We’re delighted to let you know that the creative team that bought you Confessions of an Ageing Tennis Player will be launching the sequel on 1 February!
Get ready for The Courting Lives of an Ageing Tennis Player!
In which the youngest in society are taught that that if they have malice enough to set fire to people’s tennis rackets, headbands and shoes, then their own lives must pay the forfeit.
Continued from Court Life: 100 Days…
I am used to waiting. I have waited a lot in the years leading up to my inauguration as Chairman of the club so am no stranger to the waiting game. But after five hours of being perched on my head honcho cushion, without seeing a tremble of my tepee curtain became, as you can imagine, dear reader, a tad irksome.
Where are my people and why are they are taking so long? I muttered to myself as I perambulated around an ever decreasing circle on the floor of my teepee. Do they not realise who has called them? Do they not realise who I am? Do they not know what is at stake?
Just at the moment I had come to the centre of my tepee with no-where else to perambulate, my mobile phone rang. At last I thought, they have finally seen sense and are going to ingratiate themselves with their grovelling apologies.
“Hello!” I snapped. “What’s taking you? We have a lot of business ahead of us! Setting up a a brand new regime doesn’t happen just by itself you know.”
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I’m not a little relieved that my impersonator has been reunited with his plimsolls over night.
The accusatory looks I was getting from my so called neighbours was all getting a bit too much.
“The scent of peach around your legs is a bit of a give away” remarked one local wag, as his dogs kept on sniffing sniffing sniffing around my nether regions.
Just cheap aftershave I explained, trying to shoo them away in the process. The dogs weren’ t listening though and it soon became clear that I would have to take drastic action.
Fetch! I threw my trainers over the railway crossing as the gates came down, hoping those infuriating hounds would leap on to the railway track about the same time that the 15.47 Liverpool train was passing.
Jump they did, fetch they did but true to British Rail form, the 15.47 was 2 minutes late and they were able to bring me back the trainers intact, albeit covered in a slime of dog slobber. I held them up, scrutinised them and held them to my nose. Mmm, still peachy.
I put them back on my feet and marvelled at their perfect fit. My impersonator had clearly done his homework. Quite how he had found out about my size 16 feet is anyone guess – and quite how he thinks he can get around a tennis court carrying those barges at the end of his legs is quite beyond me too but I have to admit, they felt comfortable, well worn in and clearly had many tales to tell about their owners trials and tribulations on the world’s tennis courts.
I luxuriated in them for a bit longer before reconciling myself to the fact that they would need to be returned to their rightful owner, even if he was unwilling to return the title of Wimbledon champion and Sports Personality of the Year to me.
Timing is everything I mused as I posted them through the outsize postbox on the front door of his bungalow. I rang the doorbell and scarpered away as fast as I could back home. I wasn’t in the mood to confront my imposter, even if his plimsolls reminded me of the Algarve.
More insights from Lord Andrew John Paul George Ringo Murray here.
The news that some two bit tennis player who calls himself ‘Andy Murray’ has had his wedding ring stolen whilst attached to his plimsolls has led to various accusations that yours truly is implicated in some way in this heinous crime.
I would like to assure my many fans that these rumours are unfounded, untrue and unnerving in the sense that they suggest that one’s private life is not as private as one would like it to be.
The proposition that I would somehow have the capability to track down the location of this so-called ‘Andy Murray’, then be the slightest bit interested in his plimsolls – even if they did reek of a rather pleasant peach like odour – or even be a bit remotely bothered by the wedding ring which was probably carelessly entwined around the aforesaid plimsoll laces without any consideration of the poor woman who had foolishly pledged her life to follow in his footsteps (I warned her, I really did) – is just plain ludicrous.
Quite where these spurious allegations have arisen is a complete mystery and unfortunately, given my current circumstances, somewhat difficult to contest.
But contest them I shall. And Mr. so-called ‘Andy Murray’ will regret the day he attempted to brief the paparazzi against yours truly. Mr ‘Murray’: je ne regret riens but you may well do very soon.
More insights from Lord Andrew John Paul George Ringo Murray here.
