Confessions of an Ageing Tennis Player

Maja writes: oh yes I do!

I was about to tell you about what happened with Shaila Rao and Julian silly double barrel name but the bosses got in the way… but I have triumphed! Read my full story below! This is where I left off…

‘Tall, composed, astonishingly alert, as if she’d already assessed the structural weaknesses of the entire building on entry. She carried herself with this calm, contained power that made the fluorescent lights look embarrassed to be near her. And from the second Julian saw her, his brain simply evaporated.

I have never watched a human transform before. One minute Julian was babbling about microphone echo on Zoom calls, the next he was practically levitating with awe, speaking in a pitch that reminded me of a woodwind instrument having a breakdown.

“Oh—hi—hello—welcome—this is Nick Owen Publishing—we make books—sometimes on purpose—tea?”

I could have throttled him with the HDMI cable.

He led her through the office like a tour guide trying to impress royalty.

“You’ll see here, this is Eleanor, she keeps us alive,”

“This is Alex, he runs the place,”

“And here is Maja—yes Maja—who is completely calm, and not at all glaring at me for absolutely no reason.”

He said that. To an international delegate. In front of me.

And cool, observant Shaila simply smiled as if she’d encountered this species of man before and had long ago decided it was not worth emotional energy. But what burned me was watching him look at her like she was the solution to the entire publishing sector’s structural problems. Like she was brilliance made visible. Like he had forgotten, entirely, that he is normally incapable of speaking to strangers without spiralling into chaos.

I shouldn’t care. I know I shouldn’t. I am not…’

EDITOR’S NOTE: WE APOLOGISE FOR THE UNNECESSARY EMOTION IN THIS POST. WE ARE IN THE PROCESS OF DELETING IT BUT ARE STILL STRUGGLING FROM THE IMPACT OF A WEBSITE HACK OF SOME WEEKS BACK.

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Julian writes: Kevin Coyne. Are We Dreaming?

It’s 10pm in the NOP Office and Paul has vey kindly stayed back to help me craft the perfect song to woo the perfect woman.

“Rule one,” he asserts. He can be quite assertive when he puts his mind to it, can Paul I thought. “Kevin Coyne never sang pretty. He growled, he cracked, he groaned. His songs were the sound of a man trying to wring meaning out of a damp Tuesday in Derby.”

“I can groan!” I’m cheered up already.

“Not theatrically!” he’s now insistent. “Authentically.”

“And the difference is…?” I’m already feeling out of my depth.

“One is pain. The other is you. Rule two: Coyne wrote about people, not abstractions. No metaphors about “brand ecosystems” or “emotional synergy.”

“Right. No synergy. No ecosystems.” I cross them out of my notebook discreetly.

“And rule three: Deep down, Kevin Coyne was tender. A bruised tenderness.
Not your usual “Federer of Feelings” theatrics.

I nod solemnly. “I can bruise tenderly if I have to.”

“God help us.” Paul starts pacing the floor, looking this way and that, on the search for something, I’m not quite sure what.

“Cigar?” I proffer. He looks at me in a strangulated kind of way and looks to the ceiling.

Want to know why Maja is so struck by the work of Kevin Coyne? Just take a look here!

Julian writes: Kevin Coyne. My Saviour.

It’s the NOP Office, late Monday afternoon. Paul is sketching brooding human forms as per. Somewhere, the kettle moos. I feel I have no other option than to strike a conversation with Paul, who may inadvertently provide me with the key to Maja’s heart.

“Paul? Paul? Have you got a moment? It’s a matter of… emotional urgency.” I begin, not wishing to impose myself too much.

Paul doesn’t look up but mutters,”Nothing good ever begins with those words.”

I plough on regardless.

“You know Kevin Coyne, right? Derby College of Art? Emotional rawness? Husky transcendence? Singing like a man wrestling poetry out of the working class Midlands?

Paul looked up slowly.

“Julian… I knew Kevin Coyne. I didn’t just know the music — I knew the man.
We once drew the same life model and both of us cried afterwards.”

“Exactly! That’s the energy I need.” I think I’m winning him around.

Paul puts pencil his down.

“Why?”

“Because Maja has taken a liking to him. And I,” I place my hand on my chest, perhaps overly dramatically but I thought it was worth a go. “I must meet her where she musically lives.”

“So you want to write a Kevin Coyne song? You? Julian… Kevin wrote about pain. About brokenness. About people who’ve stared too long at the cigarette end of life. You go home and steam your face with eucalyptus.

“But I can channel pain!” I protested. “I’ve known heartbreak… I’m knowing heartbreak right now! Just last week Maja ignored my Spotify playlist suggestions.”

“That’s not heartbreak. That’s mercy.”

“But you must help me, Paul, please! You went to art college with him! You understand the soul of Kevin Coyne! Teach me to sound rugged and emotionally unavailable!”

He sighed.

“Julian… you are neither rugged nor emotionally unavailable. You are…a labrador in a polo shirt.

“But a labrador… with a guitar?”

He sighed reluctantly.

“Fine. If it’ll stop you hovering like a narrative mosquito… I’ll help.

Success! At last! With Kevin by my side – albeit in the shape of a proxy Paul – where could I go wrong?

Want to know why Maja is so struck by the work of Kevin Coyne? Just take a look here!

Kevin Coyne plays ‘Mad Boy’ for Confessions of an Ageing Tennis Player

When Paul Warren, the Confessions illustrator and I first met, we soon realised we were both fans of the Derby born musician, Kevin Coyne. I had seen Kevin several times, and Paul was lucky enough to be one of his best friends and study with him at the Derby College of Art.

We both thought it would be terrific if Kevin’s role in our lives could be acknowledged in the Confessions… book and so were delighted when Helmi, Kevin’s wife, allowed us to use of Kevin’s song, Mad Boy, as the accompanying song for Confessions of an Ageing Tennis Player. If you’re listening up there, Kevin, we hope we’ve done you proud.

“I don’t like your attitude!” snaps “Serena Williams” as we square up over the club’s dubious grass courts. But I am “Andy Murray”, the greatest tennis GOAT ever, no really I am and you “Serena” are blocking me from my ultimate goal: chairman of our local club.

‘Confessions’ is about a man of a certain age – Lord Andrew John Paul George Ringo Murray of Kirkintilloch – who lived out his tennis fantasies when he was young and never quite moved on as he grew up.

The first of a series, “Confessions of an Ageing Tennis Player” is the must-go-to illustrated comic guidebook about our dreams and our disappointments, our failures and our triumphs.

£12.99

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Maja writes… I’m a Serb, get me outta here!

He found me on the stairs. I was eating quietly. He told me stories about Helvetica and some tennis club. I said he talks too much. He looked wounded. I almost felt bad, but then he started explaining fonts again. Maybe English people are lonely in offices. In Serbia, we just drink coffee and ignore each other. Easier.