[A monologue, read by MF.]
The Tooley Street branch of the musician's union says he has to have a tea break. Would you please imagine that I'm wearing a blue blazer, and a white hat; that I'm sitting at the top of a short step-ladder. It's summer.
[pop!] [pop!] [pop!]
Wimbleton.
[pop!]
June.
[pop!]
Ladies' singles.
[pop!]
Third round.
[pop!]
Ballboys are bounding all over the ground. Play started at two, and we're still on the rack; a-quarter-to-five, and they've hardly begun. A perfect defense,
[pop!]
meets a perfect attack. [pupe!]
Miss L. Hammerfest... meets Miss J. Hunter-Dunn. Game to Miss Hunter-Dunn. Miss Hammerfest leads by two games to one in the third set, having won the first by eighteen games to sixteen, lost second twenty-five to twenty-seven.
I never LIKED tennis! d*** silly name for a game with its volleys and loves and all that. The first time I umpired was June of '36 -- I didn't think much of it THEN. Just rather fancied myself in the HAT. Since when I have umpired again,
[pop!]
and again,
[pop!]
and again,
[pop!]
and year after year as I've sat on court after court I've been struck by the thought they are BASHING a BALL with the GUT of a CAT.
What a sport... You may think it's tedious seen from down there -- it's LUDICROUS seen from ABOVE! Fifteen/Love!
[pop!]
Keeping my eye firmly fixed on the ball, hoping the linesman will know what to call... Fifteen/All!
[pop!]
As each long, drawn-out point, throws my neck out of joint! What a job, set-after-set. Oh, the relief when you get the occasional lob...
[pop!]
A-h-h-hh... 'Till they SMASH it.
[pupe-ps-s-s-s-s-ss-ooh]
Oh, dash it!
Thirty/Fifteen! What does it all mean?
[pop!]
Forty/Fifteen! Why thirty/fifteen; why forty/fifteen? What if, instead, I just said ONE/nothing, TWO/nothing, THREE/nothing, and GAME? Do just the same; some of the debenture-holders be bound to get shirty.
[pop!]
Forty/Thirty!
[pop!]
And now the spectators are trickling out; there's thunder about -- with luck, it will RAIN. That aught to reduce...
[pop!]
Deuce! Half of me bored.
[pop-ptptptptpttt]
Net cord! The other half nervous... First service! Wish it were dinner... Thank God, a winner! Advantage, Miss Hammerfest!
[pop!]
Bonk.
[pop!]
Bink.
[pop!]
Bonk.
[pop!]
Bink.
Drives you to DRINK. Sitting up here, I'm obsessed with the fear of getting it WRONG, with everybody else will be going "bonk, bink ;" I shall be going "bink, bonk!" Oh, DO get it over-with; what is the use! Oh, we're back again...
Deuce! Wimbledon. June. Ladies' Singles. Third Round. Groundsmen are asked, "How's the state of the ground?" Players are photographed jumping the nets. But here sits a figure one always forgets. The Umpire... upon whom... the sun... never sets!
The Tooley Street branch of the musician's union says he has to have a tea break. Would you please imagine that I'm wearing a blue blazer, and a white hat; that I'm sitting at the top of a short step-ladder. It's summer.
[pop!] [pop!] [pop!]
Wimbleton.
[pop!]
June.
[pop!]
Ladies' singles.
[pop!]
Third round.
[pop!]
Ballboys are bounding all over the ground. Play started at two, and we're still on the rack; a-quarter-to-five, and they've hardly begun. A perfect defense,
[pop!]
meets a perfect attack. [pupe!]
Miss L. Hammerfest... meets Miss J. Hunter-Dunn. Game to Miss Hunter-Dunn. Miss Hammerfest leads by two games to one in the third set, having won the first by eighteen games to sixteen, lost second twenty-five to twenty-seven.
I never LIKED tennis! d*** silly name for a game with its volleys and loves and all that. The first time I umpired was June of '36 -- I didn't think much of it THEN. Just rather fancied myself in the HAT. Since when I have umpired again,
[pop!]
and again,
[pop!]
and again,
[pop!]
and year after year as I've sat on court after court I've been struck by the thought they are BASHING a BALL with the GUT of a CAT.
What a sport... You may think it's tedious seen from down there -- it's LUDICROUS seen from ABOVE! Fifteen/Love!
[pop!]
Keeping my eye firmly fixed on the ball, hoping the linesman will know what to call... Fifteen/All!
[pop!]
As each long, drawn-out point, throws my neck out of joint! What a job, set-after-set. Oh, the relief when you get the occasional lob...
[pop!]
A-h-h-hh... 'Till they SMASH it.
[pupe-ps-s-s-s-s-ss-ooh]
Oh, dash it!
Thirty/Fifteen! What does it all mean?
[pop!]
Forty/Fifteen! Why thirty/fifteen; why forty/fifteen? What if, instead, I just said ONE/nothing, TWO/nothing, THREE/nothing, and GAME? Do just the same; some of the debenture-holders be bound to get shirty.
[pop!]
Forty/Thirty!
[pop!]
And now the spectators are trickling out; there's thunder about -- with luck, it will RAIN. That aught to reduce...
[pop!]
Deuce! Half of me bored.
[pop-ptptptptpttt]
Net cord! The other half nervous... First service! Wish it were dinner... Thank God, a winner! Advantage, Miss Hammerfest!
[pop!]
Bonk.
[pop!]
Bink.
[pop!]
Bonk.
[pop!]
Bink.
Drives you to DRINK. Sitting up here, I'm obsessed with the fear of getting it WRONG, with everybody else will be going "bonk, bink ;" I shall be going "bink, bonk!" Oh, DO get it over-with; what is the use! Oh, we're back again...
Deuce! Wimbledon. June. Ladies' Singles. Third Round. Groundsmen are asked, "How's the state of the ground?" Players are photographed jumping the nets. But here sits a figure one always forgets. The Umpire... upon whom... the sun... never sets!