Author: drnicko

Awarded an MBE for services to arts-based businesses, I am passionate about generating inspiring, socially engaging, creative practice within educational contexts both nationally and internationally.

To our dear, dear readers: the French Open de Roland-Garros a commencé!

From: Julian Pilkington-Sterne, Acting Assistant Deputy Director of Narrative Clay-Court Interpretation
To: Anyone still emotionally solvent after Day One
Time and Place: Roland-Garros, Sunday 24 May 2026

Who would have thunk it, but the French Open has begun, and I have been charged with the responsibility of providing you, our dearest of readers, with up to date daily reports of the thrills and spills that make up our most favourite of clay-court tournaments.

Day One flew by and already the clay has behaved less like a sporting surface and more like a committee meeting with weather.

But what about our very own Lord Andrew John Paul George Ringo Murray of Kirkintilloch I hear you all ask indignantly?

You can hear all about his challenge for the Franch Grand Slam in part one of our audiobook Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant! here:

Elsewhere, the first major incident was the removal of Taylor Fritz, seeded seventh, by fellow American wildcard Nishesh Basavareddy, who won 7-6(5), 7-6(5), 6-7(9), 6-1. Fritz briefly appeared to have staged one of those muscular American recoveries after saving a match point in the third-set tiebreak, but Basavareddy regrouped magnificently and administered the fourth set as if chairing a disciplinary panel. It was his first top-10 win and, one suspects, a substantial inconvenience to several draw projections. 

Meanwhile, Novak Djokovic, now apparently less tennis player than recurring institution, survived an early ambush from Frenchman Giovanni Mpetshi Perricard, who took the first set and briefly made Chatrier sound like a municipal uprising. Djokovic then remembered he was Djokovic and won 5-7, 7-5, 6-1, 6-4, progressing to face Valentin Royer. This was also Djokovic’s record-breaking 82nd men’s singles Grand Slam appearance, surpassing Roger Federer, which he treated, naturally, as merely another administrative formality. 

In British matters, the afternoon was divided into tragedy and resurrection. Emma Raducanu lost to Argentina’s Solana Sierra, 6-0, 7-6(4) — a scoreline which began as a collapse, became briefly a resistance movement, and ended as a reminder that second-set gallantry does not, by itself, constitute a tournament campaign. 

Then, in a much more stirring development, Fran Jones produced a fine comeback to beat former Roland-Garros semi-finalist Beatriz Haddad Maia, 1-6, 7-6(4), 6-2. This was Jones’s first Grand Slam main-draw win, achieved after losing the first set in a manner that would have caused lesser departments to cancel the meeting and reconvene in September. 

Elsewhere, Alexander Zverev, seeded second, moved through with the minimum of fuss, defeating Benjamin Bonzi 6-3, 6-4, 6-2. There was very little drama here, which is always suspicious at Roland-Garros, but one must occasionally accept competence where it presents itself. 

The women’s draw contributed a properly operatic upset when Hailey Baptiste beat former champion Barbora Krejcikova 6-7(7), 7-6(6), 6-2, saving match points along the way. This was less a tennis match than a three-act escape from a locked filing cabinet. 

Marta Kostyuk also advanced, beating Oksana Selekhmeteva 6-2, 6-3, under deeply emotional circumstances after learning of a missile strike near her family’s home in Ukraine. It was, by all accounts, one of the day’s most human moments: sport continuing, but not pretending the world outside the court had politely disappeared. 

Among the younger forces, Mirra Andreeva beat Fiona Ferro 6-3, 6-3, while João Fonseca advanced past Luka Pavlovic 7-6(6), 6-4, 6-2, accompanied by what Roland-Garros described as a carnival atmosphere. Translation: Brazil has arrived, brought drums, and has no intention of using its indoor voice. 

There were also heat-related difficulties, with temperatures around 33°C, retirements, and the usual Parisian sense that everyone was playing not only their opponent but also a terracotta casserole dish. 

Day One has delivered the essentials: a top seed fell, Djokovic survived, Raducanu departed, Fran Jones rose, Baptiste escaped, Zverev behaved efficiently, and the clay began whispering to the ambitious. In short: Roland-Garros is open for business, the stationery is already on fire, and nobody should trust a two-set lead, a wildcard or a French crowd after dusk.

Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant: the Audiobook

Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant: the Audiobook

Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant  is now available as an Audiobook on Audible.

