don't want to have to do something daft like get a job.

The Road To Hell (Hull)

2008-11-10T17:13:00.009Z

The trip up was a disaster this morning, as I left at 5:45 a.m and managed to take a wrong turn somewhere in the Northern Firmament. There wasn't even time to properly appreciate the brilliantly-named village Spital-On-The-Street (perhaps twinned with the famous Belgium town Cum-On-Her-Carpet). Arriving 15 minutes before the off with a brown bowling ball in my stomach was hardly ideal and meant I didn't get a pre-match warm-up.

During the match warm-up I became aware that something didn't feel quite right, not so much in the way I was hitting the ball but more in the way in which I was moving. The feeling was hard to place and it took me about 4 games to come to the realisation that I neither gave a shit about the result nor particularly wanted to be there. I would like to indulge in an inspirational vignette of how, having stared into the abyss, I recovered my senses and engineered a spectacular mental recovery. Unfortunately, with my heart of darkness my experience was more Colonel Kurtz who, in his final monents of realisation, could only respond "The Horror, the horror!".

In this state tennis is like viewing your own road accident, you hardly recognise the player you have become and the bits you do recognise are a bloody mess. Playing through physical injury is one thing - compromises have to be made, but results can still be achieved. However, if you don't have the essential fire within the whole exercise is completely and utterly futile. Quite honestly, the way I have felt lately I couldn't care less whether I ever step on a tennis court again.

Shakespeare said it best: "A walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more".

The Year of Space Invaders

2008-11-07T10:52:00.013Z

The treadmill incline keeps packing up during my hill sessions so I decided to revisit my childhood by training on the sand hills in the cunningly named town of Sandy. I remember it as being a huge Mount Rushmore-type place with steep sand hills leading up to a red rocky outcrop. (I do believe it was also the location of my first 'outside crap' - my very own JFK moment. No sign of decayed remains of Texan Bars though).

In the same way that if presently I loaded up space invaders on the PC and set up my toy cars for a race I suppose I have moved on. The place was pathetic - a hill of about 30 feet high, completely overgrown by weeds, with barely any sand at all. Lesson learnt, I certainly won't be rescuing any Beano albums from the loft after that.

I'm not a political animal but I confess to it being a relief that the US didn't elect the worrying combination of doddering geriatric and empty-vesselled populist cretin. At least there will be no nuclear holocaust because "it was the Russians who stole my moose antlers, you betcha". It's a great shame that both party leaders in the UK are fawning over Obama like a couple of erect schoolkids at the prom's last dance. It's too much to ask for any semblence of dignity from career politicians.

I've got 3 more days of practise until my next tournament which is a British Tour event. The first match notification sounds too much like a summons to a meeting at work - 9 a.m. monday morning in Hull. I have never visited Hull before but it's the sort of place which conjures up images of unemployed dock workers and street urchins playing in the dirt. In fact, it's claim to fame is being the only city in the UK with it's own independent telephone network company.

Cream telephone boxes....worth the price of travel alone....

Ron Mexico Returns

2008-11-02T10:49:00.016Z

It took me ages to floss my teeth this morning because, to use the American vernacular, I sucked arse last night at the tournament. I had expected to be a little rusty on my return despite hitting the ball fairly cleanly lately. What I wasn't really prepared for was my inconsistency and in particular my lack of preparedness mentally. One of the big improvements I'd made over the summer was in my mental focus and discipline - none of which were in evidence last night.

I suppose for completeness I should include the scores of 2-6, 4-6 (5.2!) and 1-6, 2-6 (4.2). Two of my worst results of the year - and they don't tell half the story of return games lurching to 0-40 on a consistent basis. I'll just be thankful that your rating cannot go down in the winter ratings run. The one bright point was my second serve which I hit consistently with good pace - although that's a bit like admiring the paint job on the funnel of the titanic as she submerges.

Hopefully this performance will be like the first dump after a bout of severe constipation. Ugly, painful with a reddish hue but paving the way for smoother and more enjoyable efforts in the future.

I have withdrawn from the remainder of the tournament as I strained my right pectoral trying to serve my way of trouble and I can't comfortably lift my arm above my shoulder. Being old fashioned I also feel if you've already been knocked out of a tournament (twice) you should get the message. That, together with the prospect of 4 hours of driving to play 2 matches with no benefit to either my rating or ranking, means I'm not as gutted as I would typically expect.

Into The Breach

2008-10-31T13:44:00.012Z

Well, I lived the Floridian dream for 22 hours before the damn pillow-biter let me down and homeless - the only consolation being I hadn't yet booked the flight. So, it's back to the drawing board with the search now becoming as tedious to do as it is to read about. Enough said.

More important matters are at hand as the main draw of the Sutton Superseries starts tomorrow. I've been practising hard the last couple of days - perhaps a little too hard. The elbow is fine, but now I have a stomach strain, sore forearm and tender left butt cheek. They should all be fine once I am dosed up with the appropriate medication.

The draw for Sutton is here:

http://www.tournamentsoftware.com/sport/draw.aspx?id=25147&draw=1

In theory, despite my lack of match practice, I should win the first match but have an extremely tough match for the second. Whatever happens this tournament demands that you play 4 matches over the weekend. Playing tournament matches when you've already been dropped is not to my liking but in these multi-draw events there is no other choice. So, the sensible thing to do is not to lose a match and win the thing! Either way it's going to be a true test of my elbow - unfortunately it seems to be the only thing that is working properly at the moment. Surely one of the final ironies of being too old.

No Room At The Inn

2008-10-27T20:04:00.031Z

After about an hour of Alistair Darling class procrastination I signed in for the futures qualifying, only to be told that the player himself had to sign in and his dad couldn't sign in on his behalf! Justifying my entry by attributing it to a "hard life" they initially asked for the £10 entry fee, but after more careful scrutiny of the weathered face waived it as there wasn't a hope in hell of me making the cut.

I briefly considered using the race card as an attempt to gain entry but as a scrawny, white anglo-saxon, success from this avenue of attack appeared unlikely. Perhaps an accusation of ageism would have been more fruitful.

No harm done and, without doubt, the place went to a player far more worthy. These sign-in sessions are depressing, with players hanging round looking as though they are next up for a root canal by Dr Mengele. I can't imagine how frustrating it is to fly in just to be told you missed the cut - it's a long way to go to spend a week playing table tennis in the lobby and eating snickers bars from the vending machine. This level of pro tournament is indeed a far cry from Sharapova's spot cream photo shoots and Federer getting his balls polished by a band of sponsor-provided sycophants.

Better news on the Florida front - it looks as though I will be heading over there in the next couple of weeks. I've managed to rent a room in the tennis club condos at a very reasonable price. Details of the club are here:
http://www.lauderdaletennisclub.com/index.html

I plan to be over there until late January, when I will return and play the National Indoor Vets Championships (old people not veterinarians). In the end I just couldn't bring myself to miss out on the joys of february in the UK. It is the best month to be in the UK because it's the shortest - and for no other reason than that.

While stringing a couple of racquets this evening I flicked to a program called 'Embarrassing Teenage Bodies'. And embarrassing it certainly was - particularly the '16 year old living in body hair hell'. What could be worse than having to worry about your nipple hair growing out of your blouse during class? Well, showing 5 million people on national TV for a start....

One thing is for sure - if I see her heading for the jacuzzi at the gym I'm off.

Y-Fronts Of Mass Destruction

2008-10-25T18:16:00.019+01:00

Perhaps delegates from the local conference centre, the gym was overrun by what appeared to be a Saddam Hussein lookalike convention. One of their contingent had obviously forgotten his trunks and deemed it appropriate to bathe in his see-through Y-fronts. Things had been looking up as well, as I was sharing the jaccuzi with a rather attractive police officer-ette, until the man in question crossed my view - his hairy arse like a patch of seaweed in shallow water. Only just enough time to avert my gaze to another who was showering in his sunglasses (I am not joking). I will reluctantly give him a mulligan though as he also appeared to be blind (perhaps his body's "see-through pants" defense mechanism at work).

I will be journeying up to London tomorrow to see a good friend and, as he plays at the club, I will also sign up for qualifying of the futures event. There doesn't appear to be much chance of getting in as the entry list is lengthy - perhaps it's just "him upstairs" saving me from any unnecessary humiliation. I need the match practice somehow though.

Events appear to be conspiring against my trip to Florida but a quick glance at the calendar shows British Tour open events in Hull and Nottingham in November and an ITF seniors event in Cyprus at the end of the month. A reasonable back up plan just in case, although playing under the palm trees in Florida is obviously infinitely preferable to freezing my arse off in St. Neots. We will see....

"Procrastination is like Masturbation......

2008-10-22T20:33:00.017+01:00

........in the end you're just screwing yourself".

The waiting-for-something-to-happen-before-posting experiment appears to have been a massive failure. The downside of writing this blog is realising how dull one's life is - unless helping to replace a lightbulb at the local church grips your shit.

The Sutton superseries is just 10 days away, but with over 2 months since my last singles match I am worried it will be a case of the emperor's new clothes. All shiny new rating and no groundstrokes. A tournament calendar search shows the nearest eligible for this weekend being on the coast of France - except for one. There is an ITF futures event being held at a friend's club in London. The fact that this is an event for true professionals and I am shit is a drawback naturally, but in theory anyone can enter provided they have an IPIN (I have one from my days in 'Nam - I don't like to talk about it). If I were to be ruthless about it I would go and sign up for qualifying just for the match practice. Unfortunately somewhere along the line I picked up a dumb conscience and I would feel like a fraud entering. It's one thing standing up drunk and reciting "There was a young man from Nantucket" in a poetry tent on a mate's stag day - quite another wasting someone's time whilst experiencing a public flogging on the tennis court while sober. Fortunately for a procrastinator such as myself I have until sunday afternoon to decide.

I had planned to leave for Florida in a fortnight but have failed to secure a place to stay. There are plenty available but they are way too expensive and the landlords appear to prefer an empty apartment to one occupied by an English down and out just meeting his payments. Even after giving my trip a short back and sides (lopping off february as they are plenty of tournaments in the UK) I can't make it work financially. I am down to last chance saloon - hoping to swing a 2 month rental starting mid / late november up to my planned return in January for the National Indoor Vets Champs.

I have been ramping up the tennis and am now hitting serves at maximum speed (a Spinal Tap '11'). Some of the serving drills I have recently adopted appear to have put a few mph on my serve although I can't yet hit the proverbial barn door with the damn thing. Unfortunately the ball machine is out of order at the moment which is preventing other technique practice - no doubt it will be fixed by the time the winter gale force winds and sleet are encumbent. At the moment my weekly schedule is looking something like this:

Mon: a.m. Core training, leg weights, hitting session; p.m. footwork drills, serve practice
Tue: a.m. practice sets; p.m. aerobic fitness at gym
Wed: a.m. Core training, footwork drills, serve drills; p.m. hitting session
Thu: a.m. Leg weights, practice sets; p.m. hill interval session
Fri: a.m. Core training, serve drills; p.m. footwork drills. hitting session
Sat: a.m. sprint work; p.m. hitting session / practice sets
Sun: a.m. huge wank followed by pot noodle; p.m. rest

Tennis: A.D. 1

2008-10-16T21:41:00.018+01:00

Another DVD dropped through the letterbox on tuesday - Sonic Serve with Nick Bollettieri. I say 'with' because some other poor bastard wrote, presented, produced and edited it but he doesn't get a mention on the packaging. It probably seemed like a sensible marketing ploy at the time but I bet when he saw the final copy he thought - "that wrinkly old twat has taken all the fuckin credit" (like the film 'Maggie Thatcher's Minge' - what, what!).

Fortunately, Pat Dougherty, your period of anonymity is at an end as 10 readers of my blog and 1 insecure troll now know the real author's identity. If I knew what the hell I was doing I would probably have been mildly disappointed about the content, but it appears I don't have the basics down yet so it was spot on for me. It only addresses the flat serve, the aforementioned sonic boom, which sounds far more intimidating than my current 'whispy poof' (also known as the Elton John).

So back to the drawing board I go with some remedial serve drills during which I noticed that the landing point of my toss is more shrapnel grenade than sniper's shot. As I said basic stuff. Next week my dvds "how to wee without spraying the seat" and "picking your nose without drawing blood" arrive and I should be ready for big school.

I now have my footwork training refined and polished and complete it in about one hour. Very knackering but I really think it's going to improve my game. I have noticed recently that my knee pain has returned and it seems likely that all the elbow horse steroids continually taken over summer had probably concealed it. I've had bad knees for ages now, so to a certain extent it's business as usual although some physio-provided exercises may help. Last year it disappeared on the clay in Florida so fingers crossed for a repeat.

The superseries acceptance list has been released and I am straight into the main draw. If I hadn't increased in rating last month I would have been stuck in qualifying, so it's great to benefit materially from the upgrade. Looks like a tough tournament with some 4.2's residing in qualifying due to their lower rankings.

Being Richard Simmons

2008-10-12T17:06:00.014+01:00

This week was a complete non-event in terms of things worth reporting. But I suppose a quiet week when you are rehabbing is better than one containing headlines about checking back into the Betty Ford clinic and sitting next to Amy Winehouse for lunch.

