“My bad”, as the young folks say, choosing this one.
These days, I usually avoid plays written in the “between the wars” period; there’s something about them stylistically that tends to grate on me and especially on Janie.
This one, by Robert Graves, never previously performed, seemed like such interesting subject matter for its time, from such a fine writer, I thought we might be in for a winner.
It’s probably not the best idea for me and Janie to go to longer, wordy plays on a Friday evening, even at the best of times. But this was at the end of a hot and steamy week…
…a very wordy play with a disproportionately long first “half”…
…I thought the play might usefully be renamed “But It Still Goes On And On And On”…
…we ducked out at the interval and retreated to Noddyland via Mohsen.
To be fair, there was quite a lot to like about the production, as is usually the case at the Finborough. The cast were very good and the production tried to invoke a 1920s atmosphere pretty well, given the limited space and resources available in a room above above a pub; albeit one of the very best pub theatres on the planet.
It was the play that proved to be a let down for us. Hugely stereotypical characters; angst of the spoilt brat variety amongst the privileged classes…
…yes, of course we did feel sympathy with the characters who had suffered in the Great War and those who were struggling with their necessarily suppressed (in that era) feelings of various sexuality. But by gosh was it laid on with a wordy trowel and some ludicrous sub-plots.
It reminded me a bit of The Pains Of Youth by Ferdinand Bruckner; an Austrian existential angst play from the same era which, several years ago, also had us out of the theatre early, missing the rather inevitable tragic ending:
Further, I don’t think Robert Graves was a natural for play-writing and although the probable reason that the play was originally hidden/unperformed for many decades was its overt references to sexuality, I’d suggest that one of the other reasons was that those who commissioned it and others who subsequently looked at it decided that the play was not much good.
Given the subject matter, the play is, of course, an interesting curiosity in our modern era and I can see why the Finborough decided to produce it.
The acting was very good on the whole; Alan Cox played the lead role; his daddy Brian Cox (the actor, not the pop-scientist) was in the audience to watch him the night we were there.
We’re still fans of the Finborough; we just didn’t like this play.
…another very enjoyable day at Lord’s, this time with Rohan Candappa.
The contrast, in truth, is that Ian is a cricket lover who found the idea of meeting up at Lord’s especially enticing, whereas Rohan isn’t particularly keen on cricket, but we wanted to meet up for lunch that day and there are far worse places for lunch and a chat than a county championship day at Lord’s.
Ahead of the day, I was a bit concerned about Rohan – one of life’s natural comedians and rebels – rising to the challenge of the pavilion dress code. So I sent Rohan a link to the code and left him to it.
I wondered whether his eye might fall on the “national dress” exception to the jacket and tie rule. Rohan could (just about) claim to be Burmese and turn up in a longyi with hnyat-phanat. Mind you, given the sweltering weather, I wouldn’t have minded sporting a longyi with hnyat-phanat myself, and do still have a range of such garments in my collection:
Me and my longyi (wrap)…and hnyat-phanat (flip-flops), Burma, 1998
More worrying, was the thought that Rohan might don “THE” jacket, as opposed to a jacket. When Rohan took his wonderful one-man show, How I Said ‘F*** You’ To The Company When They Tried to Make Me Redundant, to Edinburgh last year, he promoted his show by walking around that elegant city thus:
Technically compliant jacket for the pavilion?
Actually, Rohan turned up in a fine linen number not dissimilar to my own. We must have looked like Our Men In Havana…or, given the extensive Moncada Barracks references in Rohan’s “F*** You” show, Our Men In Santiago de Cuba.
I recalled, while waiting for Rohan, that he had written a rather scathing short piece about gap years and their dilution through ubiquity, in his book University Challenged…
…and wondered what Rohan would make of Ian and Sally’s mature gap year. Then, when Rohan arrived, I clean forgot to raise that point with Rohan. Perhaps Rohan will chime in about that latterly.
Rohan and I are old mates from Alleyn’s School. In the couple of days leading up to our meeting at Lord’s, I trawled the diaries for sporting references to Rohan, but only could find one, relating to fives, previously Ogblogged:
…plus references to my own (previously forgotten) glories playing field hockey that same term, plus my cricketing annus mirabilis (or should I say terminus ludum mirabilis?) the following term, both of which I shall aim to Ogblog very soon.
