I'm changing tack with this post. Rather than 'pure' thinking, this time I'm drawing on the age old technique of storytelling to make a point. Sit back and enjoy.
I used to play tennis to a pretty good standard when I was younger. This involved playing tournaments throughout the year, weekly over summer, and into my time at university. I played for the university and was even club captain for a year. Take a bow that man eh. I'm not intentionally just blowing my own trumpet.... OK that's a lie, of course I am, but additionally I'm setting the scene. Building a back story. I'm letting you know that tennis was important to me and that I took it seriously.
At some point in the summer of 2003 I had arranged an hour's tennis at a local indoor tennis centre. The weather was typical British summer, completely grim, a total washout, meaning that playing outside was off the cards and playing indoors was the only option. I should point out that you book courts by the hour, at a cost of around £14 an hour, a not insignificant sum of money to a student with a distinct lack of funds. Also, with bad weather and school holidays meaning increased numbers of tennis brats and summer school lessons, you pay for your hour, no more and no less. So with an indoor court booked for an hour we were good to go.
I turned up with my good friend (and doubles partner) on time and took our place on court 1. Court 1 is the court with the viewing gallery and hence the show court. We had not intentionally booked this court, but to be honest I always felt like I should be on the show court, where ever I played. Having warmed up and begun to play a match I noticed a smallish crowd in the viewing gallery watching us. In line with both my ego an the fact we actually were playing competitively and to a decent standard this came as no surprise to me. As time passed, however, I realised they were watching the next court to us, where a local coach was playing a man I vaguely recognised but could not quite place. No problem, I'd get over it. Things continued in this manner until the halfway point of the hour for us, which corresponded with the end of the hour for our neighbours on court 2.
The courts are separated by retractable nets and the viewing gallery opens up directly onto court 1. So when our neighbours finished on court 2, their exit route was over the back of our court and off via the viewing gallery. With me? Sparkling. This is where we began to encounter problems. As the court 2 pair crossed the back of our court, the 6-10 strong crowd came out of the viewing gallery and onto our court. We were between points, part way through a game, and now unable to continue. Hmm. My happiness levels began to fall. Shortly thereafter, more pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place.
The manager entered the court ahead of the spectators, addressing us briefly with, "two minutes, lads." Also front and centre were two large, egg-headed gentlemen in dark suits, making a beeline for the overweight gentleman from court 2, whom I was beginning to recognise. The Cheshire Cat-esque grin, the mock-humble, self depreciating eyebrow raise, the surprisingly large paunch, the recent newspaper report I had read regarding this gentleman visiting his friend Melvyn Bragg in the Lake District. Yes, you're right, future war criminal and serial pratt Tony Blair was actively preventing me from playing tennis by his mere presence on my court. Next thing the punters are getting photos taken at the net on our court. I'd paid for this! Time was ticking away. Tick, tick, tick. Next thing he's having a chat with all and sundry, still right in the middle of our court. We were approaching the ten minute wastage mark and Blair was now happily chatting away to his pet eggs. So I mosey'ed on over and as he happily turned towards me, limbering up with that creepy smile, I enquired, "So are you done yet or what?" Tone responded with a slightly uncomfortable, "oh yes of course, thank you very much," whilst the twin cueballs honestly looked like they were about to karate chop my head off, or something along those lines. I happily delivered my parting line of, "well get off the court then," and prepared to finish the game.
After they were gone my mate asked me, "who was that?" Low observation skills pal, nevermind. So what's the moral of the story? How does this link to my other posts and their themes? We're all people, we're all the same. Yes, that's one thing, but mainly the message is, sometimes you've simply got to be blunt, and just get to the point. No messing around, no niceties, just get things off your mind, off your chest, because waiting around and just hoping things will fall into place, land in your lap, won't get you anywhere.
Get to the point. Act now. Participate, don't just spectate. Believe.
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