I'm starting to feel as though it's been years since my last tournament so I have entered the November superseries at Sutton at the beginning of next month. The day after that I plan to head over to Florida before witches-tit weather descends on Britain. The details of this are yet to be decided but I'm expecting to be over there for about 4 / 5 months with just one trip home to show off my sunburn and rub dead skin onto peoples food.

I'm continuing to ramp up the tennis, having been given the go ahead for two days on and one day off. I even played a doubles match for the club today, although this was an abject failure as my partner and I were utterly abysmal. Still, according to the rule of fart, it's better out than in. I can't possibly play as bad as that again. On a brighter note I finally squeezed into 10th place in the UK veterans rankings - so that's another pre-season goal acheived, albeit it in less spectacular style than I'd hoped.

I've just received the Tennis Movement Training DVD by Andy Murray's fitness coach Jez Green. He has an interesting philosophy - everything is extremely focused on simulating tennis movements. Although at any given moment you expect him to admit "I only added that one in to make you look like an arse!".

Anyway, I'll incorporate the drills and exercises despite the prospect of looking like a grade A pillock with the medicine ball at the gym. Rather than be sheepish about it, I am going to look as though I know what I'm doing and meet any questioning glances with a "you just wouldn't understand, buddy". It's a trick I've learnt from the personal trainers. I swear one of them nearly decapitated himself with the kettle bell the other day, but his poker-faced reaction made me feel as though the oesophagus crunchie was deliberate.

Use The Force

2008-10-06T23:55:00.001+01:00

Back in the UK today, courtesy of the terd's favourite airline - Ryanair. They are a fantastic airline in terms of the prices they offer, but they appear to cut corners everywhere - including omitting "Chapter 6: How to land" from the Pilot's handbook. I swear if I'd been snogging someone at the moment the plane hit the tarmac we would have bitten each other's tongues off. As it was, the zip on my trousers nearly severed me at the wrist.

This was my first time on the French south coast and the weather was great, the towns very old and people very friendly. I expected the first two but was less confident of the third having been a previous victim of the Paris welcome. It is a very relaxed way of life, but no sooner had I got into the swing of things in that respect I was back on the M11 in the UK directing traffic with my middle finger and the word ****.

I gave my elbow a more severe test yesterday on court and played my first set for quite a while. I felt no pain, noticing only that the racquet seemed lighter than before and, as the tennis club was next to a small zoo, the bitching of the mountain goats as my forehands landed in their poo. My gracious host (from hereon known as Miss Obi-Wan) dispersed many pearls of wisdom with regards to my game (what's French for: "you're fookin' crap"?). With sufficient concentration I can nail the slice backhand, so now it's just a case of repetition. I'm like a kid with a new toy - now it's just a question of when the triple A's run out and the ATAT guns fall silent. According to Miss Obi-Wan my on-court crimes include waiting too much for the ball, letting it drop too far and not bending my knees sufficiently.

In my defence I would attribute this principally to ignorance rather than laziness. This is second nature to most players but I find that as I am, in some ways, educating myself "officially" for the first time as an OAP I cannot assume the basics usually programmed in automatically from a young age.

Miss Obi-Wan also made a comment about "being too stiff", which I put down to being lost in translation - as you should.

And As If By Magic

2008-10-04T20:00:00.002+01:00

Rather strangely, I'm in France today. In Toulon to be precise, near St. Tropez on the South coast. Very nice too. Particularly as my French has atrophied to the point I can no longer read about the end of the world and I see no evidence of the stultifyingly dull and inept Gordon Brown anywhere.

Admittedly I was probably mistaken to read Bernard Cornwell's new novel "Azincourt" on the plane considering it was about a historic battle between the French and English, but no offence was intended. Such an engrossing read however, that I found myself looking for my longbow at baggage reclaim and ready to conquer the French once again. Bit of a shame then that they had already run away when I disembarked.

I was picked up on a scooter and my host proceeded to prove that if you own one of these contraptions you have to be an absolute friggin nutter (or a homo, but she isn't). However, I will admit to feeling a bit like Alain Delon at times - the good news of course being there are always naked birds in his films.

Proving there is method to my madness (and some relevance in this short trip to the blog's overall mission) I got some more practice on red clay courts. If I am going to be successful on the stuff I am going to have to develop my backhand slice - and I got very useful pointers on where I am going wrong in this area.

The elbow continues to hold out, the weather is good, the place is beautiful and I don't have to work on monday. The icing on the cake would be to hear it is cold and raining in England - I know she won't let me down!

Tale Of The Tape

2008-10-01T14:30:00.005+01:00

Slow times at the moment. A best of blog compilation would be very short, totally premature (insert cloister joke here) and too much like Andy Murray having already written his autobiography. So rather than devote time to revealing why I hate bananas as did the Scottish dullard, I'll summarize my year numerically up to the end of august:

Singles
Matches Played: 70 (sanctioned match play, tournament & league only)
Matches Won: 48
Tournaments Played: 20
Tournaments Won: 2
Runner-Up: 4

Doubles Matches: 27 (15 wins)
Mixed Matches: 8 (4 wins)

Countries Competed in: 5
Miles Driven: 11000
Money Spent: Bloody Shitloads (also known as too damn depressing and none of your fuckin business)
Money Won: £285!

Given the knowledge that my body is old and recalcitrant at 35, rather than indestructible and eager at 18, I'm going to learn to say no to doubles.

In an effort to claw back some of the Bernanke-size deficit I had my first racquet restring patron yesterday. 3 including a Mizuno - which, if I were a bicycle shop - would be the equivalent of someone wheeling in an original Penny Farthing. Unfortunately the previous stringer had put in 6 tie-offs (which is like having 3 penises) and this meant it was hard to discern what should go where and when (like having 3 penises).

It all worked out in the end and upon delivery we hit some balls. I must admit there is a certain appeal to the "gypsy method". That is, take the money upfront, botch the driveway and then disappear with no possible method of recourse. As it was, I spent the whole hour praying his stringjob didn't snap or unravel along with my burgeoning reputation.

A friend did ask whether stringing is tedious or enjoyable. My response was to compare it to the software industry, appreciating the fact it was good to actually produce something tangible. "Yeah, but it doesn't pay £100 an hour like the software industry". Quite.

Out With The Old, In With The New

2008-09-29T13:12:00.010+01:00

Two days into my hangover I arose this morning to find an email from Greg Rusedski with the results of the latest ratings run. The poor guy must have been up all night writing several thousand of these things - obviously starting alphabetically with the first names as mine arrived at about 2:47 a.m. (Please don't write in - I am joking).

As I read the email I experienced a swelling of self-righteous indignation which rapidly turned to fury. The LTA is the sort of organisation which you can trust to kick a man while he's down and somehow my rating stayed the same - unbelievable. This made no sense whatsoever - but then the attachment that came with the email made no sense either, as they couldn't even get the rating I'd been using for the previous 6 months correct. So off was sent a rapid "yours faithfully, Pissed off in Cambridge" appeal letter.

Either the LTA is an extremely efficient organisation or somehow the ratings run and subsequent email were a complete fuck up (erm, tough one that). Upon my return from the gym my rating had been updated to a 4.2 which was the least I expected. Another yearly target reached.

Having that rating means I now qualify for all the British Tour events without needing to send the letter pleading for leniency because the minimum entry for the event is 4.2. It should also mean that I get seeded for British veterans events which rarely happened last year. That in turn should mean going deeper into the tournament and more ranking points. Which, as we all know, eventually leads to glory, big-chested blondes and maybe even a knighthood. That's assuming the LTA's schizophrenic computer doesn't decide to have it's period in the next few hours.

The finals day at the club went well and the weather was fantastic. I would equate it to going to a wonderful wedding, where you still fancied the bride that you used to bone. Rather than sulk and give my elbow a series of disappointed looks I volunteered to umpire the mens final. It's not exactly what I would call fun but it wasn't an unpleasant experience - hopefully I won't be available to do it next year!

The Miller's Tale

2008-09-25T11:08:00.013+01:00

The scripts arrived! I landed the part of Bob Cratchit with my physio assigned the part of Ebeneezer Scrooge and never the twain shall meet. Upon enquiring whether I could play in the club tournament this week he spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice - "completely out of the question" unless I am particularly keen to go through another cycle of rest / injection / sulk.

In terms of my goals the club tournament is certainly the lowest in terms of priority. However, like the old pair of jeans that are threadbare at the crotch it's the one you love the most. It's always been a particularly difficult tournament to sit down and watch rather than play in so some medicinal pints may be in order. For once, I'm doing the sensible thing - no doubt it will somehow turn round and bite me in the arse.

I've been prescribed a regimen of 30 minutes every other day light hitting (groundstrokes only) alternating with a day of air shots with the cliniband tied to my handle. The cliniband is a latex therapy exercise band which applies gradual resistance as it stretches. It also makes your hands smell as though you've spent the night with a rubber doll which finally provides me with a convincing alibi.

Unfortunately the stuff is bloody dangerous. Having imitated a serve with the band attached to my grip the racquet shot back and poleaxed me on the top of the head. Finally, I good practical grasp of the physics behind a mangonel. Very painful, embarassing and a decent sized lump as reward for my efforts.

Further evidence that perhaps doing the right thing doesn't suit some people as we ordered Chinese at the tennis club on tuesday night. Not wanting to spoil appetites I stuck my arse out of the door to let out "a fizzing and sulphuric fart". Upon turning round a female member of the club was standing on the step with ruffled hair and a shocked look on her face. Not one of my proudest moments and memories of the only highlight of studying Chaucer while at school:

This Nicholas just then let fly a fart
As loud as it had been a thunder-clap,
And well-nigh blinded Absalom, poor chap;

The Great Depression Part Deux

2008-09-21T20:44:00.016+01:00

6 days isn't long in blog-land when finding something interesting to say (and failing miserably) but appears to be an age in the world's financial markets. An unravelling that would normally take months took place in a week. Among the thousands being made unemployed I stand in a position of complete lack-of-job security. Not that earning about £400 in a whole year is anything to crow about - unless it's 1929 of course. But it's 2008 - caw, caw.

The hiatus from the tennis court ends tomorrow which, if successful, will give the cat some time to repair it's bruising. I'm off to the physio in the morning and I am 100% confident I will get the all clear to start playing again. If not, I will have to be committed or, worse, maybe find temporary employment until it heals again.

Meanwhile life goes on, the club tournament progresses and my matches are causing a backlog like wooden poos in a sewer. It's finals day next weekend which means that, whether I am playing or not, I will have a beast of a hangover on sunday. No doubt the effects being exacerbated by it being my first drink in over a month (you read that correctly).

VW Crisis Van

2008-09-15T12:27:00.011+01:00

The elbow continues to improve at approximately the rate of continental drift. Perhaps it will be 100% ready to go when South America has co-joined with Africa. It's sad when recovery is measured using the science of plate tectonics. In a slightly ironic twist the UK may, apparently, be entering an Indian Summer. So, after months of waiting I can finally not play tennis in the sun.

Injury aside I am optimistically progressing other plans for tennis later this year. I definitely cannot afford to be stuck at a club with only outdoor courts for the duration of the UK winter (which could last between 4 months and 12 years). Currently I am sorting out costs for 3 months at either Sutton Tennis Academy in the UK or the Saddlebrook resort in Florida. There are pros and cons to each - Sutton being well placed to play the UK winter tournaments whereas Saddlebrook is, well, Saddlebrook and it's also in Florida. Unfortunately it looks like Saddlebrook is going to far exceed the budget whereas Sutton is only going to exceed it by a lot.

The needle on my midlife crisis barometer is slowly swinging round to 940 as evidenced by my consideration of the purchase of a VW Camper Van (that's right Simon, 17 years too late!). Part of me envisages a European tour of ITF tournaments in my mobile shag palace - making my living stringing racquets, winning prize money, selling tie-dye t-shirts and getting free cheese from desperate French milfs hanging out of their cottage windows with no bras on. On the other hand there is the reality of continual breakdowns, everything stinking and having to drop the kids off at the pool on the motorway hard shoulder out of sight of the gendarmarie.

In all seriousness it would take care of the need for accomodation at many of the UK tournaments - particularly as the decision to stay is often only taken late in the day after the days matches are done. On the other hand maybe I'm just experiencing stage one of the "stir-craziness" of not being able to play tennis..... The latter I suspect.

Leave it to the Pros

2008-09-11T21:06:00.020+01:00

Rather than vent my frustrations on the treadmill yet again I decided to head up to the $15k futures event in Nottingham to see how it's done by the real professionals. It was my first real insight into the depressing reality of the professional tennis circuit for players ranked 250 and below in the ATP rankings.

Of course playing in the midlands on a windy, overcast day is hardly conducive to a festive atmosphere - but I would have expected more than the scant smattering of spectators that were present at the venue. Particularly as one of them persisted in pestering me by describing how great his nephew was and how useless all the players were. Fair enough, there's always the chance that such a chap may turn out to be the genuine article and be distantly related to Rod Laver. Maybe even more so if, as this chap did, they manage to incorporate the word centrifugal into his analysis. However, if one really wants to command the attention an expert deserves it's a good idea if your ear hair isn't 8 inches long and, in an ideal world, you won't reek of urine.