But I should be honest about me, Rohan and sport. I don’t think either of us will be remembered at Alleyn’s for our sporting prowess. Enthusiasm and willingness to muck in with sport?; possibly. Enjoyment of the competition without taking sport (or indeed most things) too seriously?; I hope so. But prowess?
Whoops – did someone speak out of turn to Rohan Candappa?
Anyway, so there I was, in the Lord’s Long Room, cricket’s holy-of-holies, with Rohan. We watched briefly in there (he’ll need to be able to say that he has done that; watched first class cricket from the Long Room) but soon moved outdoors to backache central – the pavilion benches, on the shady side of the pavilion.
We discussed ancient matters of sporting derring-do (or lack thereof). We agreed that we secretly resented those boys who were not only exceptional at sport but also exceptional at chess/academic stuff and who were also good blokes. I think we agreed that we are almost (but not quite) over that now.
In some ways the next few hours resembled my previous day with Ian T; Rohan and I similarly stuck to water and some cashew nuts ahead of a late lunch in the Long Room Bar. Today’s bap was beef rather than pork (also top notch). I perhaps made the mistake of having a glass of red rather than white today.
…so we rather sped our way through the post-lunch pavilion tour, view from the top deck and then some views from the rest of the ground. I showed Rohan the “front of the Lower Compton” view that I often enjoy for test matches, which shows the pavilion in all its splendour. Rohan commented that his late father would have very much enjoyed such a day at Lord’s.
Rohan’s one man shows are good…very good. This photo from Edinburgh 2017
I sat in the Warner Stand for a few minutes, when a wave of excess heat and fatigue hit me. I rather regretted the glass of red and even considered going home to hide from the hottest part of the day. But instead I steeled myself and returned to the pavilion top deck, seeking a little breeze and the opportunity to see a potentially exciting ending.
I chatted with a couple of regulars up on the top deck. Then, when the final wicket just wouldn’t come, I decided to decamp to the Long Room in the hope of inducing that final wicket and witnessing the end of match ceremony from there…
…well that did sort-of happen, but not before a further 45 or so agonising minutes had passed. I ran into one of my real tennis friends in the Long Room, who was giving an old pal of his, who lives in Dubai, the Lord’s experience for the first time. We discussed, amongst other things, cricket, politics in Pakistan and where the twain meet in the form of Imran Khan.
After witnessing the Middlesex win, we decamped to the real tennis area, where I had left my kit for safe-keeping. The other two stuck around for only 5 minutes, but I watched a rather good set of doubles while the crowds and the rush hour died down, before hailing an Uber and stepping out into the sunshine once again.
While waiting, I saw an elderly gentleman, whom I recognised, keel over while sitting on one of the benches in the shade. A member of catering staff went to his aid immediately and, once I had seen his condition at closer quarters, I told her that I thought it was serious and that we should summon medical help straight away, The staff and stewards sprung into action very rapidly, summoning a para-medic and an ambulance, at which point I thought my presence was superfluous (I am not a first-aider) so I retreated. My cab arrived just moments before the ambulance – very impressive speed from call to arrival – must have been well under 10 minutes.
The gentleman, who did not survive despite the rapid attention, was J T Murray, a great Middlesex wicket-keeper from before my time – his last playing season was, coincidentally, my 1975 annus mirabilis. JT was a regular supporter at Lord’s in the years that I have been going to Middlesex matches. A sad end to my two days at Lord’s in some ways…
…but not in others. A great former sportsman died peacefully, in his 80s, just after witnessing an exciting finish in which his beloved Middlesex team won a fine match against the odds.
The bittersweet irony of that ending won’t be wasted on most readers; it certainly won’t be wasted on Rohan.
“You could have said no”, said Daisy, as I prepared to leave Noddyland ridiculously early on a non-working day, with reference to the 9:00 game of real tennis I had agreed to play as a late substitute, in addition to my 10:00 game. “Two hours of singles on the hottest day of the year is not a very bright idea”.
“I’ll drink plenty of water,” I mumbled.
