CatSpace

Well, what a clusterfuck of a tennis match I just watched. Everyone was living up to their stereotypes. Carlos Moya was a greasy long haired Spaniard with a crap tattoo and no temperament, whereas Tim Henman had bad teeth and no bollocks. Not even a pea or a peanut or owt. Not a speck of testicular tissue hangs betwixt his pins, and it's a fucking disgrace. I don't want to associate myself with losers such as him, unless they are on the receiving end of one of my bossings.

Now you see, the problem with Tim is that he can't handle the pressure. When the cooker is on he escapes the kitchen to be with his minging wife. He buckles under public expectation and goodwill, and continues to be a national joke in the eyes of anyone with eyes and a brain cell. Not the newts who shout "Come on Tim!!!!" then. This is how I would beat Tim Henman at tennis.

First, I would set the scene by playing him in a Wimbledon semi-final, and the winner gets to play a seven year old with downs syndrome for the title and the paycheck. This is undoubtedly Tims best chance to win at SW19, and thus the public are ravenous at the bit for him to triumph. He is, therefore, pooing his pants before he even wakes up on his big day. After fighting his way through all the shit he gets to Wimbledon and enters his dressing room. There, stood naked in the middle, is me. I fix his gaze and say "Welcome to hell, Tim. Today you will become an object of public ridicule, and I will be the triumphant one." I would then spank his arse and walk to my changing room. Now he is not only in fear of the public expectation, but possibly me, and he is also scared of me because he thinks I'm gay and fancy him. I'm just that good looking.

Tim would double fault his first twelve serves and I would ace my first twelve, giving me the set despite only hitting the ball 12 times. This is the only time in tennis history this minimum, equivalent to 36 off an over and a no-hitter, has been achieved. One set to love.

Tim would then rocket into a second set lead, and take it easily, 6-2. The third would be 6-1 to Tim, and he'd put his foot down in the fourth. Then however, he would hit trouble, as he came face to face face with his number one nemesis. Victory.

Tim doesn't like to win. In 98, 99, 01 and 02, he reached the semi-final only to bottle it, most notably to Goran Ivanisevic, a seventy-two year old washed up Croatian West Brom fan. And lo, he would start double faulting and conceding aces again. I'd win the fourth and get to 6-6 in the fifth.

Then the real pantomime would begin. Tim would cane me until he got a match point, when he would inexplicably bottle it. The most English of traits for the most English of sportsmen. He would throw away seven match points and I'd take my first. In the final I would let the downer win to prove that I have a big heart and I would disappear into the night and snort cocaine of a prostitutes leg with my footballer friend, Adrian.

This country is full of losers, perhaps none more comical than Robert Scott, the woefully unequipped and untrained Antarctic explorer who lost a race to the south pole against Roald Amundsen in 1912 before dying of low morale, aged 44, on the way home. The goat took heavy snowmobiles and took rock samples. what a great way to slow oneself down. The Norwegians just used dogs to pull them and didn't weigh themselves down with stones. They got to the pole, returned home to their wives and kids and drank voddy with their mates, whilst Scott was in a tent in the Arctic somewhere writing his famous last words in his diary. Only a pussy writes a diary. If he hadn't he'd still be alive. He wrote;

Had we lived I should have had a tale to tell of the hardihood, endurance and courage of my companions which would have stirred the heart of every Englishman. These rough notes and our dead bodies must tell the tale...We shall stick it out to the end, but we are getting weaker of course and the end cannot be far. It seems a pity, but I do not think I can write more. For God's sake, look after our people.

I feel no empathy for this cockbeaver. Neither endurance nor courage end in death, and stories of dying do not stir my heart in the slightest. The rough notes do indeed tell the tale, a tragic one of incompetance and failure which led your bodies to be dead. Your next sentence was correct. You indeed died in the immediate aftermath. Trust me, it's not a pity that you wrote no more self-piteous waste-of-paper trash. It's a blessing in disguise. God doesn't exist, and your people should not be a tax burden on me because you are irresponsible enough to freeze to death fucking about in a continent where you have no business. Thus, the final entry should have read as follows;

Had we lived, these dead bodies would not have to tell the tale of lunacy. We are getting weaker of course and the end cannot be far. I can write no more. Send my wife to find me. That way nobody will ever find me.

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