The tennis itself was obviously of a high standard although it's amazing that first round losers only get $217 in prize money (some having played 3 rounds of qualification) and winner just a couple of grand. Out of this you would usually have to foot all the expenses yourself, including flights. That in comparison to some of the lower division footballers who get paid much more, have far fewer expenses and couldn't dribble after 15 pints of Stella. If I ever have kids they are getting golf clubs or football boots for Christmas - always assuming the sweat shop gives them Christmas day off of course.

The priority in these events seems to be court coverage, fitness, depth of shot and consistency. In fact it's in direct contrast to lower standard tournament tennis where everyone is trying to spank the crap out of every ball. Someone once said tennis is a game of movement with some hitting rather than the opposite (like activities such as sex) and this was perfectly demonstrated on court today.

Perforated and Poor

2008-09-08T12:38:00.006+01:00

Don't believe the hype - cortisone injections don't hurt at all. At least not when the needle enters, you are paying at reception or pulling out of the car park. But half way home you feel the beginnings of some discomfort. A couple of hours later it's got progressively worse and I hope that it'll start tapering off soon or I'll be breaking out the vodka and commencing a comprehensive course of self-medication.

The best analogy for the pain is the repercussions of dental work by a Victorian dentist - only on your elbow. I suspect the bishop will remain unbashed for a couple of days.

I did actually sneak out and play 3 matches in my club tournament this weekend figuring that the next couple of weeks would be a write-off anyway. After ten days rest the elbow felt a little better - especially as I was armed with a couple of lacrosse sticks strung at 42 lbs. I didn't serve properly but the pain was certainly less than before.

At times like this I rue the passing of the good old days. In my teenage years a hangover would last 12 minutes and ten days off would have been enough time to grow a new leg. As it is ten days off is enough time for things to improve only slightly. The next two weeks will involve more fitness work and plenty of over-reacting to signs that my return is ahead of schedule or otherwise. Steer well clear.

On a brighter note the American football season started this week and yesterday Thomas Jones paid for half of my medical bill by running for over 50.5 yards against the Miami Dolphins.

The String Of Shame

2008-09-03T23:53:00.011+01:00

I doubt the reserve list of stringers for Wimbledon are anxiously looking over their shoulder but I seem to be getting the hang of this. I completed 2 racquets today - the first in 70 minutes and the second in 52 minutes. At this rate, by my tenth, I will be knocking on Usain Bolt's door. Because I bash through as quick as I can, when I lift the finished article to inspect it I get the morning-after-nightclub-pull nerves. Instead of furtively peaking under the covers and hoping she's not a double bagger, with the strings I worry about missing a hole (ditto on the occasions when she's actually attractive) or going over when I should have gone under.

It's now been 8 days without tennis, but with lots of stretching and icing. The elbow hasn't really improved so I have an appointment with the specialist on monday where I expect every man to do his duty and for a cortisone shot to be administered. The doctor's name rang a bell and I subsequently realised he has a similar name to "Hi Dr Nick", the charlatan doctor on the Simpsons. Let's hope I don't come out with an ear sown on to one of my arse cheeks.

Not that I should, as the appointment alone costs a ridiculous £110. (Naturally the cortisone would further increase the cost). If it's much more I'd better come out with a special recession-proof elbow capable of cunning financial calculations and paying biannual dividends.

The new ITF world rankings were released today and I have gone from 34th to 37th. This was expected as I'd focused on open tournaments in the last 3 months. There are still two poor performances that stick in my craw - both first round loses in Grade 1 tournaments which could have made all the difference. My next ITF tournament will probably be at the end of January, so not much will change in that department.

Nunc Vertitur In Tedium

2008-08-31T21:00:00.008+01:00

This blog is hardly likely to "write itself" during my hiatus from the court unless I get increasingly obscure or start drinking heavily. Given the fact I have now been alcohol free for 8 days I'll have to settle with an update on rankings.

The new UK rankings, published late friday, show me at 12 in the UK for over 35's and 112th in the UK open category. Unfortunately - bad elbow or not, there are no more opportunities to make up the difference in the over 35's this year so it looks like my goal of top 10 has failed by a gnat's foreskin. Assuming the old wanking hinge (elbow) improves I've got a really good shot at making the UK 100 for the open category as there are at least 3 more British Tour events before 2009.

In tennis terms my days consist of stretching, icing, fitness and footwork. Oh, and learning to string racquets. My first couple of efforts at stringing would have been more at home on The Generation Game (a British game show) - a settting where your typical guinea pig would be a fat-fingered, one-handed man from Huddersfield trying to decorate a wedding cake in 60 seconds.

Very frustrating; the first attempt being doomed from the start as I had cut the string too short and the second falling at the last as when attempting to lift the completed racquet in triumph I found I had somehow included the stringing machine itself. Fortunately nothing was wasted as I was using sacrificial string - so called because it is designed purely for practice. However, it also proved useful in sharpening the concentration when self education-through-punishment involved wrapping it around your nuts and tensioning at 74lbs. A perfect string job and a set of enlarged, purple plums being the outcome of this Damaclesian method of persuasion.

On a serious note - if you are learning to string you would be well served by checking out Yulitle's excellent instructional videos on youtube: http://www.youtube.com/profile_videos?user=YULitle

Thanks mate.

Calling In The Experts

2008-08-29T12:58:00.010+01:00

Before embarking on my injury hiatus I am desperately trying to identify the cause of my elbow problems. I am fairly certain that the principal cause is my service technique and not something that I may or may not do in the privacy of my own room.

After some cashing in of chips it was off to London with a friend to see a coach with whom he is friendly. The coach certainly has the qualifications and having trained 8 British number 1's his reaction to my serve may prove telling - "it looks like a penis, only smaller". After a few tests he concluded that my technique is sound but progress would be difficult until I had learnt to considerably relax my grip. Apparently strangulation isn't conducive to racquet head speed or a healthy elbow and I should be loose enough to hold the racquet with 2 fingers right up until the point of contact. A fine point perhaps, but as Harold found out 942 years ago on Senlac Hill, when delivered with conviction and authority it can have dramatic effect.

It would have been a worthwhile trip just for this but like a Botswanan diamond mine the gems kept flowing. After some seemingly casual observation of my rallying I came away with a major point to work on for each of my forehand, backhand, footwork and the rather astute observation "you've gone fuckin pink - have you tried breathing during rallies?"!

Tennis coaching, like any other profession, has more than it's share of incompetents, time wasters and snake-oil salesmen. Most of all it's full of people just going through the motions, as I was last year when commuting to London on the 7:37 a.m train. This, in a role requiring you to inspire and educate in equal measure.

It was good to see a real expert.

Old Reliable

2008-08-25T12:21:00.011+01:00

An extremely sore elbow, a reasonably sore head and a mildly furry tongue meant that for once I wasn't desperately hoping for play - particularly as the wind was absolutely horrendous, at a venue which is not kind on the players when it's only a breeze. So, depending on your viewpoint, the weather did or did not cooperate as the rain soon followed and the day was abandoned. I would urge British Veterans Tennis to realise the folly of stubbornly refusing any sort of poor weather back-up but suspect I would be swimming against the tide of popular opinion and years of tradition. After all, it took the carnage of World War 1 and millions dead for the country to realise that the popularity of the machine gun meant that walking slowly towards the enemy was no longer effective.

Once again I took advantage of the physio (not in that way) but this time arrived fully underweared-up. There's no polite way of saying this but the experts were a little scornful of the treatment I have been having locally and it turns out I should have been doing a lot more work on shoulder, neck and arm flexibility rather than just having the crap kicked out of the tendon itself. As always where you have contradicting experts you go with those with more direct experience in the sport - or if that is equal, the ones with the largest breasts. Using either criteria I am changing my rehab routines and stretching more diligently from now on.

Despite the lack of tennis the weekend was good fun, mainly because the team were such good company. Whether my overuse of sexual innuendo and poor performance in the singles mean I'll get picked again is a different matter entirely. At least for once, believe it or not, I wasn't the one that broke wind with the most regularity....

A Bridge Too Far

2008-08-23T20:59:00.010+01:00

Saturday saw the teams awake (in seperate beds I hasten to add) to blazing sunshine and the prospect of a full day's play. With the following day's forecast similar to that of friday there was a very real prospect that this would be the only day with play and the result alone determining promotion and relegation.

I played number 2 singles for Cambidgeshire and was first on the court against Yorkshire's number 2. I started pretty well but was never really moving that well and was uncharacteristically inconsistent throughout. I generally hit with a lot of topspin and find that soft grass courts seem to negate most of the spin and that I don't have the variety in my game to be completely effective on the surface. As the match went on the elbow pain got worse as feared and for the first time was hurting on forehands. However, that is not an excuse for losing 4 & 2 - it was one of those days (the 5th match this year) when I was never really firing. I came off thinking that perhaps the planned break in September is probably well timed and that like the bridge at Arnhem, Eastbourne was a weekend too far.

Rather than sulk at the side of the court I showered and went straight to the physio. Unfortunately I made the childlike error of not bringing a spare pair of briefs and as a result had to go commando underneath my tracksuit bottoms. A few minutes of back massage later and I had allowed my mind to wander with the unfortunate result that the ol' womb warrior had begun to stir. Luck was on my side though as it only reached semi-status before I was able to talk it down before I had to turn over.

Overall we lost the match 3-2 which, although very disappointing, meant that if the following day was cancelled due to the weather we would stay in division 2 as Essex had lost 4-1 to Hampshire.

Vets County Cup

2008-08-22T20:36:00.007+01:00

The star of the show on day one was, typically, the British weather which teased, tantalised and then put the boot in by raining about 30 minutes prior to the mid day inspection. That resulted in reputations being made or destroyed on the crazy golf course rather than the tennis court - for our team at least. This isn't the appropriate place to relay the scores, suffice it to say that yours truly had had his fill of piped music of the Captain Pugwash theme by hole 18 - "Yo ho ho and a bottle of fuck off". Rumour has it that other teams participated in activities more fitting for their age group - games of gin rummy and zimmer frame racing around the croquet lawn I suspect.

The county cup is divided into a number of divisions, each with 4 counties. On each of the days a match-up is assigned one grass court where the teams play 2 singles matches and 3 doubles consecutively. The format is a good one - albeit one that relies on the foolish assumption that there is no rain. I suppose to readers resident in other countries it may seem faintly ridiculous that the whole format relies on hundreds of fat, balding tennis players doing anti-rain dances in a country with the highest rainfall in Europe. No back-up plan and no alternative hard courts - so the day was abandoned with the main topic of discussion being the weather forecast for the following couple of days.

On the brightside there was a room with 3 ATP qualified physios that the players could use at a bargain price per team over the three days. Being female meant the poor ladies would be seeing a lot of me and my elbow over the three days.

The Last Time I'll Do That

2008-08-19T23:08:00.020+01:00

Never again will I watch a bet unfold while on the treadmill at the gym. A schoolboy error compounded by the fact my volume control was totally nullified by the ipod and the race coincided with the conclusion of my workout.

As tipped on this blog on sunday I backed Angelo Taylor in the 400m hurdles final and he absolutely romped home. That's what I knew; I’m sure the other gym users thought I was encouraging, berating and finally celebrating my own performance at the end of my hill repeat workout. It’s not often you see someone stepping off the treadmill looking as though he had just won a gold medal, but you'd as sure as hell think he was a complete twat.

In times past this would have been considered a modest bet but with my precarious financial situation there is no such thing. Tradition dictates that I proceed to blow the winnings on lager, pork scratchings and a small conciliatory bottle of perfume for the wife after returning home 8 hours late from the pub. However, these not being traditional times I have sensibly decided to invest my winnings in a stringing machine - besides I'm not married.

Compared to the US the selection of machines is poor and those that are for sale are inclusive of a complementary financial butt-raping. This at least narrows the search and I will pull the trigger on one of the two table top crank machines in the links below, unless I can be persuaded otherwise by the on-line peanut gallery.

http://www.r-a-b.com/productDetailMachines.cfm?type=Manual&name=SM1000%20TABLETOP&code=SM-T/T-MANUAL

http://www.cordatec.com/stringing_machines.html

After the horrendous pain in my elbow while serving on sunday I am resting it in advance of this weekend's Senior County Cup at Eastbourne. I will be representing Cambridgeshire in division 2A - the second from top group. As you progress up the divisions the beer to tennis ratio must obviously lessen to have continued success. Historically, this is something I usually get disastrously wrong. Fingers crossed heh!

Back In The Saddle Again

2008-08-17T23:04:00.002+01:00

The leftovers of the previously vast Moz financial conglomerate is riding on Angelo Taylor in the Mens 400m hurdles at the Olympics at 3 pm tomorrow afternoon. Not a gamble as such, rather an educated investment in a high risk financial instrument. It certainly beats buying Northern Rock shares in the FTSE. A second place breaks even whereas a win pays for a new stringing machine. If he doesn't make the top 2 in the race it looks like the conclusion of the big experiment will have to be brought further forward, although a third place would soften the blow somewhat.