Two challenging hours they proved to be; one against a newbie whose handicap has clearly not yet settled in its firmament way beyond my level, then my anticipated hour against a familiar adversary with whom I tend to have very close battles. Today was a very tight battle until the last 15-20 minutes which went resoundingly his way. The experience probably did more for my strength and conditioning for tournament play than it did for my confidence.
Soon after that 2017 visit, Ian gave up full time work and disappeared for a gap year with his good lady, Sally. I love the rationale behind the Ian and Sally gap year; such things had barely been invented when we were younger (or rather, they were beyond the means of most), whereas their kids had taken gap years before starting formal work; why shouldn’t Ian and Sally have a gap year when concluding their formal careers?
Anyway, they went to New Zealand, then Japan and then – or should I say, at the time of writing, now – the canals of England. This adventure, which Ian and Sally have almost completed, they are blogging as Living In Hope…
…not to be confused with The Rutles classic, Living In Hope:
So Ian thought he had his work cut out pulling together suitable attire for the pavilion, given that his former life possessions are mostly in crates…
…except that, being Ian, he had kept one business suit and tie accessible for “just in case” – and this was such a case.
More challenging, for me, was the space in the pavilion guest book where the member records the visitor’s address. I have often wondered whether anyone ever pays heed to this box, which is often filled in with only the scantiest details…
…indeed I would question its GDPR compliance these days – organisations are not supposed to record personal details they don’t need…
…anyway, I merely wrote “canal boat” as the address in the book, so I am living in hope that no-one hauls me over the coals for some rule breach or another; not least the rule that says “though shalt not bring persons of no fixed abode into the pavilion as guests”.
Ian had never been in the pavilion before, which surprised me as I know he has quite a few MCC members in his circle. Still, this gave me an opportunity to give him an informal guided tour and witness a cricket lover taking great pleasure in watching cricket from the inner sanctum that is the Lord’s pavilion.
Ian was a little disappointed, though, with Ryan Sidebottom. He was expecting a hairy Yorkshireman who used to play for England, not a tidy-looking Victorian who used to play for Victoria.
Side on, Sidebottom
So, to please Ian and Ryan Sidebottom fans generally, here are two short vids of recently-retired Yorkshireman Ryan Sidebottom’s biggest moment; his hat trick against New Zealand in 2008 – a “language-strewn” hand-held shot of the moment (which I have discovered on YouTube) follows:
The second of these vids is one of the most absurd/extraordinary stop-frame animation films I have ever seen – by Are You A Left-Arm Chinaman? – the Ryan Sidebottom hat-trick starts around 3:30 and is well worth waiting for or sliding the dial towards:
But I digress.
Dewey-eyed I was, as we stood up soon after the umpires called lunch; not with emotion you understand, but two hours of tennis followed by those rump-racking pavilion benches was telling its toll.
Actually we decided to stick around that pavilion spot and continue munching cashews and taking on water, until about twenty minutes after lunch, by which time there is usually room to sit reasonably comfortably in the long room bar and take some proper lunch. Bap of the day was a wonderful pork jobbie with crackling and a sort-of sausage meat stuffing to add to the general porkiness. I had a glass of white while Ian opted for a beer.
After lunch, Ian fancied trying the new Warner Stand, where the seats are far more comfy than the pavilion and the view is still very good. Then, come tea-time, we returned to the pavilion, enabling me to conclude Ian’s guided tour of the pavilion with the upstairs bits, ending up on the top deck, where we enjoyed a cuppa and a breeze to provide slight relief from the heat of the day.
Ian needed to leave an hour or so before stumps, whereas I fancied seeing that last hour of cricket, so we parted company at the pavilion door – I decided to watch the last hour from the comfort of the Warner Stand seats.
It had been really pleasant to catch up with Ian over lunch and cricket; not least because chatting about some of his gap year experiences added an element of colour that no blog (not even Ogblog) can provide.
When I got to the Warner Stand, I spotted Ed Griffiths watching solo and asked him if he minded me joining him. He didn’t. I hadn’t really watched cricket with him before, despite having spent a fair amount of time with him, not least over the London Cricket Trust initiative. While it was very interesting to watch and discuss cricket together, unfortunately Middlesex’s improving position went into reverse while we were watching together, leaving matters seeming very precarious overnight.
