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Confessions of an Ageing Tennis Player: 2nd set, how to win at Wimbledon (10th game)

Could it be magic? (8-2)

Sue Barker called it Magic Monday and I have to say she’s not wrong.

As far as I’m concerned, as long as it’s followed up with a thaumaturgic Tuesday, another weird Wednesday, an unearthly Thursday and a freakish Friday, then I don’t mind as my chances of appearing in the final are inexplicably shortening day by wondrous day.

So, this is what they mean by the enchantment of Wimbledon!

Tennis players young and old, amateur and professional, skilled or incompetent alike all in thrall to the superstitions, the voodoo and the hiatus that the tournament brings around every year.

I am, as the 13-year olds in our neck of the woods say, having it large.

Not least because I have just trounced Serena Williams, the lady’s number one seed over 3 scintillating sets. She was aghast, I was astonished, Sue Barker for once was speechless.

Magic Monday indeed!

Watch out Roger and Noli: nothing can stop me now. See you both in the final!

Confessions of an Ageing Tennis Player: 2nd set, How to win at Wimbledon (4th game).

The mysteries of the grass court and why the sun struggles to set on the British Empire (2-2)

“I don’t like your attitude!” snapped the club captain to me as we squared up to each other over the debatable state of the club’s grass courts.

And I don’t like yours!” I volleyed back at her before she swanned imperiously back off to the club house, no doubt to complete some kind of complaint form about stroppy club members who don’t know a good court when they play on one.

The reason for this members’ tiff has been the cause of many members’ anguish – not to say damaged knee ligaments – in recent years.

The club’s grass courts although serene to look at from over half a mile away, are actually treacherous minefields when you actually play on them. They are potholed; some have moles residing under the service lines, and, as I suggested earlier, court five has its own species of hazard under its surface – continuously moving snooker balls which shift during a point so that on one occasion a ball can bounce perfectly logically and the next it will either stop dead in its tracks; not bounce at all and roll along the ground; or rear up at you at double the pace you thought it was travelling  and strike you on the temple with all the force of a supercharged cricket ball.

The undulating surface that is the Centre Court has led to many a concussed ageing tennis player. Like the British Empire, you never know what you’re going to get, what it’ll do when it gets there and what damage it will wreak later on.

This is a problem, however, that will not only not go away, it is one that is unfixable. The grass tennis court is a source of national identity and pride that is lodged so strongly in the English psyche that no amount of damaged knees, black eyes or litigation claims will ever persuade the club committee to bite the bullet and say “Yes, grass has had its time, but no more of this antiquated surface. The way forward is Astroturf! And god bless all who play on her.”

Our devotion to grass is admirable in the way it conjures up memories of Pimms, cucumber sandwiches, and serfs who know their place and maintain the right attitude to those in authority.

Nevertheless, in the 21st century, these memories of empire enshrined on our grass courts continue to cause lasting damage not just to the political terrain, but, more importantly, to our knees as well.

It’s about time we concreted over the lot of them.  The courts that is, not our knees.

Confessions of an Ageing Tennis Player: 2nd set, how to win at Wimbledon (2nd game)

Everyone loves a success!

I’m amazed how popular I’ve become on the tennis circuit ever since getting through to the second round at Wimbledon. I’m getting phone calls asking me whether I’d like to join a doubles team with the German, Gerd Fistingburger (no. 944 in the world) and a mixed doubles pair with the British woman from Acton, Julia Spetsi – our one-time no. 64.

I’ve declined all their offers as I want to focus on my singles journey. But this recognition by other players in the tennis fraternity is both gratifying and humbling – success breeds interest and everyone wants to get a bit of the action, in whatever way they can. Indeed, I’ve even alarmed myself by thinking about ‘going pro’ as the guys in the locker room call it. Still, I manage to rein in my ambitions and ground myself in the realities of the here and now.

I’ll need to keep my eyes on the skyline, feet on the Astroturf and get a new racket as well. That wooden one is well past its prime.