The draw for the club tournament is out and I am the number one seed in the singles, mens and mixed doubles. The timing couldn't be worse as it takes place from now until the end of September and that is my scheduled down time. A compromise will have to be reached! Rather ridiculously the 1 and 3 seeds are scheduled to meet in the semis. This year's Wimbledon draw was the same and I cannot for the life of me work out the logic behind it - it basically means you are better off being the number 2 seed as it gives an easier path to the final.

One thing is for certain, if I am to spend most of September in convalescence I am going to have to invest in cable television. I was bored last night and the sole program of any promise was called "The Perfect Vagina". Great I thought, a documentary on Denise Richards! My peaked interest was soon unpeaked upon reading the rather sterile program synopsis "Lisa Rogers sets out to discover why so many British women are so ill at ease with their own labias". Oh Jesus, bring back Topless Darts.....

Be Careful What You Wish For

2008-08-15T15:22:00.004+01:00

I arrived at Wimbledon fervently hoping that I would avoid the ugly spectacle of the previous day on an outdoor court in the wind. So after some begging, bribing and colluding we were assigned an indoor carpet court at Queen's Club (the weather ensuring no possibility of playing on the hallowed grass).

I faced the number 3 seed and the guy ranked number 2 in the UK for over 35's. Typical then that he turns out to play all his tennis on indoor carpet, had an absolutely vicious lefty slice serve and serve-volleyed. We had a great match - particularly when I started making some returns. In a ding-dong battle I eventually succumbed 4-6, 6-3, 6-7 (4). I was pleased with the way I played, had every chance - it just didn't go my way in the end. No excuses.

To rub salt in my wounds, I also managed to twist my ankle in a vain attempt to get the ball on match point. The ankle is weak already - in a pub I'd be telling you it was "an old rugby injury" and giving you a nudge and wink. Well it is, but having seen my legs on this blog nobody's going to believe me. Anyway, let me tell you, getting injured on a losing match point is like being burgled and then finding one of the culprits has decorated your carpet with a brown runny one. The smell will hang around for a while.

For my own part it was the first time this season where I felt my serve was weakened by my elbow pain. The previously successful combination of protracted warm-up, pills and adrenaline has finally run it's course. As a result I am going to withdraw from the South Of England championships at the end of the month but will still bite the pillow for the county cup next week as I've already committed to the team.

Postcard From The Queen

2008-08-12T22:22:00.003+01:00

It's ironic, perhaps, that this centennial post contains news of an on-court victory rather than the customary rant. Irrespective of this, I would argue that squeezing out one hundred slightly different posts on such a monotonous subject is an achievement of sorts. Perhaps ranking alongside seeing how long you can grow a nose hair without trimming it. People may not be paying attention but you can't help but manage a grin when you are able to floss your teeth with it.

Wimbledon today offered yet another chance for the wank British weather to take centre court. The grass courts remained covered all day as competitors were ferried all around South London in an effort to get the matches played on hard, carpet and astroturf. In a change to the usual schedule I would like to applaud the organisers for having so many facilities standing by as back-up. I believe 7 satellite venues were laid on and, as a result, the tournament ran to time. An impressive effort.

Unfortunately I ended up on an outdoor court in gale force winds. It was like playing in my colon. In many ways the wind mirrored the competitiveness of the match, or perhaps vice versa. As the first set heated up at 4-4 and got tense the wind became almost unbearable. Decent tennis was impossible and I even had to resort to a couple of underhand serves to combat the wind for the first time in my life, but I closed out the set. The match was played adjacent to a lake and as the opponents chance got slimmer at 4-6, 1-4 a group of school girls on a boat started screeching "We Are The Champions" and "YMCA". I'm glad it wasn't my epitaph they were singing, but it's amazing how much easier it is to see the funny side when you're leading.

I play the number 3 seed tomorrow which, by all accounts, is going to be a very tough match. He is a 4.1 which is infinitely preferable to today's rating death-trap against a 5.2.

It's Wimbledon Time

2008-08-10T23:02:00.015+01:00

This week is the British Veterans' Grass Court Championships - an ITF Grade 3 closed tournament meaning "foreigners not welcome". I don't suppose the Labour government would approve, but then they are the ones having to employ teachers who can teach maths in Bangladeshi. The tournament is held at the All England Club on the practice courts at Aorangi Park. Us old farts refer to it as "Playing Wimbledon" because we are sad and crave recognition from the unwashed masses who would otherwise think Aorangi Park is an Australian prisoner of war camp.

The tournament overall has a strong draw with a lower rating than 5.2 meaning a qualifying round. My rating of 5.1 means direct entry to the main draw but no seeding and I will meet the number 3 seed if I make it through to the second round. Another poo sandwhich anyone?

http://www.vetstennisgb.org/DrawsandResults/WimbledonDraws08/draw12.html

It's generally accepted there are 3 methods used to generate the seedings - your national rating, your national ranking or your international ranking. This way the requirements are clear and success in tournaments is rewarded with a seeding. Given this, many of us were completely baffled when a 5.1 with no ranking to speak of was made number one seed. Maybe we should add membership of the masons or "licking helm at the All-England" to the list of seeding criteria.

The guy concerned does have my sympathy as the added pressure and unwarranted resentment created means he is more victim than benefactor. Despite being aware of this I do admit to some satisfaction seeing that he lost in the first round. See what I mean - totally unwarranted. I'm sure others share this vindictiveness, only they aren't stupid enough to publish it. He at least has a paid trip to the World Championships to represent Great Britain as consolation, while I sit here wondering what value different body parts have in Burundi these days.

My first match is on tuesday against a 5.2 that I'm not familiar with. Defeat is not an option.

Dropout

2008-08-09T15:58:00.009+01:00

My customary late posting tells you all you need to know about the semi final. I'd originally hoped we'd be assigned to a hard court where my plan of attack was to bore and tire the crap out of him with high topspin to his backhand.

Unfortunately the weather relented for long enough to the grass to dry. It seems this week that whenever I hoped to be on the grass I was assigned on hard and vice versa. I suspect the truth is that I just complain whatever happens. A lesson many tennis players could learn from - if everyone else is always wrong maybe it's you!

As it happened I couldn't have guessed how unfortunate the choice of surface was as it was a case of death by drop shot. This guy had good enough touch to hit a drop shot off a cruise missile, so anything my miserable pea-shooter could send his way wasn't causing any headaches. It's the first time in my life I have done more vertical than horizontal running on a tennis court.

Despite the extraordinary game plan I was faced with I did force 4 set points in the first set, all of which he saved - principally from very strong serving. From 6 all onwards I didn't really muster a convincing threat, despite trying to, and I went down 7-6 (4), 6-2.

Overall I've made some good progress this week and my recent focus on the mental side of things really seemed to make a material difference to my play and results. Despite many instances when I justifiably could have rammed my racquet somewhere painful, I kept my head and played the better for it. Inevitably the head-kettle did eventually let off steam and as a result I offer an apology to the lady (cretin) manning the Texaco station for my somewhat harsh judgement on her performance. (But surely nobody can be that fuckin stupid?)

Coin-Operated Odour

2008-08-07T22:13:00.004+01:00

On monday of this week I hit on the fantastic idea of using my car boot as a mobile clothes depository. Seven matches in humid weather later has since highlighted the inherent weakness in such a scheme. The whole car now smells like a tramps underwear. The exact chemical equation, or physics behind it, is not exactly clear but at some point a smell conversion has occured from sweat to urine. Not pleasant.

British tennis circles are ever decreasing and it appears a rumour has taken hold that I recently sold a software business and this is the financial engine behind my current situation. I must admit to being disappointed with the subject of the rumour - it makes me sound like a square bastard. Anyway, I can confirm the rumour is unfounded and a quick tour of the mobile piss box in the car park would quickly disabuse any nosey neighbours of any notions of wealth.

It was quarter finals day and I met the 3rd seed on the show court. My first match on grass out of 7 in this tournament and once again the whole experience was a total disappointment. The bounce was low, slow and inconsistent and neither my opponent or I ever to seemed to get our timing down. Despite prevailing 3 & 4 I put forward the worst display of volleying ever witnessed at the club - utterly embarassing.

After this week I do find myself in the interesting position of having 4 wins over 4.1's this year, which would appear to make the 4.2 promotion a penalty kick and perhaps even a move up to 4.1 a possibility. More immediately, I have a semi final against a very strong 3.2 in the morning. Maybe I should bundle him into the boot of the car for 10 minutes beforehand to soften him up.

Tunbridge Threesome

2008-08-06T22:00:00.004+01:00

Busy day today, playing 3 singles matches on the hard courts and starting the day with sore arse muscles (the outside ones, not the sphincter variety in case you were curious).

My first match was against a young 4.1, ranked 141 in the country, who had previously made the quarter-finals in a British Tour event. I'm not really sure what went wrong for him in this match but it ended up being a comfortable victory 6-3, 6-1. Tennis is such a mental game it's easy to go into matches against higher rated opponents expecting to lose and then feeling as though your worse fears are confirmed as soon as you hit a spot of trouble. This week's resolution was not to do that and look what's happened!

After a break of about an hour I was back on court for my main draw match - this time against a 3.2. This match didn't really go my way, although it gives good opportunity to invoke some well-worn cliches. I had chances, it was closer than the score suggested, I had wine with my meal etc, etc. The black and white type will say I lost 1 & 1 - but my play was satisfactory and I'm getting close to that level. I'm certainly not lacking the meat and potatoes (groundstrokes, not baby carrot and two veg) - but my serve needs work as does my transition game. I knew that going in however, so I wasn't too disappointed.

By this time I was feeling a bit stale so I booked up a mid-afternoon massage with a Tunbridge Wells milf. I felt a lot better as a result, particularly as once again I successfully overcame my natural compulsion to break wind during the back rub and to ask for a quick peak at the "other price list". Small victories......

My evening vets match took place on a particularly unpleasant court - the same as for monday's first match. They are so slow that any match becomes a battle of attrition - and not a particularly enjoyable one at that. I avoided the potential trap and came through 2 & 4. Physically I felt good but mentally I started to forget the score which is abnormal for me. At least I managed to get off court before the incontinence started.

Tomorrow I have my quarter final match against the 4.1 rated 3rd seed, who is also the guy I beat in 3 sets in the British Tour on monday. I have some match notes from that affair and have a game plan developed.

Tunbridge Day 2

2008-08-05T22:08:00.003+01:00

The best forehands in tennis break down, even Sampras served plenty of double of faults. But the one thing you can always rely on is the British fuckin weather. Today's play was decimated by rain meaning I only played my veterans match and I am faced with the possibility of 3 matches today.

The rain has also meant all of my matches to date have been on slow hard courts. The cumulative effect meaning that by the end of the day my glutes (that's Latin for arse-cheeks) feel as though they've been pummeled by a Turkish bass drum player. Fortunately today's match against an unrated player was a comfortable 2 & 1 victory, although I made a bit of a meal of it.

I need all the spring in my legs to be able to shoot up the stairs at the B & B to avoid the landlady's tedious stories. Merely dwelling on the stairs is enough to make them creak, at which signal she shoots out of the kitchen to regale me with tales of Fat Gladys & The Broken Bed, Hank the Texan who got stuck in the bath or the huge Nigerian who flooded the bathroom and so on.

I should have been prewarned when, on the first day during breakfast, she declared out of the blue "I can't stand children, you never know what they are going to do". The sudden alarming change to her features accompanying that statement reminded me of the child catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

Needless to say, I wondered what terrors were staying there to provoke such a hard line view. Another incarnation of the young Moz perhaps, throwing toast and wiping snot on the curtains? No, more like the Swiss family Robinson with two children who looked straight out of the cast of Heidi. In fact, one of the kids looked very much like Anne Frank and we all know she was too busy writing her diary and avoiding the SS to throw toast...

Tunbridge Wells British Tour

2008-08-04T22:43:00.001+01:00

In 1998 my employer sent me on an all-expenses paid trip to Dubai, where I stayed in the 6-star Jumeira Beach hotel, ostensibly for a sponsored piss-up. Fast-forward 10 years and I'm scanning the B & B lists because the Travelodge is "a bit on the pricey side"!

I'm not sure why I ended up looking for accommodation at 9:30 p.m. on a sunday night, but it is fairly typical. It was only the last place on the list that had space - I felt like J R Hartley finally locating a copy of Fly Fishing. If I keep getting these late results I will never learn my lesson.

Today's first match was against a 5.2 on the slow hard courts. The match was very tight as he was very consistent and I wasn't really hitting through the ball well, but I squeezed out another British Tour win 7-6 (3), 6-4. My opponent looked like, and had a similar style to, Pete Sampras. You'd think the crowds would flock to see Sampras v Tursunov but I suppose our crap play had imposter written all over it.

My second match was a tough affair against a 4.1, again on the hard courts which were quite slippery by this time. My new Zen Tennis book proved it's worth with the techniques preventing me from going ape-shit at 1-6, 1-2 and a break down. I was hitting very well but my footwork was non-existent. Once I focused on that I turned the match round and won 1-6, 6-2, 6-1. A very pleasing result and if I can win tomorrow against a 4.1 I will make the main draw!