Since Jez Horne left Z/Yen, he and I have a rather shocking record of planning to meet up for a T20 match at Lord’s on a day that turns out to be rainy.
We expected no such problem in this glorious summer of 2018 and, as luck would have it, Jez was available on one of the few T20 evenings I can manage this season.
I arranged to play tennis at 15:00, giving me plenty of time to sauna, shower, spruce myself up and bagsy some good pavilion seats.
My opponent for the afternoon, Bill Taylor, is one of my favourite adversaries; although I tend to come off second best against him, we nearly always have an epic battle along the way.
We had an exceptionally good first set, which took almost the whole hour. Playing level, the pesky ninth game went to deuce upon deuce upon deuce…
…upon deuce…you get the idea. But in the end Bill prevailed, both in that game and then the set and match.
I took my time over warming down and my ablutions. As I was just preparing to leave the changing room, John Stephenson (MCC Director of Cricket) and Guy Lavender (the new MCC Chief Executive) emerged from one of the squash courts. They were discussing the pavilion dress code and the practicalities around the “jackets allowed off in hot weather” rule.
I was putting the finishing touches on my tie, jacket and general pavilion aesthetic look when, horror of horrors, I realised that I had come out without a comb in my linen suit’s jacket pocket and had used a kit bag that also lacks one of my emergency combs.
My hair probably looked a little like the following photo, taken at the end of a victorious tennis skills night eighteen months ago…
…perhaps a little worse when combined with a jacket and tie.
“Just as well you don’t have a bad hair rule for the pavilion”, I said “I have come out without a comb”.
“No we don’t, but don’t worry, there will be a bad hair rule in time for your next visit”, said Guy with a smile.
Guy’s smile widened a little forcedly, as if to say, “…and your point is?…”
“I’ll bring a comb,” I conceded. Need to stay on the right side of the new Chief Exec, I thought.
Jez is not exactly the sartorial type…he used to hang out with Barmy Kev for gawd’s sake…so I didn’t need to make any any excuses or explanations to him. He seemed pleased with my choice of “right up front” seat.
As always, it was good to catch up with Jez. He and his burgeoning family have recently relocated to…
…coincidentally given my visit a couple of days earlier…
We chatted about cricket. We chatted a bit about work. We chatted about…
…trigger warning…
…geeky statistics, operational research and machine learning stuff.
We both brought nibbles of the “old style Z/Yen gathering” variety with us – in my case parcel-type bites from M&S, in Jez’s case from Sainsbury. I had brought a mini bottle (250 ml) of Sancerre for myself – that should last the evening on a warm night; Jez managed a few bottles of quality beer. I remember Badger and Theakstons Old Peculiar as two of the labels.
We watched Middlesex start well with the bat, seem to get bogged down, finish better, then watched Somerset do all that with quite a bit more purpose than Middlesex.
To Lord’s for luncheon in the Tavern with Richard Goatley, Rob Lynch, Escamillo Escapillo and PD.
Not a match day, this, but a chance for a bite and to show PD around the ground.
After lunch, a quick look at the real tennis (naturally) and then, despite the fact that there was no cricket on that day, the pavilion.
In the committee room, I found this little fella occupying a seat normally reserved for a visiting dignitary or, on the rare occasions she visits, Her Maj ERII.
King Cricket relishes pieces on animals displaying conspicuous indifference to cricket. I thought this image was an interesting variation on that theme. King Cricket clearly agreed, publishing the following piece in December 2018:
We enjoyed a pleasant wander around many other parts of the ground, including the indoor academy, where Escamillo Escapillo and I got PD interested in the idea of having a go by recounting some of our tales of derring-do at that place…
Anyway, the upshot of that extremely pleasant afternoon, some months later (March 2019), appears to be this – click here. (Or, if anything ever befalls the Middlesex CCC site, click here instead.)
One of the very good things about real tennis is the extent to which it seems to be a community of enthusiasts. To such an extent that, when you meet and play realists from other clubs – as often you do at Lord’s – they seem keen to welcome you at their places.