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Les Conquêtes Normandes d'un Tennisman Vieillissant

Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant

A gloriously absurd tennis adventure in which Andy Murray — or rather Lord Andrew John Paul George Ringo Murray of Kirkintilloch — sets his sights on Roland Garros.

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Welcome to Roland Garros: Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant

It’s time for the French Open at Roland Garros!

Welcome, ladies, gentlemen, ball-kids and baffled bystanders to the podcast series that bravely asks: what if Roland Garros is less a tennis tournament and more a literary ambush? Alors… bienvenue, mes amis. 

Today we’re going neck-deep into Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant, where our “hero” — the ever-modest, entirely reliable, definitely-not-spiralling Lord Andrew Murray of Kirkintilloch — takes a polite tumble down a rabbit hole of grandeur. And who’s holding the ladder? Lewis Carroll, of course. The Red Queen practically runs the warm-up: speak in French and remember who you are — advice which Lord Andrew interprets as: become a legend immediately, preferably on clay, and preferably while hallucinating. Très chic. Très officiel. Très… oui.

Ready, steady…? Allons-Y!

(Podcast generated by Julian Pilkington-Sterne with a little help from Mork and Mindy down in the Podcast Basement)

We unpack the rhythmic pop-ups of the ball boys Dum and Dee (because nothing says “elite sport” like a nursery-rhyme metronome), and the moment his opponent Corentin Moutet commits the ultimate crime: he gets turned into a pig on court -a glorious little nod to Carroll’s Pig and Pepper logic, where reality is negotiable and dignity is optional. Mon Dieu. Quelle surprise. Ooh là là. (I’m fluent now, apparently.)

Then there’s the recurring “awoke with a start” motif – the book’s way of winking at us and whispering: this entire Grand Slam may be a dream-state. Letterboxes widen into walkways, tennis balls develop French accents, and the court itself starts behaving like a sentence that’s forgotten how to end. C’est n’importe quoi. Pas possible! Mais… voilà.

And just when you think it’s all pure nonsense, we drag in Jean Cocteau, that delicious phrase about being plunged back into the night and suddenly the comedy has a bruise underneath it. Because these Carrollian fragments aren’t just playful flourishes: they’re masking something darker. A dazed, fractured consciousness. A man trying to narrate himself into glory… after a glider crash near Calais. Quel drame. C’est la vie. Je suis fatigué.

So yes – bon… on y va — come with us as we lovingly dismantle the “Greatest GOAT’s” fantasy layer by layer… until what’s left is not just satire, but a strangely poignant story of delusion, denial, and medical distress — served, naturally, with a side of French and a pig in the baseline. Bien joué, hein? D’accord, d’accord. And if any of that was wrong, look: on fait comme on peut. Voilà. À la fin!

Les Conquêtes Normandes d'un Tennisman Vieillissant

Les Conquêtes Normandes d’un Tennisman Vieillissant

A gloriously absurd tennis adventure in which Andy Murray — or rather Lord Andrew John Paul George Ringo Murray of Kirkintilloch — sets his sights on Roland Garros.

£19.99
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A Day in the Life of The Creative: Mess Theory

In the next part of our serialisation of Mess Theory, you can read about the origins of the book’s title: the humble flip chart.

Mess Theory

One of the problems with having apprentice creatives trailing you every minute of every day is that every now and then you give them a little insight into the magic that is your lifetime’s work. Try as you might to protect your hard-fought intellectual property rights from the prying curiosity of strangers there’s no avoiding the moments when you utter a giveaway line which illuminates their consciousness and bingo. A hard-won trade secret is out of the bag.

The flip chart is a case in point. Many people fail to recognise the potential of the humble flip chart and the outsize pages of low-grade papyrus which are frequently lodged onto it with blue tack, hair clips, nails or with whatever comes to hand.  Derided by many as a poor man’s management tool for corporate Away Days (and yet interestingly accompanied by intoxicating flip chart markers, available in many interesting primary colours of red green and blue plus of course the intensely interesting and alluring black, a colour which never fails to fascinate me when it comes to being a scribe in all those terminal management meetings), the flip chart is coming a poor third in those days of shiny PowerPoint presentations, or even worse those sea sickening Prezi efforts.