A quick shout to my friend Adam and his lovely wife Louise. Adam hit with me and taught me the basics of stringing (aargggh) while his wife cooked dinner. With friends like these I can avoid marriage for the rest of my life!

Amy Winehouse in Whites

2008-08-01T11:35:00.010+01:00

As you may have surmised this week is the epitome of a slow news week. If I were a reputable news source I would have been forced to blog about cats being stuck up trees or perhaps about Rita, the oldest post-office employee in the country who still arises at 6 every morning. Instead, you get no posts at all followed by some end-of-week watery guff. Forgive me, life is like that sometimes.

Despite previous assurances to cut out all non-essential play I keep finding myself playing doubles for my club as we always seem to be short of players. Very much like the self-proclaimed recovered addict that you find amongst the dustbins in your garage with his head thrust in a pot of glue. Truth is, it is very difficult to stay on the sidelines watching these matches and I probably wouldn't anyway - even if it does mean playing on slippery courts in the rain as I was last night.

Things get a little more interesting next week as I am doing the tennis equivalent of double penetration in Tunbridge Wells. At the same venue there is a British Tour Open Event and an ITF Grade 4 over 35's event running in parallel. My first match for the British Tour is at 11:30 a.m on monday and for the other 4:30 p.m on tuesday. What happens in between is determined by my success in the first of these. The open event is probably my last chance to get some ranking points in this category before my injury time out (currently 139th).

The new UK rankings were released earlier today and I am now ranked 14th in the UK in the over 35's age category. Relative to other categories watching my progress up the UK rankings has been like watching George Bush think. Slow, inexorable, but eventually getting there albeit a none too impressive sight on arrival. I blame this on the lopsided calendar in the UK. Around this time of year there is whole clutch of high-grade events which means my rivals are defending points while I try and earn them, whereas for the rest of the year there are only 2 events with any material impact. I need another 4 weeks out of the elbow and I should reach my end of year target.

The Wafer Thin Mint

2008-07-28T20:48:00.004+01:00

Last week included a self-enforced absence to rest and rehab my elbow after the acupuncture episode (hereafter known as "rape by needles"). It was a challenge filling the time - a good chance for those postponed DIY projects, to catch up with old friends, write my first novel and do some travelling. However, whichever way you cut it, it's not easy to stay off tennis for 3 whole days.

It seems extreme to suggest that my timing was a bit off upon my return on saturday but it wasn't quite there so I ended up playing a couple of sets and training for another 3 hours. The elbow was as bad as ever but by the end I couldn't feel it at all. Maybe the elbow is like a hangover - there are only two ways to avoid the pain - either don't start drinking or don't stop.

I had a couple of good quality hits the last couple of days including a joint lesson with a former Davis Cup and grand slam player today. It was certainly an interesting lesson, although it steered like a pissed pilot. At first it was like ordering pizza at a restaurant and being served a magnificent cake ("et voila, monsieur!!", "what the fuck is that?"). All very nice, but my crack-pipe inspired craving for anchoves and sausage, not strawberries and cream. Bizarrely in the process I appear to have cracked the slice serve and sorted out my volley (the pizza I actually ordered) thanks to his expertise. Hope springs eternal but my elbow didn't hurt while hitting those serves, which hints that perhaps it's my technique failing me - that, or the over-generous dose of anti-inflammatories worked their magic.

I have had some feedback (both benevolent and troll-like) regarding my unwise tournament schedule in August. My dilemna is that many of the best events occur in August and an uneventful September has always been devoted to rehab. I feel a bit like Mr. Creosote from Monty Python's "The Meaning Of Life" - hopefully the last tournament will be concluded before I declare "fuck off, I'm completely stuffed" and explode.

Things are further complicated by the fact I am playing very well and I feel on the verge of a breakthrough. With every month that passes the campaign finances deplete further (we no longer do free pens) and every month without tennis makes the big spend harder to justify.

Sorry Wiesenthal, Mengele Lives!

2008-07-23T20:22:00.000+01:00

It's my guess that chapter 1, section a), part i) of any medical profession manual is to put the patients mind at ease by saying "this won't hurt a bit" or "you'll just feel a little prick" (easy now). This is a particular trick of the sadistic dentist just before the bastard excavates your root canal with a pair of scissors.

So my early warning bells get the full monty from my inner camponologists when a fully paid-up member of the medical profession approaches me saying " I'm afraid this is going to be extremely painful, it's not too late to back out now". So it was when the physio started the acupuncture on the tendon in my elbow. Typically acupuncture is relatively painless but as these needles went straight in to an already inflamed tendon it hurt like absolute buggery. I would liken it to getting kicked in the nuts by a knee that had caught fire but in my experience very few women have the range of motion to follow through for 10 minutes after initial impact.

Overall my body is getting progressively more shagged from all the tennis. To use an automotive analogy the engine still has plenty of horsepower but there are rusty patches on the bodywork, the tires are threadbare and the wing mirror is home to a colony of ants on a grass verge two miles outside Spaldwick village. Still, the plan remains the same with 4 tournaments in August before a month off in September and an increasingly impending encounter with the big needle (cortisone shot).

I have been selected to represent Cambridgeshire in the over 35's County Cup down in Eastbourne in August, which is satisfying and quite a relief. There aren't any trials for the team as such but in this case it appears that the grapevine may have worked in my favour. Even plants can lie when the bribe is sufficient.

Tennis wise I am taking a couple of days off and am busy preparing what, from now on, will be known as the "big plan". This includes getting corrective surgery on my forehand volley which continues to retreat like a willy dipped in the River Volga on New Years Eve.

Toy Tennis For Twats

2008-07-21T11:22:00.025+01:00

Those familiar with my blog know that mindless ranting, indignation at injustice and a low tolerance of tournament directors' folly aren't really my bailiwick.

Having said that it is worth celebrating the birth of the Malvern tournament director - or whichever idiot created the monstrosity that was the Open Mens draw. A grade 3 tournament with a 16 draw held over 2 days, a week apart, with 3 tie-break set matches. Sounds promising initially and perhaps the possibility of a back draw for first round losers to lessen the pain of a 250 mile round trip?

The first nagging doubts plagued me the previous night when the order of play scheduled me for three matches. So it was off to Malvern I headed with a feeling probably not dissimilar to the lookout on the Titanic who suddenly turned to his midshipman colleague and said "Bob, hasn't it got a bit cold all of a sudden?".

This feeling turned in to a full-blown "fuck, it's an iceberg Tom" when I arrived to find us placed in round robin groups playing, wait for it, the first to 4 game tiebreak sets. Adults playing a format usually reserved for players under the age of 10! As the gynaecologist would say "I'll just let that sink in for a bit".

In the event my first two matches featuring Billy Bunter's all-new scoring system were easy: 4-0, 4-0 and 4-0, 2-1 (ret). Adding to the farcical nature of things, my second opponent retired having broken two sets of strings and run out of racquets. I probably didn't look in the sort of mood where I would have bounded up to the net and said "here my good fellow, use my spare, would you like a kit kat to nibble on while we warm up again so you get used to it?".

My final match was the tough one, playing someone of my rating. Unfortunately I lost the toss and he served first - within seconds (literally) we were 1 set all at 2-4, 4-2. To compound matters the format demanded a championship tie-break in lieu of one of the usual pathetic, stunted sets (and as the ship sank he cried "bollocks, I've only gone and left the oven on as well"). A genuine shame that in a real match we would have been at 6-all in the first set with the prospect of an intriguing battle ahead.

Perhaps due to my state of mind I lost the tie-break 10-4. I immediately drove home - cursing at the traffic and all the time ruing the fact that next weekend I could have been playing a tournament in Germany or Brussels but didn't enter in case I qualified from this.

Being altruistic in nature I still found the time to think of you all and stop the car to photograph a street sign which summed up my day nicely.

Yin and Yang On the Picket Line

2008-07-17T17:51:00.004+01:00

It was Sir Isaac Newton who educated the world through his law of reciprocal actions and, in doing so, inspired his relation Olivia Newton to marry a John and sing "If You Love Me, Let Me Know". The law itself is, in essence, a fairly simple construct - that for every action there is an equal, but opposite, reaction.

The concept applies to everything, and naturally my tennis is not excepted. It seems that as my singles play gradually improves there is a corresponding degradation in my doubles play. For every forehand approach winner I hit, I fluff a half volley - for every backhand pass that hits home a lob volley soars over the clubhouse and into the car park. It's getting ridiculous but as my physio's instructions are to cut out all non-essential tennis it looks like I'm going to give doubles the elbow wherever possible.

Singles it is then! My next tournament starts on sunday and is a Grade 3 open in Malvern, Worcestershire. The tournament is held over two days (20th and 26th July). Unfortunately it involves 120 miles of driving each way - turns out when entering tournaments England is a larger country than I thought.

I had a good 2 hour singles practice today against a highly ranked British vet and have a doubles league match tonight (there goes my resolution already!). It was really good to hit with someone of that standard. Thanks to the feeble folks at mapquest I only just made it - their directions are always excellent until you get within 3 miles of your destination and it's as if they just say "fuck it, he can find it from there". I'm half expecting to print off their directions saying "turn left at The White Horse pub and keep going straight for 120 miles and you'll find it".

As a result I found myself lost on an industrial estate straight out of the 1970's. Used car dealerships, plumbing supply firms, a greasy burger van and a picket line. That's right - a union picket line. I could not believe it. I wonder if the union were turned out in all their post-Thatcher might or whether it was early and only 17 people had got out of bed in time. Either way in my desperation I must have crossed their line 9 times in total - a performance probably meriting an entry in the Guinness Book Of World Records as Britain's most prolific scab. Arthur Scargill would have been apoplectic with rage had he been witness to such a blatant thumbing up of nose to the anti-establishment.

Then again he was a complete wanker and nothing would give me more pleasure than upsetting him.

The Pit Of Minutiae

2008-07-15T14:51:00.001+01:00

No tournaments this week, offering a good opportunity to get some decent training in based on recent match experience. The only drawback being that my elbow is hurting like jalapeno toilet paper and now my right shoulder has decided to join in on the fun. I trained on the grass at Roehampton yesterday and have a hit scheduled with a highly ranked UK veteran on thursday. Despite my odious personality I am finally making some good tennis contacts.

Last week's trip to the physio was positive in the sense that his solution to the problem did not involve "no tennis". It did involve massage, ultrasound, strengthening exercises (apparently hoisting pints of Old Speckled Hen and "thrashing the white fantastic" isn't exercise enough) and a repeat visit tomorrow. I will also have to buy one of those retarded elbow supports. Whenever I wear one of those things I start to feel like a caricature on a tennis-themed greeting card. What next? Leaping the net with a John McEnroe headband and oversized ears shouting "I'm sorry I missed your birthday, I was playing tennis"?

A september leave of absence from tennis is looking increasingly likely to get the elbow sorted out. The lack of tennis will drive me insane but help is at hand from an unlikely source. A Scottish friend has organised a vodka-fuelled orgy in Iceland in early September and I'm already looking forward to it! Apart from sprint repeats and footwork drills I am interested in other suggestions along the lines of the Iceland trip....

My USTA team are battling it out in the heat at Newport News this weekend in the district championships. Good luck to them, if they make it through I will probably pop over to play in the sectional championships. That should be motivation enough to fail!

As a side(effect)-note: Friends and colleagues are suffering at the hands of the Dicloflex anti-inflammatories. The principal side effect of the pills being a prodigious build up of gas. Ultimately not a problem for the civilised citizen who might, perhaps, gradually expunge while firmly planted against absorbent materials (I'm thinking sofa, car seat). I, however, subscribe to the dogma that "you can't waste a good noise". The result being a constant, living performance of the MSO (Mobile Symphony Orchestra).

Frinton Semi-Finals

2008-07-11T21:44:00.008+01:00

Frinton-on-sea is an odd sort of place. If you wanted to visit a place which has stood still for 40 years it's ideal. Apparently the Residents Association is all powerful here, going as far as forbidding the sale of ice cream on the beach. Only a couple of years ago they relented to modern progress (circa the 1500's) and voted to allow a pub in the town. An English town without a pub is as rare as tits on a bull.

Their Stalinistic policies certainly add a certain charm to the place, although there are obvious drawbacks. Attempting to use the library internet was complicated by a charming old lady with hair in a bun and school mistress glasses. She would have been delighted to issue me with a library card she said - until I revealed I was "from out of town". I swear her skin darkened a few shades and the room dropped a few degrees. All that was missing was a smack round the head and a "strangers aren't welcome in these parts".

I had other business to attend to however, playing an American in the semi-finals. Americans in Frinton are as rare as English towns without pubs, which are as rare as tits on a...you get the picture. So it was unfortunate that this particular American was ranked #2 in the USA in the over 35's and had a place on their national team for the World Championships later this year.

I got blown out in the first set, losing 6-1. I just couldn't return his serve and on my own serve pushed much too hard on my groundstrokes. Needlessly so, but getting blown away on your return games can have the knock-on effect that you feel the need to do the same. I settled down in the second set and forced a tiebreak. The second set was reasonably high quality tennis but I went down in 7-5 in the resultant tie-break. A little disappointing - once again the first set was wasted due to the shock of facing a really good serve for a change.