Example: back in the winter, I played at Lord’s against Mark Bradshaw, a member at Petworth, who has quite recently taken up the sport more seriously having only dabbled previously – rackets was more his game. Mark said, after our good game, that Petworth was being refurbished at the moment but that he would like me to visit for a game once the refurb was done. I said I would very much like to do that.
I thought little of the matter again until I received, in the spring, out of the blue, a kind e-mail from Mark reminding me of our conversation and wondering whether I really was interested. The suggested timing, as it happened, worked out well for Janie, so we hatched a plan to go to both Petworth and Hove in a day, so we might visit Sidney and Joan later.
The plan soon became a reality. Janie and I half-planned to get to Petworth early enough to have a look at the gardens of the old house as well, but by the time we found the tennis court entrance (the postcode sent Waze and therefore me to the wrong entrance)…
I’ll Recognise The Entrance Next Time
…and then spent some time with a few of the charming Petworth Club members who showed us their mural (above) and the spelling challenges they faced with the donations board (below)…
He Who Would Valiant Be…
…we realised that a more realistic pastime ahead of my tennis match would be a wander around the village and the purchase of a plant or flowers for Sidney and Joan.
Petworth has plenty of art galleries and arty shops. Janie spotted some rather tasteful hand-blown coloured tumblers that she fancied as water glasses. By the time we had completed the non-trivial task of choosing each of the six she wanted – each was a different colour and had a different amount of bubbling-effect – it was time to move on to the next non-trivial task; choosing a plant or flowers for Sidney and Joan:
Choosing that splendid plant wasn’t as easy as it looks
Then back to the Petworth Real Tennis Club:
Can I hear banging on the roof?
It seems like a really friendly club. John Ritblat was one of the main movers and shakers in achieving the major refurb, which includes modern changing rooms and a charming kitchen and breakout area. The people who had been playing before us had brought a picnic lunch with them and were enjoying a convivial post-play repast while we played.
I found the Petworth surface very difficult to come to terms with in the first set, but made a bit more of a fist of it in the second.
Mark has come on leaps and bounds since we last played; his rackets background making him wicked fast around the court and able to get most balls, good or bad ones, back. My problems getting used to the surfaces were multiplied by his technique, in which he boasts the ball of multiple walls quite regularly.
Janie has a strange knack of shooting a little bit of video on points that I tend win. She very rarely captures one of my many losing points. She doesn’t delete stuff from the gizmo at the time; it’s just a strange statistical thing. So I can safely ascertain that I would win all my matches if she videoed all of them in their entirety. Perhaps I should kit her out with a proper video camera and have her with me for all my games…
…anyway, the match didn’t go my way at Petworth but we did get a good game in the end; the second set was tight.
Then lunch. Mark and Henrietta recommended The Hungry Guest which was indeed an excellent choice.
Mark certainly looks happy with his choice…
…in fact, everyone looks happy.
It is a glorious summer this year; the opportunity to eat and chat al fresco on occasions such as this is one not to be missed.
In fact, we ate and chatted so fervently, that we all lost track of time. Mark then suddenly realised the time and we hurriedly said our goodbyes to enable him to get to a 16:00 appointment.
Meanwhile Janie and I worked out that we really didn’t have time to take in the Petworth Gardens on this visit, so we had a coffee and mellowed out before hitting the road to Hove, for a family visit, privately Ogblogged.
After a morning’s work, I played tennis and then drove out to Noddyland for the rest of the afternoon. Janie went over to Kim’s to do some gardening or what-have-you, while I followed the Wimbledon tennis quite avidly:
Clarke & Dart v Murray & Azarenka (short and a bit disappointing);
Draper v Mejia (boys semi – absolutely compelling to watch);
Isner v Anderson (almost failed to resolve until after I left for the restaurant).
Meanwhile Janie called me to instruct the closing of windows about 5 minutes after I had closed all the windows. It was already bucketing down in “The Suburb” whereas in Noddyland it was just starting to look ominous.
In fact, I got to the Uber while it was still just spitting, but by the time we got 100 yards down the road it was proper rain and by the time we got to Gypsy Corner there were surface water flash floods starting.
Micky and Kim were on good form. Janie and I both ended up eating the same dishes; calamari followed by a veal and mash dish.