Reasons to (start up your) Biz cheerful (part 3)

Reasons to (start up your) biz cheerful (Part 3)

Why don’t you get right out of bed?,

Why don’t you get right out of bed? (x5)

Reasons to be Cheerful (Part 3)

Son of Richard Branson

Looking rather handsome

Never ending dreaming

Liverpool visioning,

driving up your missioning

Scribble out your plans

Partnerships sole traders

putting on your waders

Ignoring all the fakers

Blue chips on the rich list

Internet top lists

with your SEOs

Printing all your t shirts, stopping where it hurts

Dressing up in suits, office flirts

Dressing to impress, dining to invest

Investing your time, paying no fines

Designing handsome logos, customers going loco

dance an office pogo

Cash flow and income,

spending all you’ve got

Fascinating knots,

balancing the sheets

Reasons to biz Cheerful (Part 3) x 3

Reasons to be Cheerful – one, two, three

Reasons to biz Cheerful (Part 3)

Martha Lane fox, Changing your socks

Mending the locks, Calling the shots

A bit of grin and bear it a bit of come and share it

You’re welcome, do come again, red reminders

Too small for VAT, PAYE

Going all legit, no nasty shocks

The never ending day, emails all the way,

Working in your car, driving afar

thrashing your laptop, Sit down take a break?

you’re having a laugh!

Looking for investors, all other tasters

Splitting the difference, taking lots of punts,

spotting opportunities,

Facing up to dragons

Duncan Bannatyne, Hilary Devey,

Theo Paphitis, Deborah Meaden,

Peter Jones

Reasons to biz Cheerful (Part 3) x 3

Reasons to be Cheerful – one, two, three

Immense thanks of course to Ian Dury.

My Dad, Boris Johnson: Greek Meze, Mythos and Mayhem.

It’s not been the easiest of upbringings to have a name like Spartacus.  There were the innumerable chants at the start of a new school year when a new teacher would call out for me.  “Who’s Spartacus?” she would call and before I could say “I am”, numerous wags and tails would chirrup, “I am!” or even more predictably “No, I am Spartacus!” and the class would descend into much giggling and strutting.  We may merely have been in Class 5C but we all knew our Kirk Douglas movies.

It was one of the earliest clues which hinted at dad’s identity.  No-one else in our wide and diverse household had any interest at all in Greek culture but we all have dim and distant memories of him visiting mum in the late 1980s and throwing his weight around in a style which could only be interpreted as having an interest in all things Greek.  Whether this was his tedious plate throwing after dinner, inept attempts to play the bouzouki or delight in bamboozling us with his references to Greek mythology, the effect was the same.  Dad would visit, cause some Greek inspired mayhem and mum would be left clearing up the mess. 

You could be pretty certain that if he ever went underground, chances were that you could find him holed up in some Greek restaurant, stuffing his face from the great taramasalata tub in the sky which seemed to provide every Greek restaurant we ever went to with exactly the same fish roe delicacy.

So, after my abortive trip to Oldham where I ended up on Saddleworth Moor, there was only one place to go to: the Taste of Greece in Bolton. Scoring an average of 4.5 on Trip Advisor, this Greek restaurant is exactly the kind of place Dad would be inclined to visit if given a break in his busy schedule:

“The food is cooked fresh when you order, authentic Greek gyros cooked by Greek staff. The owner is from a little village called Kremasti in Rhodes. He has definately (sic) brought with him the skills of presenting and making delicious food at amazing prices…  Its only tiny but so very clean and the toilets are downstairs so if you have a disability you may struggle. He will also play greek music if you ask… Just the kind of restaurant to visit if you want to throw plates, play Bouzoukie badly, stuff your face with Taramasalata and reference Pericles and cause mayhem…” 

The Trip Advisor reviews were an undoubted sign of where he would be found over the weekend so on Saturday afternoon I revved up the car and headed west off the Moors towards Bolton.

But “dystychós” as he might have said had I found him in the restaurant, it was too late by the time I arrived.  He’d been there of course – a half eaten table of meze paid testament to that –  but a fire in the city meant he’d had to leave without finishing and go and be prime ministerial.

Such has been the life of a young Spartacus when it comes to trying to come face to face with his father.  Always on the wrong end of a platter of meze and mayhem.  It had to stop and this election campaign had to be the time to end it.

My Dad, Boris Johnson: the last bus out of Oldham.

I’d never been to Oldham before so when I found out that Dad’s battle bus was going to park up and he’d be spending a few hours exhorting people to vote for the Bus party, I thought this was a good a chance as any to try and make the break through that had eluded me for so many years.