The opponent was a good egg as they would say down here and even invited me to play doubles with him in a futures event in the USA in early August. His family organise one and this offers the rare opportunity of a direct entry into the main draw - win one match and I would have doubles points on the ATP tour. My presence at this level of tennis would be like Claudia Schiffer entering a Hairiest Back Competition. On the other hand should I be passing up opportunities to play this sort of thing?

The late July, early August period offers me about 6 different and interesting tennis options (in 5 different countries). My fear is that I will procrastinate for so long that I will miss all the entry deadlines and be found ruefully shaking my head and throwing stones into the local river wondering what might have been.

Dancing On Ice

2008-07-10T20:25:00.002+01:00

According to the club website "This corner of maritime Essex is classified as 'semi-arid' by meteorologists. It has an annual rainfall lower than Beirut." In that case Frinton must have had all Beirut's rain this week. The court used for my quarter final was extremely dangerous and completely shit. I ended up on my arse about 8 times. 23 years ago my mother would have defaulted me mid-match because "those grass stains are impossible to get out of white shorts".

Fortunately I finished the match, winning 4-6, 7-5 (10-7) against a 4.1. Not a particularly popular result it must be said, as he is the coach at the club. The conditions made it a bit of a lottery, although I would have been disappointed had I lost. To a certain extent, as it's the same for both players, it's a case of put up and shut up. I did the former, but whined like a bitch throughout - it was that bad. My record this ratings period now means that the LTA will probably have little choice but to put me up to a 4.2, which was my end of year target.

There followed a mad scramble for accomodation where a local family put me up for bed and breakfast for the princely sum of £15. There isn't much that can be bought for that these days - especially when the room was very comfortable and the family very friendly. I probably didn't endear myself when I took aim (in my bare feet) and kicked their daughter's toy across the room. Unfortunately it turned out to be a smooth painted rock - fortunately the crushing of my toes provided sufficient cushioning to prevent it from actually reaching the TV screen. You live and learn...

ITF Grade 3: Frinton-On-Sea (Day 1)

2008-07-09T11:57:00.009+01:00

Frinton, Clacton-On-Sea, Walton-On-The-Naze - all familiar names from my childhood top 10 of crappy British holidays. My main memories chiefly being 6 days spent sheltering from the rain in amusement arcades, 1 day on the beach getting wind burn and once being stung by a wasp while eating some winkles.

It seems things haven't changed much as the weather forecast for this week's grass court tournament is heavy rain. Amazingly we started on schedule although the court was slippery and dead - meaning anything landing short required a spade to dig it out. My opponent was rated 6.1 and I won 6-1, 6-1 managing to get through the match despite two interruptions for rain and landing on my arse retrieving a drop shot.

It was amusing watching the groundsman who was visibly suffering as his precious courts got ripped up - anything other than a tournament and there would have been no play. His head was on automatic swivel, for whenever a player commented on a bad bounce it was met immediately with a glare, stiffening spine and balled fists. Personally I thought they looked much better than they played, with quite a few bad bounces and the ball not coming through at all. Certainly you can't afford to be striking the ball at any point other than at the bounce.

The draw itself (which is not available on the "interweb thingy") is interesting. My second match is likely to be against the number 2 seed who is rated 4.1. There are also a couple of Americans in the draw, one of whom I met in Florida a couple of times last year. Daytona Beach to Frinton is not a journey many would voluntarily make but he is getting the classic British experience; a grass court tournament afflicted by rain, poor bounces and lame seaside attractions. Rumour has it my next match may be tomorrow.

I'm off to see the sports physio this evening concerning my elbows and knees. I certainly hope he is more competent that his illiterate secretary who just phoned to confirm the appointment for Mr. Meringue. Does she think she has some sort of dessert impersonator coming in for remedial treatment on his bent candle?

Kindergarden Flop

2008-07-06T19:25:00.010+01:00

I'm starting to loathe the journey to Sutton - 100 miles each way and a total of 4 hours of tolerating imbecilec driving in the wrong lane with foglights on. Unfortunately it's frequently the last refuge for some decent competition.

The matchplay events group 4 players together of a similar rating with the winners and losers of the first round playing each other in the second. I got a bum draw in the sense that I played a 5.2 first, meaning I had nothing to gain but much to lose. My opponent is ranked 42 in the national under 16's and his game was entirely built around a big forehand. I served very well being unbroken and only facing two break points all match. That was enough, winning 6-4, 6-2. Ironically the new pills allowed me to practice my serve the day before without pain for the first time in months and that made a big difference. Is this what it feels like to be a 16 year old again, minus the premature ejaculation and acne?

The second match was against an 18 year old 5.1 and was a little strange in that he wasn't particularly consistent and had no big shots. Once again I got sucked into the abyss as I started the match feeling sick and then let my concentration go in the second set. I won 6-4, 7-6 (3) but my game plan was obstructed by the fluffy, crappy balls we had to use. Once again, no new balls for the second match, this time meaning all my approach shots sat up to be passed like a joint in a college dorm. Anyway, job done - even though it meant getting home at half past midnight.

Back on duty this morning for a club singles league match played in the pissing rain. It's amazing how wind, rain and some alluring chocolate mini rolls can focus the mind to the tune of 6-1, 6-0 and 6-0, 6-0. Now I'm settling down to watch the men's final at Wimbledon - exciting stuff, about to be pissed on by the British weather (pun intended).

Frinton starts tomorrow (my first match scheduled for tuesday) and the draw for this ITF grade 3 event remains a complete and utter mystery.

The NHS (National Health Swindle)

2008-07-04T11:55:00.001+01:00

"Ahh, but it's not bad considering it's free young man!" said the bore over his pint of pedigree with a knowing wink and nod. It was not long ago that I was dragged into a discussion over the merits of the US versus UK health systems. The above quote, had it been truthful, would have been difficult to counter.

Of course, being Britain the free health service is not actually free. It's almost impossible to find a dentist who takes NHS patients these days - which explains the brown baked beans in most Britishers gums (most people in the UK do not realise they are stereotyped in the US as having bad teeth). My appointment with the doctor today concerning my elbow resulted in a £7 prescription for Dicloflex and the sheepish handover of a phone number for physio direct. The accompanying explanation that "they diagnose by phone, are very slow and the exercises will be too tame - you'll have to pay and go private anyway" was not very encouraging.

The doctor himself was on fine, and completely atypical, form today. He went out of his way to diagnose the problem, explain the causes, was happy to prescribe the anti-inflammatories and was very personable. What explanation for this change so late in life? A promotion, a lottery win or perhaps even a vigorous second wind before retirement? I expect none of the above as there was a rather attractive student doctor in attendance. She almost prompted me to redirect my symptoms to the groinal area - which I certainly would have done if he'd been absent. As it was, the prospect of that old fart poking round while she watched didn't appeal.

In the afternoon I had the opportunity to hit with a very good local player. My plan was to take 2 (out of the 3 maximum) pills in advance and see whether they worked. They certainly had some material effect - a dose of diarrhea, the effect being both instantaneous and impressive. So sudden it was that they couldn't have been absorbed so I bravely soldiered on and took another pill before the evening's mixed doubles match. Once again the effect was immediate but this time I vowed to heroically hold it in whatever the cost so the pill could work it's magic.

Still the jury is out as to their effectiveness as I spent all match focused on keeping my shorts clean and butt cheeks clenched. Trying times indeed - my elbow felt okay but that may well be attributable to my mind being firmly on other things. I'll try again today, but in the short term I'll be "double briefing" and wearing black shorts.....

Matchplay down in Sutton tomorrow.

Reflections on a Monday Morning

2008-07-01T23:26:00.018+01:00

Once again the old bastard descended on a British Tour event and once again found it disconcerting being old enough to fantasise about giving the other competitors' mothers the ol' sausage in a blanket. I will console myself with the fact this doesn't occur to me when I play veterans events. Yet.

My first opponent (good news heh, there were two!) was rated a 5.1 like myself. I came through 6-3, 6-3 doing nothing particularly spectacular but enough. My opponent was a nice chap although he did look a little crestfallen upon discovering I was a veteran. In future I'll only mention it when I beat a tosser.

My second match was against a 4.1 who outplayed me and won 6-3 6-3. The score was a little disappointing because I certainly had the tools to do better. In the second set his serve got going and throughout the match he hit some great passing shots. I'm a few improvements in my transition game away from beating these guys - in fact my opponent was both humble and very complimentary afterwards. As a general rule I don't name my opponents on my blog - the reason often being obvious. This guy's name, however, demands a mention - Charles Clayforth-Carr. I mention it not to take the piss - rather because it's a splendid name which ultimately deserves the courtesy title Colonel and a role holding the candlestick in the library in a game of Cluedo.

A monday like this makes it all worthwhile. Playing two competitive matches against two opponents who behaved like gentlemen. It certainly beats trudging into the office and trying to string out my monday morning shit for as long as humanly possible and eating my packed lunch by 10:15 because I'm so helplessly bored.

I rarely comment on professional tennis partly because I feel unqualified to do so but mainly because I don't give a crap. Andy Murray's comeback against Gasquet, however, was notable for two reasons. Firstly, Murray's amazing backhand pass on the run after which he stood on the side rail and bellowed "Aaarggghhh, I'm a massive Scottish dickhead, fuck off everyone". The crowd loved it and I conclude I must be the only person with lip reading skills adequate enough to successfully decipher what he said. Secondly was the linesperson grassing on Murray for swearing. I can't stand meddling whistleblowers - I wonder if her other job is sending penalty notifications for drivers caught speeding. This was the umpire's golden opportunity to become a modern day cult hero with the words "bitch, sit down and call the lines". Unfortunately the soft git blew it by dishing out a warning - pathetic.

This week involves club matches tonight (doubles - I halved, the team lost), thursday and sunday and a matchplay event on saturday. I also have a doctor's appointment on thursday to get a referral for my elbow.

Doppelganger Kebab

2008-06-29T22:15:00.017+01:00

At this time of year even the local drunks turn their attention to Wimbledon. As I was strolling back from a friends last night, I was confronted by a staggering drunk pointing at me, spitting kebab, shouting "he's a professional tennis player". He may as well have shouted "look, wife batterer" judging by his mate's derisory efforts to call me a "wanker" through a mouthful of onions and chili sauce.

Obviously the old man on tour experiment is not newsworthy enough to make it through to the local comatose community so I can only assume he'd watched Dmitry Turnsunov play that day and got confused. A number of people have commented on the likeness and I must admit to some relief that he didn't make it any further as I'm already receiving regular advice to wear a matching headband from smart-arse haberdashers.

Played a doubles match on grass today at a private golf and tennis club today - all white clothing required. It's a little ironic installing a draconian clothing policy while providing courts like no mans land at the Somme. That's British country clubs for you and the match (3 actually) reminded me why poorly maintained grass courts are a dumb idea in a country with the highest rainfall in Europe. The matches themselves were comfortable victories but I did find it necessary to compliment my opponent on his magnificent eyebrows. Rather than install a retractable roof on Centre Court at Wimbledon they should just give this guy front row seats for every session.

Below are some links to footage from my recent over 35's final in the US. In my defence in video things look a lot slower than they do in real life, which gives you an idea why porn stars get paid so much money. I'm the skinny wanker and, yes, I've been told numerous times that my shorts are too short.

http://s86.photobucket.com/albums/k90/topaz720/Moz/?action=view&current=MozNB17.flv
http://s86.photobucket.com/albums/k90/topaz720/Moz/?action=view&current=MozNB28.flv
http://s86.photobucket.com/albums/k90/topaz720/Moz/?action=view&current=MozNB13.flv
http://s86.photobucket.com/albums/k90/topaz720/Moz/?action=view&current=MozNB16.flv
http://s86.photobucket.com/albums/k90/topaz720/Moz/?action=view&current=MozNB27.flv
http://s86.photobucket.com/albums/k90/topaz720/Moz/?action=view&current=MozNB15.flv
http://s86.photobucket.com/albums/k90/topaz720/Moz/?action=view&current=MozNB21.flv

The Bucket List

2008-06-27T14:36:00.008+01:00

Virgin employed one of their smaller planes for the trip back to the UK meaning it was sardine time and a crappy United Airlines-like video selection. Hence finding myself watching "The Bucket List" starring Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman - about two old gents given only months to live who make a list of things to do before they die. I think this is a list I'll be putting together over the next few months, although number one on my list hasn't changed for 20 years and is unlikely to in the near future. I suspect boning Gabriela Sabatini is top of the list of most players of my era.

The remainder of the week in the US was pretty uneventful although it did include another woeful display by yours truly at doubles. Doubles is feeling like a completely different sport at the moment - partly attributable to lack of match practice and partly due to brain in absentia. Either way I have a league match in the UK on sunday and must make the most of it, it only being my second match on grass in 4 years and with tournaments approaching.