For afters, I fancied ice cream. The gelato of the day was nougat. I asked what type of nuts were in the nougat (due to my walnut allergy), which kicked off a precautionary sequence of events, even when I relented to a simple choice of vanilla and chocolate.
“Out ice cream might contain traces of nut”, I was told. I explained that my allergy is mild and that I have no concerns about “might contain traces of nut” warnings…
…at which point Kim told the waitress that she should get me to sign a disclaimer…
…which the waitress duly produced and indeed insisted that I should sign.
This was all done in a gentle and friendly spirit…
With thanks to the waitress for taking the picture
…but I’m pretty sure that I’d have had no pudding without the form filling. I considered explaining that I am very allergic to form filling…
…but in the end decided that I wanted my ice cream.
I think that covered the necessary waiver comprehensively.
Readers of a nervous disposition will be delighted to learn that I suffered no ill effects from eating the ice cream.
It was a fun evening with Kim and Micky. The staff at the restaurant are very charming and friendly, which more than makes up for the quirky aspects.
We thought we’d failed to get tickets in the Wimbledon ballot this year. Janie and I had heard from several people that they or their loved ones had secured something. Odds are that you miss out more often than not, so we thought that was that.
But I suppose that most of the seats that come up in the public ballot are week one seats and that Wimbledon send out the week two letters the following week.
So, a few days after we had agreed that 2018 had been a miss, Janie announced that an envelope had just arrived from Wimbledon and that she’d let me open it.
OMG, we’ve got centre court tickets for Ladies’ Semi-Finals Day.
Janie was so excited; in truth we were both very excited.
A few weeks later the tickets themselves came through and turned out to be very good ones – Row F; near to commentary boxes and the Royal Box – just over our right shoulders above us.
…but second Thursday felt almost like hitting the jackpot.
I took on picnic duties again (that kinda makes sense for midweek Wimbledon), producing smoked salmon in poppy-seed bagels and prosciutto muffins as the centre-pieces for centre court. A Single Estate Villa Maria Sauv Blanc and an Aussie “Daydream” Pinot Noir (the latter partly surviving for another day).
I studied the order of play carefully when it came through and suggested that we aim to get to Wimbledon early enough to catch a little bit of juniors action on one of the larger outer courts before the main event.
We plugged for Court 18, where a couple of girls with similar rankings, Xiyu Wang & Cori Gauff, were doing battle:
Surprisingly good quality tennis
Gauff, who looked like Venus Williams’s mini-me in style of play and demeanour, took the first set and was well up in the second, before Xiyu Wang started to turn the match around.
Thinking about the turn around
Don’t confuse Xiyu Wang with her doubles partner, Xinyu Wang. That would be foolish of you. Also don’t assume that they must be sisters. They were born about 6 months apart which made the “must be sisters” theory bite the dust, unless an awful lot of artificial intervention was involved. The Wang pair went on to win the girls doubles title, while Cori Gauff, who turned out to be only 14 years old, really is a rising star, so remember where you heard these names first.
At the end of the second set on Court 18, we decided it was time to freshen up and progress to centre court in good time for the first semi-final.
Janie’s choices of photographers from the crowd was somewhat flawed. The first lady had the shakes so much that her efforts were very blurry indeed. Then one person somehow pressed the video button for a few seconds rather than the simple shutter release. It sort-of looks like one of those Harry Potter photos:
Younger people in the crowd wanted nothing to do with having people take pictures for them – it is all about selfies and selfie-sticks these days – so my offers reciprocally to take pictures were rejected.
We chatted with a very nice lady next to us, Carolyn, and her friend, Deana, who had come all the way from Yorkshire for the tennis. They helped Janie do some celebrity spotting in the neighbouring Royal Box.
Janie spotted Cliff enjoying the privacy of the Royal Box
With you I am Bjorn again?
Billie Jean – who is not my lover…
We enjoyed some snacks and a glass of wine.Why were we here? Oh yes, tennis. Here come some players:
Jelena Ostopenko and Angelique Kerber
Ostopenko came out all guns blazing, but that is not usually the way to best Kerber and so it proved that day:
Kerber kept her cool
We had time to eat our smoked salmon in poppy seed bagels during that match; just about.