I’d never been before and it’s unlikely I’ll be going again if yesterday was anything to go by. The sweeping swathes of grey motorway, the unrelenting rain and the sheer tedium of the M62 (or was it the M60?) meant that you couldn’t be too sure of whether you were bypassing Oldham, Bury, Rochdale, Salford or Eccles.

After about 3 hours on that infernal road and its detours, road works and so called ‘smart’ sections (recognised by the high concentration of road side pile ups and traffic carnage) I realised I’d just been going around and around in motorway hell circles, no nearer to Oldham than when I’d set off.  No nearer to Dad Boris either, given the unlikelihood of him staying any longer than was absolutely necessary. 

Later I saw him proclaiming the reason for having a bus in the first place.  Well, I thought, it’s nothing to do with an election, but much more about your well known predilection for Routemasters and Double Deckers. Buses do at least know where they’re going and how to get there, unlike me on the M62 / 60.

I found myself envying his bus driver who would have had the benefit of at least 11 on board CCTV cameras.

I wondered whether Dad Boris spend time squatting in front of the CCTV console,  flitting from one bus cam to another, gleefully checking out every nook and cranny of his Battle Bus? Observing the actions of those others on board, wondering whether there was any plotting going on, any shenanigans in the making, just in case this election didn’t go the way he wanted? Or was everybody looking eyes forward, full body attention to the man who is currently King of his Own Imagination? 

The bus CCTV system would at least give his entourage  the benefit of knowing where they were going, how they were going to get there, how long it would take and what the conditions were going to be like ahead of them. 

They would also know that in the cities, the traffic lights would be rigged in their favour.  They may not know however why they’re going where they’re going – over and beyond the usual exhortations of unleashing their potential – but that kind of existential question is also beyond me too right now, stuck as I am  in a motorway service station as a result of a flash flood on Saddleworth Moor.  

Dad Boris and Son Spartacus: we’re both in the same boat in that regard.

My Dad, Boris Johnson. I am Spartacus.

Boris, Johnson.  Alexander. De pfeffel. Boz. Jojo. Bojo. Dad.

It’s not a word I use lightly. It’s a word I’ve avoided for the last 5,  15, 25 no 35 years. But it’s a word that has found its time. It’s been with me all around the world, flirting with danger, sucking up to secrecy with more than its fair share of mucky mystery but now the cockerel  has come home to find its eggs well and truly scrambled. And to leave a deposit in the locker rooms of the great, good, dazed and unwashed to boot. Dad. 

Why did it take me so long? And why now, this day of all days, have I decided to claim what is rightfully mine and risk everything? Suspicion, ridicule, hatred are all staring at me down the end of a very long barrel. So what’s the point?

Call it pride, call it stupidity, call it mean spirited, call it what you want but you won’t call me away from what has become the final furlong of a very long quest.  To name the one who refused to be named. To name but not to shame. Or even blame. Just to set the record straight for my mother and the others. All of them.

What kind of cheese is your organisation?

Organisations look pretty imposing from the outside: pictures of corporate serenity, coherent matching wall paper and carpet, an organism at one with itself and its surroundings. A well sorted business entity.

However, you’ll soon realise after working with organisations for a while, that this appearance of solidity and uniformity, is in actual fact a mirage and that all your average organisation actually is, is a large piece of cheese: smooth and daunting on the outside, but full of holes in the inside.

An organisations’ holes become apparent when messages get lost, staff don’t return calls, emails get unanswered and letters get returned to sender. Things fall down the cracks in the middle of departments, never to be seen again.

Apparently,, the cheese industry calls holes in cheese “eyes”. This is particularly ironic for those organisations whose infrastructure is so shot to pieces, they resemble slabs of Emmenthaler or Appenzell – the cheeses with the largest holes in them. If one thing a holey organisation doesn’t have, is eyes: or ears too for that matter.

And most times its digestive system doesn’t function properly either, from one end of the organisation to the other. the organisation which resembles a chunky piece of Emmenthaler tends to leak from both ends, often simultaneously.  You just have to look at the recent track record of the British Government to see a piece of Swiss Cheese in action and see integrity, intelligence, truth and vision draining away by the day.

Scientists say that the reason Swiss cheese is so holey is not due to hungry mice or over exuberant bacteria but due to the buckets being used when the milk is collected from the Swiss cow being contaminated with hay. Scientists are yet to establish why the UK government is leaking so profusely from all pores and both ends, but chances are it has very little to do with mice, bugs or hay.