While most of you good folk are stuck behind the desk at the moment I am at home watching Wimbledon. Strike one to me in theory, but I am the one having to listen to Tim Henman commentate. Truly abysmal - hearing him quip is like watching an unpopular kid at school trying to make jokes with the in-crowd. At any moment I expect Boris Becker to say "nobody likes you Tim, fuck off and leave your lunch money behind". I swear the dude must still be a virgin - his postman and his wife have a lot of explaining to do.

The next tournament starts (and, for me, probably ends) on monday and is another British Tour event. Being at Nottingham this is typically one of the strongest events of the year which means I'll stick out like a skidmark on a wedding dress.

Applying For Chapter 15

2008-06-23T21:31:00.006+01:00

Plenty of corners can be cut when trying to conserve cash - non-brand baked beans, no double-folding of toilet paper and, in more desperate times, using public transport.

None of which helps when you arrive in the US and have to replace the washer, the dryer, the air conditioning and heating units in one of your houses. It makes all the tiny savings made in the name of playing tennis feel like re-arranging the deck chairs on the titanic. In the same way you don't flinch paying $10 for a pint of guiness on an expensive holiday, there is only one response to such a financial setback, you say fuck it and keep spending.

So, when I head back to the UK later this week my bags will be heavier to the tune of 2 tennis racquets, 4 pairs of tennis shoes, 2 reels of string, 3 shirts, 5 grips, 6 pairs of socks, a watch and I will be one step closer to taking the tragic step of seeking employment.

All this on top of the flights, car rental etc means that my credit card has been bitch-slapped about the head resulting in a severe black eye of $9000. Coming up with ideas to knock a dent in this deficit is pointless in the circumstances, therefore I will adopt the "see no evil" approach and scan the classifieds for Organs Wanted. I have a spare ball I haven't had use for in quite a while.

Tennis wise I now have my bases covered for 4.5 sectionals in the mid-atlantic section so overall it's a case of mission accomplished on this trip (although with a far bigger bill than expected). The tournament schedule for the next few weeks is subject to change but I do think it's time for another European adventure in July. I've had a couple of days off tennis and I'm starting to miss it already.

Second is For Losers

2008-06-20T23:59:00.001+01:00

A pleasing effort in the semi-final, which I won 5-7, 6-1, 6-0. After the first set a slight change in tactics combined with my opponent getting tired was enough to grab and hold the momentum. I moved pretty well on the clay - maybe I'm finally getting used to the shit! My opponent seemed like a good guy although I can only assume he suffered from overactive sweat glands as he changed his shirt at least 8 times during the match. Where's Norris McWhirter when you need him?

Friday morning involved further testing of various new strings and I do believe I may have found the holy grail. I've been after the ideal set-up (or at least one which doesn't leave me thinking that the grass is always greener) for quite a while now. This is the one, assuming the tension maintenance is sufficient - if not it's going to be like meeting the perfect girl and then meeting her plastic fanny. I would like to thank my friend Chris for all his help and advice regarding the strings. He's made the whole ordeal tolerable and affordable.

I'd heard a lot on the grapevine about my opponent in the final and he is unbeaten in 35's this year, having a ranking of 2 in the mid-atlantic section. On our own relatively modest scale this presented an interesting match-up - he being a classic serve and volleyer and me more baseline / all-court. The match itself was very tough and enjoyable despite the fact that I managed to lose the bloody thing. Eventually, after about 3 hours, I got turned over 6-2, 2-6, 6-7. A little disappointing really as I had the tools to win, but all credit to him. At least I got a trophy this time, but coming second sucks - in every aspect of life.

So my US trip has so far yielded 2 runner-up spots which is a little disappointing. On a positive side at the end of the trip my racquet set-up is going to be finalised and I have yet more feedback on things I need to improve. I have to keep thinking long-term otherwise frequent bouts of insanity would rule the day.

Somewhere Back In Time

2008-06-18T23:59:00.004+01:00

Panic stations earlier today as I realised that the "Old Men On Tour" were performing at Merriweather Post Pavilion this evening. It's been 19 years since I last saw Iron Maiden and they aren't the sort of band you should ever pass up the opportunity of watching - particularly as, age wise, they are approaching the "could drop dead and at any moment" stage.

As always they didn't disappoint, playing a number of old classics and having lost none of their energy on stage. I did find myself wondering if Steve Harris has to take 1600 mg of Ibuprofen before going on to ease his "bassist's elbow" like yours truly does before tennis. Probably not. Like any good concert you come away with a list of songs you'd wish they'd managed to squeeze in but didn't, but overall a great evening.

I would struggle to name another entity more unfashionable than the middle aged Iron Maiden fan. Making the most of your final strands of hair by growing them as long as possible is understandable as, I suppose, is the 25 year old tour t-shirt. The jean shorts were just about excusable, but to crown the whole ensemble with a pair of white trainers and white socks is downright offensive.

Personally, I was faced with the dilemna of what to do while listening to the band. I'm a tad on the ripe side to be banging my head and making devil horns signs. I'm not proud to say that I ended up stuck in a compromise best described as "aggressive foot tapping while having a stroke". I'm glad the cameras were facing the stage.

Tennis-wise, my first round match on the clay was an easy 2 & 0 victory and my second round opponent gave me a walkover. The courts were bloody terrible (even for green clay), but my match against the number 2 seed tomorrow while be held on the better courts - apparently.

Moz Falling Short, Tournament Falling Shorter

2008-06-15T23:00:00.003+01:00

I woke up feeling a bit on the stiff side - and not stiff in the "hungover, feeling randy" sense. It was a slightly cooler day, which was fortunate because I potentially had two matches to play.

After yesterday's victory against a 5.0, I played another in the semi-final. The wind was a little gusty which proved to be in my favour as I used a lot more topspin. I adopted a fairly simple strategy - get the ball wide consistently with plenty of spin rather than pace - and it was a routine 6-1, 6-0 victory.

Too many concentration lapses in the first set of final meant I lost 6-1. I was really struggling to find any focus or footwork, yet again. My opponent started the set impressively belting everything, then changed strategy and became safe and consistent. It was very hard to get a rhythm against him, and I struggled to return his first serve effectively. The second set was more competitive at 4-4 but he shaded the set to win 6-4. I need to start working proactively on my concentration; thinking about what you'll have for dinner when returning on a break point just doesn't cut it. Somehow I doubt Nadal debates the relative merits of a big mac meal versus a whopper while at Roland Garros. A disappointing end to a relatively successful tournament.

It would be remiss of me to sign off without a word about the tournament organisation of this past weekend. I cannot think of another tournament that has so magnificently failed to aspire to even the most basic of standards. Forget the fact that for the $54 there was no food / drink, t-shirts, towels provided and it was all single elimination. Being British, my conditioning means I'm not surprised.

However, for all the semi-finalists to be sitting around at 8:30 waiting to go on while there are no tournament organisers at all is unacceptable. Then 15 minutes later a chap from the sports centre reception comes out with some balls and tells us the USTA rep is running late and we may as well get started. Having come off the court after the final I was asked for my name and address so they could send the trophies on because "they probably forgot to order them". The word "they" being used because at no point throughout the tournament did either the referee or director bother to make an appearance. What a disgraceful shambles, and that verdict even ignores all the draw shenanigans last week.

Oh, yes. Prize money? Forget it. I feel like one of those bankers that dresses in diapers at a sado-masochist dungeon. "Here's $300 - I want you to treat me like a piece of shit".

Sweatbox

2008-06-14T10:48:00.000+01:00

The draw for this weekend's tournament had been published on 3 different occasions - each time the seeds being different and players in different locations in the draw. I'm not sure what was going on in the background and unfortunately I had left my USTA bribe kit back in England.

I had a hit on friday as preparation and the warmer temperatures were immediately apparent. The heat and humidity over here sucks it out of you like a desperate girlfriend.

The match today was a rather bizarre affair and I ended up making a banquet out of a small packed lunch. I took the first set 6-2 fairly comfortably having dictated most of the points. He came out swinging in the second set and I came out like a fully-wrapped extra on the set of Mummy. My footwork had gone to hell, my concentration to shit and my determination had a note from the doctor. Soon enough I had lost the set 6-0 and was 5-2 down in the 3rd set. Most tennis matches have a moment when you either fold or decide that you refuse to lose. I chose the latter and ended up winning 7-6 (7-2) after nearly 3 hours on court.

This put me in a time bind for the USTA league match for which I arrived just in the nick of time. Another 90 minutes of play and we had lost in the third set tie-breaker (6-3 when time ran out). All this sweating and exertion was swiftly followed by horrendous cramp starting in my legs, up through my torso and ending in my fingers. I ended up eating my hooters wings with my hands spasming like the emperor from Return of the Jedi.

I won't be winning any Booker prizes for this post but today's efforts and the recent lack of sleep have kicked the crap out of me and I have a semi-final against the number 1 seed tomorrow morning at 08:30.

http://tennislink.usta.com/tournaments/Draws/EventDraw.aspx?T=64113&E=1

It could be a long day.

The King and I

2008-06-11T10:48:00.013+01:00

Tough conditions on court yesterday. The sun was strong, the wind very gusty and the balls soon contracted a case of "Yul Brynner's Head". Obviously this affected us equally so rather than change the scoreline it had the net effect of bringing down the general level of play. It proved difficult to hold serve and the whole match saw a multitude of breaks with my opponent winning 7-5, 6-3. A loss is never satisfactory but he was rated 4.1 and I certainly had my chances to win it. Despite his age (17) I felt I was the fitter and in a third set I would have won through perseverance and perspiration. Also, if I'd been born with three legs I'd be in the circus. A moot point is a moot point.

From this match it's obvious that although I force plenty of high bouncing mid court opportunities my forehand isn't consistently effective enough to take advantage. That was the difference in this match and my philosophy needs to change from one of benevolent dictatorship to a bit of old fashioned rape and pillage in these instances. If I can address this and then develop an effective forehand swinging volley it'd be like the BJ after the first date.

It seems that in the UK the higher grade the tournament the lower the average age. I swear I didn't see anyone above the age of 20 in this one. In fact, when I introduced myself to the referee his first words were "oh, you're the old one".

I have felt like crap all week, with a mixture of hay fever, head cold and sore throat. It has, at least, taken my mind off my sore knees, painful big toes and minging golfer's elbow. I fly to the US tomorrow giving me an opportunity to spread the infection internationally, pick up a couple of new racquets / string and play some tennis. I'll have a training session on friday and then it's straight into a tournament on saturday. Good times....just don't check the bank balance.

Land Of Confusion

2008-06-09T17:06:00.009+01:00

It seems likely that I was dead last in the queue when the gift of "natural sense of direction" was distributed. That, combined with the vagaries of the Sheffield ring road system, meant it took an age to find the club and when I arrived I was livid and sweating like a rapist. Little did I know that this would be the highlight of the day's orienteering as it later took me an hour to find my hotel which was 2.5 miles away. I apportion the blame for this between the local government who prefer to install speed cameras rather than street name plaques and the utter cretin on the hotel reception who couldn't get her North and South straight.

The club is a weird little complex where they seem to have fit a clubhouse, 4 indoor courts and 8 outdoor courts on a patch of land the size of a Eunuch's ballbag. I drew a fellow 5.1 who I have seen at numerous events but never actually played. The pressure was cranked up a little when the ref informed me that the winner goes straight into qualifying as the other two in our section had scratched. A bit of a relief as it was a hot day and I didn't want to play a second match this afternoon.

The match itself was hardly quality tennis but the slice serve I had worked on this week came in particularly useful and I won 6-2, 7-5. I got my tactics spot on even if the execution wasn't spectacular. His vertical movement seemed a little suspect so I mixed up the depth well and used plenty of angles. Straight sets was just the medicine as I've got very bad hay fever at the moment and a very sore throat.

Tomorrow I play a 4.1 in my first match and if I get through that a 3.2 later in the day. The likelihood is I will be navigating the ring road on my way down south at some point later in the day but I will go in positive and expecting to win (as well as hoping they twist their ankle or something).

Stella Artois Championships

2008-06-07T21:14:00.011+01:00

Today was a day off playing and I headed down to Queen's Club for the Stella Artois Championships. It seems strange for a tennis tournament to be named after the patron saint of wife-beaters but appropriate in this instance as Stella and I have been friends and sparring partners for many years.

It was the first day of qualifiers today meaning entry was free and we could easily dart between courts. The groundsman has done a fantastic job there. I haven't seen such finely manicured lawns since spending a drunken afternoon at Teaser's in Key West last year.

There were few big names playing today, the only really recognisable player being Jamie Murray. Unfortunately he lost his singles and is probably best off investing his time trying to get into Jankovic's knickers at Wimbledon rather than trying to make it on the singles tour. Hopefully he earnt enough prize money to get a haircut - he looked like an advert for rent-a-wig. The tennis was enjoyable and it was noticeable how important a dominant serve is at that level, even on the relatively slow grass.

In addition to the matches there were a number of stars practising - Roddick, Hewitt, Gasquet, Ancic, Safin to name a few. It turns out my mate could name just about every player there - I'm hoping he could repeat the feat at a women's event and that he doesn't own a topless screensaver of Gustavo Kuerten. The day was enjoyable but for one embarassing moment when I had 3 of the top 50 players in the world running after me trying to get their caps autographed by the old man on tour. The last sentence was utter bullshit.

