Generally speaking I’m the type of chap who would rather spend an afternoon with a pack of rabid mongrels with learning difficulties than a group of ‘hi-so’ yuppies who prance around the place talking about face cream.
So my decision to journey to the local tennis club to apply for membership struck me as somewhat of an odd choice. For this kind of establishment is riddled with the aforementioned offenders. The well groomed Master’s graduates, whom either paid, sucked or buggered their way through university; the Honda Fortuna drivers who can be found in high-end restaurants ordering more plates of food than the population of Romania; THE UNBLEMISHED FAÇADE OF OLD LADY WARAPORN WHO’S BEEN RECEIVING LONGEVITY TREATMENT SINCE 1706!
No, the hi-so set and their ‘I’ve never so much as wiped my own anus’ disposition, hold little sway with folk of my ilk. Give me a vagrant Burmese alcoholic any day of the week.
But needs indeed must and I found myself deeply immersed in a high-speed game of doubles on court number two with three like-minded fitness freaks who played like they’d been taking classes from professionals. Contrary to their prowess, I hadn’t played since my early teens and was struggling to find the devilish forehand which I was once renown for, and the flaws in my game were being noted with amusement as I belted yet another ball over the tennis club fence, which is a good fifty feet high.
Undeterred by the stealthy sniggers which now filled the club, my turn to serve arrived and I decided that now was the time to silence the naysayers by thumping in the most powerful stroke I could muster. Standing diagonally across from me was an expectant twenty something female who was always quick to guffaw at the previous errors I’d made – Right! Get a load of this, YOU TWAT!
Ball toss – dramatically high for effect
Back swing – textbook perfection
Contact – made with spiteful vigour
Follow through – sharp and exact
I glanced up from my sculptured stance only to see the ball heading at a rate of knots in the direction of my opponent’s face. Excitable shrieks ensued as an impromptu duck was performed.
Whoops! Sorry about that, deary.
With my name now firmly etched upon the wall of infamy after nearly decapitating one of my fellow tennis club patrons, I attempted to make good of the situation by collecting some of balls which had been scattered around the venue courtesy of my rogue backhands.
Many of them had been so poorly aimed that I found myself rooting through a thicket some fifty feet from the court. Not so much as twenty seconds into the ball gathering endeavour, I bent down to reach for a ball which was nestling in a patch of long grass, and beside it, rearing up getting ready to vandalize me, was the biggest fucking snake I’ve ever seen.
Now since I’ve developed a slight phobia of these evil kunts, I immediately deemed it necessary to run very fast in the opposite direction, screaming ‘SNAKE! FUCKING SNAKE!’
With this, the hi-so posse bore witness to a large, sweaty foreigner, sprinting in their direction with a pair of shorts halfway down his backside.
Just keeping up appearances, dear boy..
From this experience I can summarize thus:
Don’t exercise. Stay at home and get fat.