Poetry on the Hoof: The (rail) road to Barra


Wind farm blade, wind farm blade,
Everything you want from a
Wind farm blade.

We’re all going on a beer hunt lads!
From hanging town, brief encounters,
To Holke hang out, submariner sheds,
We’re getting our names up in those causeway lights!


Spot the jogging bishop with a mitre on a Sunday!
We’re talking rhubarb triangle with legs to spare,
A mammoth onion off the old green road.

They’ll split the atom here Bob in the years to come,
There’ll be lock downs, sirens,
Ever Ready for us, the pervasive threat.

Heysham 1, Heysham 2
It’ll be a football score Bob
In the years to come, when we get home.

One goes down, the other goes up
Two little boys Bob, that’s what they’re like,
Seismically protected to Gas Mark 7.

But there’s no more time for:
Haff netting salmon
in the skinny dipping Lune;

No more time for:
Sticking toffee pud
Up the old girls duff.

Cos we’re heading out to Barra,
Prepping for the Somme,
And all her sail in her.

Wind farm blade, wind farm blade,
Everything you need from a
Wind farm blade.


It’s a long way to Tipperary,
A very long way indeed Bob,
You’ll be needing your khaki trousers ,
and a hat to shield you from the blaze.

Hats with fascinators fascinating,
Travel hunters hunting and
Heath and safety instructing:
Don’t forget your shorts.

Don’t forget your sun cream.
Don’t forget to write son,
We’ve got your Grand-dad round at Christmas
He’ll want to see you standing


Bloody Merseysiders, Scouse not English?
(Always kicking off in their socks and shades,
A disgrace to king and country,
Just who are they trying to kid Brian?)

Scouse lads! Manx lads!
We’re all in this together lads
Cockney lads! Toon lads!
Even Maccam lads can walk on the Kents Bank waters!

Climbing over ledges,
Diving down in gorges,
Geo-physical, geo-logical,
Geo-temporal, neo-natal.

Head line shock,
Culture block.
Road up ahead,
Detour to the Humphrey Head.

Wind farm blade, wind farm blade,
Everything you earn from a
Wind farm blade.


Grange over the sands,
Wind over the waters,
Steam over the causeway,
Fog on the time and we lose our way;
Lights up ahead and we shield our eyes
From the light on the horizon.

Don’t be daft Bob,
It’s just the moon on the river,
No need to stress, no need to sweat,
It’s just another brick in a wall.
No dark lions in the wardrobe,
No more air girls on the dole.

Ulverston oh Ulverston,
I still see your home fires burning,
I still see your water wheels turning,
I still hear your sea winds blowin’,
I still see the dark coal glowin’,
I was 21 when I left Ulverston.

Last wolf in England,
First turn on the left,
Water catches fire,
The air stops breathing,
But we dig deep down for leading lights
Tractors turning, gas flame burning, submarine yearning.

Wind farm blade, wind farm blade,
Everything you covet ‘bout a
Wind farm blade.


Cor strike a light!
Blow me down!
If ever I cross this side of town
I’m dead, I’m gone,
A shadow of my former self.

The nuclear dump,
The ever present hump,
Of the guy in the trench,
Standing doubled over the stench
Of the lads in the earth
And the girls in the air,
Waving, waving farewell, adieu, auf wiedersehen,
To their boys on a train sliding into town.

Pink Shap granite, Pink Shap granite
Archaeological dig in bullet rich sand;
Turbine, turbine,
Slicing up the seas in a frenzied fit of
Fission, fusion,
Grasping the cushion of a nuclear safety net of
Caste iron furnace, caste iron furnace,
Grenades to launch ten thousand ships to pieces.

It’s just a rumor that was spread around town
By the women and children
Soon we’ll be shipbuilding,
Well I ask you
The boy said “Dad they’re going to take me to task, but I’ll be back by Christmas”
We’re all in this together Bob,
It was like this way back when Bob,
Digging our trenches into the heat of the night.

Guiding lights in Barrow lands.
Trig towers point to trig points in the ground.
Landing lights in the estuary guide boats by.
Staging posts act as half way stops mid river.
Help us navigate this wilderness.

Wind farm blade, wind farm blade
Everything you ever loved ‘bout a
Wind farm blade.