Tuesday, June 21, 2011
So this is the home-made scone of all our dreams, and there is strawberry jam and butter too. Not for us the tennis-related indignity of the fresh cream for we have seen how such dalliances with the evils of the dread tennis end in squalid tears. A perversion of all that is natural that has led others down that path where all they ever talk about is racquets and backhands, and a desire to see the glories of the coming summer ruined by hitting a ball backwards and forwards across it.
Summers should be slow, languid and lazy, time taken out of days that once seemed so endless. A time of long grass and nudity and cooling waters flowing over your…
Anyway, anything as long as it is not bloody tennis.
Even cricket is better than tennis, but that too now is trying to hurry summers along. Rather than being something akin to a metaphor for eternity, cricket nowadays is not the long slow days of nothing happening, interspersed with tea and rain that used to be, that it was meant to be.
Cricket, as we know, was created for those infected with the need to be ‘doing something’ to be kept away from the evils of the tennis disease, that would otherwise compel them to don ludicrous shorts in mixed company and start shoving their balls into them while fondling their racquet in an impatient manner.
No, it is far better they don the over-large gloves and pads of a cricketer and end up resembling some keen and over-zealous gardener about to take arms against a particularly vindictive bramble patch, than succumb to the be-shorted horror that is tennis and all its evil works.