Wee Scoops

Measure for Measure

Archive for the tag “wimbledon”

A poem about Wimbledon


The sun is out,

In dim lounges
We watch them play.

A tense trapezium:
White on green,
With scuffs of a fortnight’s dust
And puffs of chalk
And drops of sweat
And echoes of summers past-
With sun bleached memories
Of short shorts and long hair
And rain;
And Martina winning …
And come on Jimmy you can do it!
And you cannot be serious
And singalonga Cliff
And Sue…

But today …
In long shorts
The no longer long shot
Is bang on.

We wave awkward flags of nationhood
Over the All England club.

The 77 year long lament dies
As the long trousers are finally folded.
The long shorts
Made long short work of it
Which was the long and the short of it.


Watching the Tennis

I tried to watch “Today at Wimbledon” today. It’s nice to get into a tournament once in a while. I have failed with the Euros so thought I would give Wimbledon a go. I banned myself from my iphone and settled down to watch.

After immediately realising I was cooried up in front of a smudged screen, I began to clean the TV screen and surround, removing children’s finger prints that were obscuring the action. I then realised that the screen was only half of the battle. I got my squeegee and some soapy water and cleaned the windows, whose equally prominent fingerprints were appearing as shadows on the screen.

Still unable to see the match,  I set about blocking out the sun that was making the match invisible.  I went to get a big bit of paper and some sellotape. They weren’t instantly findable, so I gave up and balanced a medium sized piece of paper behind a coke can that then fell down… but eventually I got the paper wedged behind enough things so I could see 70% of the screen.

Not sure what happened “Today at Wimbledon”, apart from Venus Williams is out and Britain’s hopes are salivating over Andy Murray.

Maybe I should just stick to the eating-the-strawberries part of Wimbledon and visualising myself becoming the next great British sporting hope.

…*imagines the home straight of the marathon at the Olympics 2016: “…and here comes “The Whippet”, never a leaner athlete ever came from Glasgow, and here she comes, oh, she is just a blur of muscle and speed…”*…

A Game to Love

So, I was in Tesco today, being sucked in by every marketing gimmick on the end of every aisle and therefore found myself buying the “A punnet of strawberries – Get the cream free!”. On arrival home I discovered the reason for this (besides strawberries being in season) – it is Wimbledon fortnight.

Wimbledon punctuates the end of the school year and the start of the summer. Growing up we took no notice of tennis in general – no notice of sport of any sort, really – but we watched Wimbledon almost obsessively. Our TV would become the focal point of a tangible Wimbledon fever – the only time when the phone ringing was religiously ignored and left to “the answer”. Did they not know we would be watching Wimbledon?

Memories… memories…

Hoping Martina Navratilova would win.

Getting bored of Martina Navratilova always winning.

I spent many summer days constructing a “watching the TV outside” kind of “light-break”. This would involve a lot of tartan rugs and a plastic table, an extension cable and the old black-and-white. Truth was, if you wanted to see a picture, you had to have your head in pitch darkness with TV in shadow – so your head would get really hot, while your legs would get burned, sticking out of the curtain of rugs.

Thinking Henman might win.

Henman never winning.

Rain. So often I’d be outside playing and it would start to rain. I’d think – oh well, I can go inside and watch Wimbledon. But then you’d go in and then hey – it’s raining at Wimbledon too…

The comedy montage at the end of the tournament. Mad dogs and Englishmen and all that.

Loving the spellings of all the Eastern European names.

Growing up, Wimbledon fortnight would bring a lull, a vacant disruption to our family life. I have yet to find the trick to enforce such a lull on my family. But I will give it a go. Although I don’t think I have the capacity to get as absorbed in Wimbledon that I did in the 80s. Not the same without Des. Sue does well though. Plenty of sparkle.

Today I announced that it was “My Turn” to watch TV for the next fortnight. (Only fair – I watch nothing else). This didn’t go down too badly. The children actually went and played in the garden while I watched the match between Dokic and Schiavone. The commentators were totally pro-Dokic so I was quite pleased for Schiavone who hardly got a mention – and won.

I didn’t get to watch the Murray match, but he seems to have got along OK without me. And I haven’t eaten the strawberries yet.

Plenty time.

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