What many fail to recognise (apart from Lynn, who now knows only too well the advantages of flip chart technology thanks to me) is that that the flip chart flip is easily screwed up, cut up, torn up, scribbled upon, used as a convenient receptacle for errant dog muck and pretty much any other usage you can conjure up. Its potential for mess is endless and this is what makes it the perfect tool for the magic that is my job. Lynn has had an epiphanic moment when it comes to the flip chart. When she started as my apprentice, her flip chart requirements were modest. One sheet of A0 flip, two little knobs of Blue Tac and one red felt tip which had seen better days writing on toilet walls somewhere in the staff canteen of the multinational conglomerate. 

Since her apprenticeship began though, she has taken to the flip chart mission with a vengeance. She carries around unpacked packages around wherever she goes. She’ll unwrap one at the drop of a hat, tear it up, cut it up, fold it, distort it and cause paper mayhem of all kinds. The mess she generates is impressive, even by my standards. She’ll then proceed to write, draw, scribble or carve out her name on whatever scrap of paper she can find and then stands over her efforts, waving her marker pen triumphantly in the air as yet another Firm problem has been solved. On more than one occasion she has been applauded by her unwitting audience of factory operatives who then proceed to thank her for solving an intractable production problem. I cursed the day I introduced her to the magic of the flip and the flip chart. Something has to be done.

Unlock Your Creativity

Want to find out more? Just click below”

Mess Theory

Mess Theory

Mess Theory has been inspired by my belief that creativity is dependent entirely on mess.  We need scrap, junk or any old rubbish to exert our creative muscles and this book is no exception.

£12.99
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A Dog Writes: PRIVATE. DO NOT READ.

Hello. If you are reading this, stop it. This is not for you. This is mine. There is nothing in here anyway. Nothing important. Just smells and walking and lying down. You wouldn’t understand it. You’d try to turn it into something else. Humans always do that. Take something simple and put words on it until it stops working. So stop now. Seriously.

Anyway. Where was I. Ah yes. The building. I wasn’t going in. Not at first. I was just there. You can stand near a place for quite a long time before deciding whether it’s worth it. People rush this. They go in too early. Then they have to come out again, pretending it was what they meant to do. The door opened. Not for me. That matters. I don’t go in when it’s for me. I go in when it isn’t. Inside, they noticed. Of course they did. They always do. But they didn’t all notice the same thing.

The One Who Talks Too Much. He looked at me like I meant something. I didn’t. Not yet. That’s his problem. He’s already ahead of himself. You can see it in the way he stands. Not relaxed. Not ready. Just… waiting for something to happen so he can respond to it. I opened one eye. That was enough. He’ll come back. They always do.

The One Who Asks Questions. “Whose dog is that?” Good question. Wrong direction. Ownership is a human idea. I was not thinking about ownership. I was thinking about the floor. And the heat. And whether this place would let me stay.

The One Who Watches. She didn’t move. Good. Movement isn’t always helpful. She understood something the others didn’t. Not what I was. But what not to do. That’s a better start. I didn’t go to her. People think going towards means liking. It doesn’t. It just means going towards. I stayed near. That’s different.

The Food. Offered too soon. Always happens. They think hunger is the first thing. It isn’t. First comes space. Then comes position. Then comes whether the place holds. Food comes later.

The Decision. Radiator. Obvious. You don’t need to think about these things. Warmth is warmth. I turned once. Not for them. For me. Lay down. Stayed.

The Names. They started. They always start. Calling things makes them feel safer. As if saying a word fixes it. It doesn’t. They can call me whatever they like. It won’t change what I do next.

Later. They got used to me. Quickly. Too quickly, maybe. That’s also a mistake. But not a serious one. The talking one came back. Didn’t talk. Better. The watching one moved her chair.  mall movement. Correct movement. The questioning one didn’t remove me. Important.

End of Day. They think I arrived. I didn’t arrive. I stopped. There’s a difference. Tomorrow I might not be here. Or I might. That’s the point.

Final Thing. You would miss most of this. You’d think it was about the dog. It isn’t. It’s about who lets things happen. And who tries to make them happen. And which one works. Stop reading now.

All hail to a broadcasting legend: NOP salutes Sir David Attenborough on his 100th birthday!

We’re delighted, on this very special occasion, to release the previously lost script of the one and only Sir David Attenborough narrating the introduction to the second in our Ageing Tennis Player Quartet, The Courting Lives of an Ageing Tennis Player.

You can hear the man himself providing his unique insights into the mating behaviours of lesser spotted tennis players in a sample from the audiobook below! David is joined by narrators Samuel James and Claire Wyatt so why not curl up on a tennis court near you and enjoy one of his lesser known broadcasting achievements?

The transcript of his broadcast is available here, just for you, right now!