Next up: Serena Williams against Julia Goerges. We’d never seen Serena play live before, although we have seen Venus more than once at Wimbledon.
Get ready…
…Julia got set, but took no sets…
…Serena powered her way through the match; Julia seemed overawed…
…thank you, ma’am.
A Wimbledon summary vid shows some glimpses here:
In truth the semi-finals had been short and one-sided, but there was plenty of entertainment to come. I went for a leg-stretching stroll at that juncture, having been assured by a steward that the mixed doubles was at least 20-25 minutes away. So I leg-stretched for that period of time, looking at one or two outer courts and chatting idly with one of the volunteer stewards there.
On my return, the mixed doubles quarter final had started. Mercifully Janie had taken some snaps of the players arriving and starting. It was a young British pair; Jay Clarke & Harriet Dart, taking on a far more experienced, seeded pair – Juan Sebastian Cabal and Abigail Spears. The thing is, though, that no-one seemed able to tell these youngsters that they weren’t supposed to beat the more experienced players.
Shhh…let’s try to win.
Jay’s entourage to the right – dad Errol just visible (and more audible)
Heck, these kids can play
Smiles even in defeat
A semi-final place – very promising signs from young Clarke and Dart. I was impressed especially by Clarke in the days and weeks leading up to our visit but on the day I was especially impressed by Dart, who looks a very natural doubles player. Jay Clarke might go on to excel at either singles or doubles or even both; at 19 he seems a very complete player already.
Towards the end of the mixed doubles, the seats vacated by a rather grumpy couple in front of us were taken up by a very friendly couple who had come from Bristol to see the Court One action and were thrilled to have managed to grab a couple of £10 end of day returns to get to see some action on the Centre Court.
All three fixtures so far had been quite short matches, so the authorities laid on some entertainment for us in the form of a bonus match; Gentlemen’s Invitation Doubles. The couple in front of us were thrilled to get to see an extra match; she described it as a dream come true.
Mark Philippoussis and Tommy Haas both still look well fit
Sebastian Grosjean and Fernando Gonzalez not so much
Many years ago some kids in the park mistook me for Sebastian Grosjean while I was playing with Janie. I had no beard in those days and Grosjean did sport a bandana in a similar style to mine if I recall correctly. Back then, the tennis comparison seemed absurd, but now, looking at a chunkier, less agile Grosjean, I’m not sure whether either of us should be flattered by that comparison.
Anyway, the guys played some fun tennis; mostly clowning around but some exhibition quality shots too, with the result never in doubt. Entertaining tennis was the winner.
Heck, we had a lovely day, as always when we go to Wimbledon. It wasn’t the most competitive day we have ever seen, nor was it one of the better days of this year’s championships, tournament-wise. But such a day at Wimbledon is very special indeed and we feel very lucky and privileged to have been able to enjoy it.
I turned up to play him in the morning. On arrival he greets me with the phrase:
I ran into someone who knows you the other day. Knows you from the gym or something. When real tennis came up in the conversation, he asked if I knew you.
But the really strange coincidence about that encounter was that, John told me, it was at Grace Road, Leicester, at a Cricket Society bash…
…do you mean day two of the Leicestershire v Middlesex match?…
John and I fought out a tough, some would say bitter, battle, which ended in a draw, once the nonagenarians, who were next on court, separated us combatants who, by that time, were (naturally) screaming, punching, wrestling and biting. It’s a gentleman’s game, real tennis. In fact, I stayed on for the nonagenarian doubles that day and almost managed to keep up with the oppo for an additional hour.
Later that day, once I had recovered from two hours of combat (and done a spot of work), Janie and I took dinner at Delamina in Marylebone, ahead of a rather unusual-looking late night concert at the Wigmore Hall.
We thought the food in Delamina was superb – I had a seriously posh kofta dish while Janie had a seriously posh take on turkey shawarma – but the place was very noisy on a Friday evening and the service, while admittedly delivered by universally sweet staff, was poor.
We stretched our legs and got a chance to have a conversation that we both could hear, by walking the long way round to the Wigmore Hall. While strolling, I told Janie about the strange coincidence that John Thirlwell (whom she had met at the Middlesex University Real Tennis match) had been in the next room to me all day at Leicester.