Feeling suitably inspired I will spend tomorrow on court doing some fine-tuning. Following that, on monday, it's my turn to tilt at windmills at my first British Tour event. No draw is available which is fortunate as no doubt mine will be a real pant-stainer.

The Air Is Getting Thinner

2008-06-04T12:32:00.016+01:00

The new ITF senior rankings were unveiled on monday. Despite a couple of moderate results recently I have bitchslapped my original end of season goal, achieving a world ranking of 34. In hindsight the original target was a little soft, perhaps the equivalent of asking the half ton man to lose "a couple of pounds around the edges". I love playing the events and travelling (and will continue to do so) but in reality the senior rankings are more points game than true indicator of age group standing. I think the UK open rankings will prove a truer measure of improvement which is, after all, the whole point of the exercise.

Entirely appropriate then that my next event is a British Tour event in Hallamshire, Sheffield on monday. As a general rule I don't venture north as I hear it's pretty cold up there, they have strange accents and I don't like coal mines. As always though, I'm willing to make extraordinary sacrifices for my tennis. This is a grade 2 open event and the British tour itself is a bridge between domestic competition and ATP futures events:

http://www.lta.org.uk/PlayAndCompete/FeaturedCompetition/Adult/AdultIndividual/BritishTour.htm?BSMGuid=00ada3d8-6dd1-4944-a595-30f58c4b8094

In such a hallowed arena I naturally find myself scrubbing the floors down in pre-qualifying, requiring me to win matches to get into qualifying. It seems just getting to the main draw is the equivalent of the twelve labours of Herakles. Unfortunately I am not Herakles, more like Cambo-dikles, the god of skinny drunks. Let's hope for one win at least.

On thursday of next week I'm off to the Washington DC area for 11 days where I'll occupy myself with 3 league matches, 2 tournaments and catching up with old friends - unless they see me coming first.

Treat Those Two Imposters Just The Same

2008-06-02T11:06:00.014+01:00

In my experience there is an inverse relationship between a persons capacity to do things that should cause guilt and their propensity to actually feel it; meaning Mother Theresa probably tossed and turned all night whereas Hitler slept like a baby. So, when the tournament organisers were extremely hospitable and gracious to me yesterday (and provided new balls for both matches) I was entirely guilt-free but did think "I hope they didn't read my friggin blog!".

Anyway, on to the tennis. My semi-final was against a 4.2 which meant there were both ranking and rating points at stake. I made the classic Hollywood mistake - when you stab the vampire make sure the bugger is dead before you go and wash your hands. I won the first set 6-1 and had numerous chances to break him in the second set whilst holding my serve comfortably. I kept letting him off the hook, aided and abetted by his strong serving. Then, at 4-5 and serving, I was broken for the first time in 45 games at the tournament. Like a fart at a funeral the timing couldn't be worse.

On to the championship tie-break (in lieu of a 3rd set) and I am 2-5 down after losing 4 points in a row. At this point you have a choice, you can either fold like the Maginot Line or rise like a viagran phoenix. I opted for the latter, hit big and won the next 8 points to take the match. No doubt there were some pissed off punters on Betfair!

Next up the final, against a 3.2 ranked 80 in the country in the open category. We traded blows for most of the first set with me trying to establish the backhand cross court rally and him absolutely roasting the ball on his forehand. I lost the first 6-4 and despite battling hard and blowing numerous game points I got handed a bagel in the second set. Aerobically I was going strong but the old chicken legs capitulated in the second and the lack of small footwork adjustments and knee bend finished me off. A performance more encouraging than anything as I have the strokes to live with the big boys and the fitness gives me something concrete to work on.

Overall a successful and enjoyable tournament and I took away £35 (minus £140 in expenses!)and 190 points for my troubles (no trophy, interestingly enough). Life is good but I'm bloody sore....

Old Balls For An Old Man

2008-05-31T17:53:00.008+01:00

Finally some more encouraging news on the tournament front. I won both matches today 6-1, 6-1 and 6-1, 6-2 respectively without losing my serve, to set up a semi-final clash with the number 2 seed tomorrow morning.

The gods were smiling on me today as I was switched to the slow hard courts for my first match, avoiding the astroturf. Even better, my opponent was a serve and volleyer and never stood a chance on those courts as the ball sat up to be spanked like a french whore. Despite a very nice first volley his groundstrokes weren't really up to long rallies and the win was fairly comfortable.

I reduced my grip size this week and find that Im hitting the ball a lot better off the ground as a result. Props to my doubles partner at Bournemouth for the suggestion.

My second match was on the dreaded astroturf. Apparently the club had just received a £250k grant from the LTA to redo the courts. You have to ask what the fuck the LTA (the guardians of the future of British tennis) are doing subsidizing a court surface which isn't used for any professional tournaments in the world. That in itself is madness and even more so when you consider the surface is SHITE!

My opponent just mullered everything and blew through the first game with ease. In situations like that you just have to wait for them to start missing and fizzle out which happened soon enough. Playing him on a court like that was like being in the video game Tron but on ice. We had to wait for the second set before we played our first rally. A pleasing enough effort though and my elbow stood up pretty well overall.

I feel as though I haven't bitched enough in this entry so a quick note about the tournament organisers. They sent us out for our second singles with used balls. Unacceptable, and after recovering from the shock of their scrooge-like policy I returned and asked for new ones. The scene was reminiscent of Oliver - "Please sir, can I have some more". Having proffered some snide comments the organiser then followed me on court claiming that the tournament was barely breaking even as it was, I should ask for new ones half way through the match if the used ones got too bad, he couldn't guarantee them for the semi and that he would have to increase the entry fee next year. Ridiculous, this is a grade 3 open tournament - one level below the British Tour.

The icing on the cake was his argument that all the juniors were using used balls and hadn't complained. What the fuck did he expect - an 11 year old to give a grown man shit about his tightfistedness? I looked in the draw for a likely sort with enough cojones but it appears that Che Guevara Jr had forgotten to enter this year.

Crusty Pillows at the Crossroads

2008-05-30T11:44:00.024+01:00

It's become apparent that lately I have become far too lazy, using the excuses of travel, injury and tournaments to reduce my training workload. This whole exercise is rendered pointless without dedication, especially considering the trend on my bank statement is lately mirroring Gordon Brown's popularity.

So it's time to reapply myself and develop a more consistent and professional training routine. From now on I will have two sessions a day plus any additional match practice. I will have a morning session split into footwork training, service practice and technique development, e.g. backhand slice. The second session will focus on stroke practice, match situation drills and stroke grooving. Selfless acts for the benefit of mankind are going to have to wait for another place and time.

The "new beginning" was developed in bed this morning and will, typically, commence on monday. I'm hoping that any similarity with a new years resolution stops right there and that I'm not eating chocolate strawberries, phoning long lost friends and drinking Old Speckled Hen by wednesday of next week.

Before then I have the serious business of a tournament starting tomorrow in Bristol. It's a 16 player grade 3 open and the draw is here:

http://www.freewebs.com/bltscgrandprix/opensingles.htm

Apparently my first round match will be tougher than ratings suggest as my opponent has been beating up on a few 5.1 & 5.2's in NCL matches. Other than that potential winnet in my cereal it looks like I've been fortunate with the draw as the #2 seed looks beatable. The tournament surface is either hard or artificial grass. I'm hoping for the former because, although there are few certainties in life, one thing is guaranteed: artificial grass courts always play like a sweaty, hairy back.

Certainly the omens are promising if you believe that seeing ducks having sex in a puddle in the middle of road is a good portent. Intercourse transcends logic and common sense in all life forms it seems, as even after two blasts of the horn I had to wait for the drake's money shot before I could resume my journey.

My good friend Nathan is kindly putting me up in his hovel for the duration of the tournament. If his girlfriend has failed to transform his habits this will prove to be the cheap but unhygienic option. Many years ago and hungover at his house I drank a glass of water prompting much mirth. "What's wrong?" I asked. "Ha ha, that's been sitting there for 3 and a half months". Lesson learnt, I didn't dare enquire as to the explanation behind the crispy yellow pillow I'd just spent the night on.

Doubles At Bournemouth

2008-05-28T14:20:00.008+01:00

The first round walkover left us with a match against the number one seeds who, between them, hold the number 2 and 5 world rankings in the 35 age category. Not the best draw perhaps and the omens seemed to worsen further when some bastard nicked my partner's new tracksuit bottoms. (By the way, the things are too bloody short for me - you can have them back).

I initially met my partner in the final of a tournament back in December and we subsequently agreed to give it a crack at this tournament. I already knew he was a good tennis player but it also turns out that his mobile pharmacy included plutonium-grade horse steroids. Unfortunately it turns out horses don't have elbows so, while I could no longer see to piss straight, my elbow still hurt like a bugger when we started playing.

The match itself was, on paper, a 1 & 1 drubbing but I honestly feel as though we competed well. We missed a lot of opportunities to take more games and in restrospect the score didn't particularly do us justice. But that's what they all say I suppose... and in reality I'm only talking about scraps from their table anyway. I think my partner was impressed by my performance, as we were walking off he turned to me and said "You were shit, by the way". Comic timing at it's best.

A quick word about the club the tournament was held at. Really nice set-up with about 10 clay courts, 5 artificial grass, 4 indoor and 2 best described as "meshy shit". There was a clubhouse, restaurant, pool and gym.

Despite modern surroundings British tennis clubs still have their core of upstanding members determined to uphold the traditions of tennis (also known as fussy old beaks). The crowning proof being one of the members complaining about the grunting on one of the courts. Rather than a swat of the hand and a "fuck of you old biddy" to send her on my way one of the referees actually gave them an unofficial warning for the noise. If that wasn't bad enough the two foreign players were then treated to a "When in Rome chaps" speech. In the end, it was a relief that he didn't start goose-stepping and mentioning the war.

Singles At Bournemouth

2008-05-26T23:00:00.011+01:00

Note: I'm updating this in retrospect as my B & B accomodation didn't have internet access - I suppose, in the same way that Uganda doesn't have a nuclear submarine.

Despite the negative weather forecast I arrived yesterday in blazing sunshine to find our doubles opponents for that evening had scratched. No doubt intimidated by our reputations and entourage. Slightly annoying but I put the time to use by pottering around and taking a quick trip to the coast. My grandparents used to live in the area when I was a young lad so it brought back memories of ice cream, amusement arcades and 3 hour queues to get into Sandbanks car park. I distinctly remember one of the arcades on the seafront as the cleaner at the time never used to wear a bra. I've never dropped so many ten pence pieces in my life - unfortunately she no longer works there so I had to carry round a pocketful of change for the rest of the trip.

My singles was delayed by 6 hours today because of the horrendous rain that had fallen all night and most of the morning. Despite patchy play I was in a good position at 4-4, 40-0 and serving, having already broken him twice in the first set. From then on things went rapidly downhill and I ended up getting turned over 4 & 1. It was a very disappointing performance and I just don't move well on clay. As a result of that my consistency goes out of the window. It's extremely frustrating and I am now wondering if I am better off making my primary focus hard court and grass tournaments.

All round a pretty crappy day worsened by my car starting to make an absolutely ridiculous tapping noise. As I was following Patrick's new Jag to the restaurant in the evening I felt like a fat, greasy-bollocked private eye trying to make his monthly alimony payments.

I'm staying at a friend's relations bed & breakfast place down here. Wonderful people and I must admit I do like the set-up in these places. They were extremely welcoming, particularly compared to the receptionist at Patrick's hotel. Bizarrely his hotel had a one dog rule - but it was one dog in the whole hotel rather than one per room. I can't work that one out, especially as that meant no animals at all while that old hag was working on reception.

Vanity On A Budget

2008-05-24T19:15:00.001+01:00

With a precarious financial position like mine - I have earnt £250 playing tennis in 2008 - one is forced into certain lifestyle concessions. A major one being your mode of transport. Given that a donkey is impractical and the cost of straw is bloody astronomical, I drive a '97 rep-mobile. I'm not a particularly vain person but I always wear a fake beard and moustache to prevent old school colleagues jumping to the wrong conclusion about the success of my career.

A do-it-yourself disguise, however, wasn't going to cut it at the Roehampton tennis club and the security guard was rolling his eyes as I approached their exclusive club in my mobile bird shit collector. In the old days there would be no shortage of valet attendants waiting to park my car, but these days they are as scarce as tits on a bull - no doubt warned in advance by the heady notes eminating from my exhaust. Eventually I was allowed to park on the condition I did so behind the hedge and even that required some "pressing of the palm" with Queen Elizabeth II, although no doubt he was disappointed by a 5p coin.

The club is fantastic and I was able to get in 2 1/2 hours of high quality practice, followed by a good swim (I'm still stone-like in the water). It was a relief to be hitting the ball relatively well again and I go to Bournemouth with a renewed sense of purpose. Now the only thing that can go wrong is that I get legless at the party tonight, get gnarled up in the roadworks en route to Bournemouth and for it to piss down the whole week.

The eternal sunshine of a pessimistic mind!