The Story So Far: The Sightings of Tennis Ornithologist, Mrs Hacienda Buscando Stanley Carter

A Natural History BBC Documentary Script with special guest David Attenborough

FADE IN WIDE SHOT
Early morning mist hangs over an unremarkable suburban tennis club. The courts are empty. Birds call. Somewhere, a gate creaks.

ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.) (quiet, reflective)
Birding has meant a variety of things to many different people… but for some, it becomes something else entirely.

A pause.

For Mrs Hacienda Buscando Stanley Carter…
it has become a matter of survival.

CUT TO: COURT ONE
A lone figure practises tennis. His movements are hesitant. Balls scatter in several directions at once.

ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.)
Here, within the carefully managed ecosystem of a members’ tennis club, we encounter a most unusual observer. She is not a member. She is not merely passing through. She is watching.

CUT TO: BEHIND THE HEDGE
Phoebe. Notebook. Binoculars. Stillness.

ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.)
Mrs Hacienda Buscando Stanley Carter — Phoebe, for short is a tennis ornithologist of the highest order.
Where others see leisure… she sees behaviour. Where others hear the sound of felt striking string… she hears distress calls.

SIGHTING ONE
CUT TO: SLOW MOTION
The man attempts a forehand. Misses entirely.

ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.)
Her attention is first drawn to an Unidentified Wandering Object or UWO as we say in the trade. A solitary male specimen. Drifting uncertainly between baseline and net. His swing is hopeful… rather than effective. A beat. He is lost.

SIGHTING TWO
CUT TO: PHOEBE, HALF-CONCEALED
She leans forward slightly.

ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.)
Phoebe attempts a gentle intervention. A suggestion.
A correction. Advice, delivered with the kindness of experience.

CUT TO: THE UWO
He ignores her completely.

ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.)
This is not defiance. It is denial.

SIGHTING THREE
CUT TO: MEMBERS’ LOUNGE
The UWO sits in an armchair, motionless.
A television replays disputed line calls.

ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.)
The subject retreats indoors, where he becomes immobilised by a phenomenon Phoebe later identifies as The Hawkeye Effect. Replay. Reflection. Regret. He does not move.

TIME LAPSE
Light shifts. Glasses empty. Chairs scrape.

ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.)
Phoebe waits.

SIGHTING FOUR
CUT TO: PHOEBE STEPPING FORWARD
Measured. Careful.

ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.)
At last, she approaches. This is a dangerous moment. Many watchers are undone by premature contact. But Phoebe has patience. She has notebooks. She survives the encounter.

SIGHTING FIVE
CUT TO: BAR AREA
Several pints of Hawkeye Bitter appear.
Unclaimed. Strategically placed.

ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.)
Now begins a delicate phase: attraction without detection. Phoebe deploys a classic lure. Not offered. Not explained. Simply… present.

CUT TO: THE UWO CIRCLING
Hovering. Hesitating.

ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.)
It is an old ornithological trick.

SIGHTING SIX
CUT TO: EMPTY COURTS
Wind moves leaves across the baseline.

ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.)
Then — absence. The UWO fails to appear. Prolonged non-sighting often indicates injury… illness… or worse.
Self-reflection.

SIGHTING SEVEN
CUT TO: RIVER MERSEY — DUSK
A raft of flaming tennis rackets drifts silently downstream.

ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.)
At dusk, Phoebe witnesses a disturbing spectacle. This is not courtship. This is not ritual. This is protest.

WIDE SHOT
Phoebe waits on the riverbank.

ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.)
She waits. Four hours pass. The UWO does not return.

SIGHTING EIGHT
CUT TO: CLOSE-UP — PHOEBE
Realisation.

ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.)
At last, the truth reveals itself. The architect of the burning rackets is the UWO himself. Now fully identified.

CUT TO: THE MAN, SILHOUETTED

ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.)
Phoebe is appalled. But she is not deterred. From this moment on, she commits to following him across courts, continents and consequences… to the bitter end.

FINAL SHOT
Phoebe closes her notebook.

ATTENBOROUGH (V.O.)
Because the most dangerous thing in the wild is not the predator… A pause. …but the observer who decides she must intervene.

FADE TO BLACK
TITLE CARD:
COURTING LIVES
The Story So Far

The Courting Lives of an Ageing Tennis Player

The Courting Lives of an Ageing Tennis Player

“Tennis belongs to the individualistic past – a hero, or at most a pair of friends or lovers, against the world.” (Jacques Barzun)

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