Before entering the concert hall itself, I popped to the Wigmore Hall loo. There I saw a gentleman who looked remarkably like John Thirlwell. No, he wasn’t a gentleman who looked a lot like John Thirlwell; it WAS John Thirlwell.
“This is bonkers”, I said, “you’re blooming everywhere” – to which John could only smile and agree. Thus Janie and I chatted with John and his charming companion Maggie before and briefly after the concert. John is not a Wigmore Hall regular – he had simply seen this concert listed and thought it looked interesting and different.
I often say that Lord’s and the Wigmore Hall are the last remaining places where I get addressed as “young man”. I wonder whether that sort of thing was the causal link for John Thirlwell visiting both places on the same day as me. Joking apart about fierce combat; it turns out that John is actually jolly good company, both on the tennis court (which I knew already) and also in the concert hall.
A collaboration much like the fusions in Delamina’s food, now I come to think of it.
Here is one of the pieces, from the latest David Orlowsky Trio album, which they played for us at the Wig:
Or try this tiddler, which the Wig used to promote the concert we attended:
We thought the music was wonderful fun; a mixture of smooth jazz and the sort of dance rhythms that central and eastern European music does so well, not least when klezmerised.
Janie and I sat next to an aficionado of the group who told us, sadly, that the trio is due to split soon after a mere 20 years together. Perhaps they feel it is time to pursue other projects. They are all virtuoso musicians; David Orlowsky himself utterly exceptional on the clarinet but really all three were excellent.
Quite a day; I hope John Thrilwell enjoyed his day as much as I enjoyed mine.
Occasionally something really rather special emerges as a result of Ogblog. One such emergence, some months ago, was an e-mail out of the blue from Jon Gorvett, a friend from Keele University, who had stumbled across Ogblog and thus reconnected with me and with Simon Jacobs.
Anyway, subsequently one thing led to another, Jon eventually acquiesced to grace Blighty with his presence, so we (including Jon’s good lady, Stefanie) arranged to meet up for a meal together.
We settled on 35 New Cavendish, which I recalled from my previous visit with Janie, Chris & Charlotte, was pretty quiet. I thought our reunion would benefit from us being able to hear each other, which it did. The food is good at 35 New Cavendish, without being exceptional; the service is passable; the location worked well for all of us.
Thank you, Mr Waiter – top photographic work. L-R: Stefanie, Ian, Simon & Jon
Question for advanced students: identify Jon, Simon and Ian from this 1982 visual
The years seemed to peel away rapidly and easily. Lots has happened to all of us (and to the world) in the 30+ years since we last gathered, but it felt like a natural and familiar get together, despite the magnitude of that time interval. I certainly sensed that none of us have changed our world view or re-oriented our moral compasses.
As Simon said in a subsequent e-mail:
Inevitably, there was a sense of only scratching the surface as it’s an impossible task to meaningfully fill in the blanks of 30 plus years in an evening. But you’ve got to start somewhere.
Simon also expressed concern for Stefanie in all this:
I do hope Stefanie wasn’t too bored or bewildered… She didn’t appear to be, but then I’m not really in a position to know whether she was just being monumentally polite. It was very nice to meet her!
I echo those sentiments.
On learning that many people have Ogblog monikers – for example, Simon is known as “Awesome Simo” – Jon and Stefanie expressed an interest in acquiring Ogblog monikers of their own. I did offer them the opportunity to apply with their own choices of names, but the only thing that has been forthcoming so far is this super picture (below) of Jon drinking a pint in the Sneyd Arms at Keele, a couple of days after our gathering.
Later that same week, Jon sent us this snap from the Sneyd
So Ale-jar Jon and Sneyd Steff it is, unless or until they supply more suitable nicknames of their own.
Coincidentally, The Sneyd Arms does seem to have become a magnet recently for those nostalgia visits and photos amongst my old friends. Ashley Fletcher sent me this just a few months ago:
But I digress.
It was a very enjoyable evening at 35 New Cavendish with Jon, Simon and Stefanie. I very much hope, as Simon suggests, that we get a chance to do more than just scratch the surface of renewed acquaintance in the near future.
