Wimbledon freaks! Sunk in a trough of depression for the last 2 weeks by being forced to live a normal life having normal conversations with normal people in normal society?
By now you’d usually be spouting on abut British players being robbed, jingoistically Union Jack-ing up for the final, and still trying to engineer a covert rub up against John Inverdale
You block-booked every Wimbledon fortnight until 2050 didn’t you? But don’t worry, stop sulking, you’ve still time to recreate your favourite Wimbledon fun!
Recreate the camaraderie of queuing with thrilling nights bolt sat upright and terrified on the pavement outside your house. With no singalong companions or cheery bobbies on the beat (like they used to be), appreciate the littler, abuse, and random micturition kindly passers-by will fling your way. Should you nod off, enjoy the thrill of lurching awake to a rabid fox thoughtfully gnawing any unguarded extremities.
We know they only taste like true Wimbledon strawberries when picked by ethereal virgins in the rolling fields of Great Englandcestershire. Approximate as best as you can by presenting the confused Waitrose cashier with a single berry and £10 note. Slop on cream, pop in mouth, chew in slow bliss, then repeat until clubbed insensible by baguette-wielding fellow shoppers.
Come on, Tim!
The loyal cry of the true British patriot, who never accepted that lanky Scottish wobbly-hipped malingerer, and no, that’s not racist. Ring out the valiant cry from your own Henman Hill, Heather Hummock, Konta, erm, Knoll, Sue Barker’s garden, or just lustily into the arresting officer’s face.
You can’t go back to work without pretending to have almost-seen possibly Princess Alexandra, more likely a bored Helen Mirren. Recreate by running back and forth in front of the TV mags trying to pick out the odd blurry face. You probably won’t recognise any of these modern strumpets, but you can pretend it was Meghan Markle. Quick! You only have 3 minutes until Waitrose security recognise you and throw you out again!
No sun, no problem- Wimbledon fans are renowned for their blitz spirit, so get ready to belt out a few popular Cliff standards. Why not try Hazel Irvine’s garden this time?
No, not playing, obviously. Stretch your TV cable outside to that sweet spot where reflections make it totally unviewable. Vainly bat away flies, wasps, pollen, hail, and the irritating happy cries of next door’s actual tennis-playing kids. Watch the endless Wimbledon repeats the BBC mistakenly believes everyone prefers to The Repair Shop. Get really bored. Give it half an hour. God, was it only 7 minutes? Sneak back indoors. Have a cry.
The film ‘Wimbledon’!
Jeez, no. DO NOT WATCH under ANY circumstances.