It must be “Wimbledon Fortnight” again As one moment the weather is lovely, warm and sunny, And the next it is horrible, cold and wet, Causing both coach and player, as well as commentator and spectator alike, to fret; And curse that “rain has once again stopped play”, If not stopped one beholding the beauty of the male thigh Almost as quickly as one downs vast quantities of strawberries and cream, As one rolls one’s eyes upwards to God in Heaven to ask why.
“Why do I have to sit in this dreary room” I would often ask myself as a child at school More interested in the boys playing tennis on the courts outside, Than what my then Music teacher, now loyal friend, Derek W MBE appeared to be pontificating about from his backside; Wishing, instead, that Sir would amplify More about how a younger boy should blow an older boy’s horn or, at the very least, about the relationship between Benjamin Britten and Peter Pears Than the volume of his recording of Britten’s War Requiem, if only to capture my interest and imagination as much As the boys playing tennis outside be they the good, the bad and the ugly, or should one say the incorrigible, the effeminate and the butch!
So as I sit and watch the televising of the men’s games at Wimbledon today, Trying hard not to drool too much at the pretty ball-boyz as they stand there so disciplined not unlike soldiers on parade standing “at ease”, One mentally nibbles their sausages, their balls and their macho meaty thighs, But stops short of breaking one’s teeth as one desists from attempting to chew the bone of their rather knobbly bronze-coloured knees, One is mindful that it was probably just that which, in my youth, almost certainly gave me away, As when the guys stopped playing and the dolls came on court to play, All too soon one would find my interest in tennis would soon go away, As I would always find other things to do and leave the room and duly leave others to comment I don’t know about you but I’m sure Lukey Boy is quietly gay!
How perceptive they were, as even then I only ever fancied boys and men, Albeit it was John Lloyd (not Chris Evert-Lloyd), along with Buster Mottram, who possessed my thoughts then, And whom, rather than the girls or the Wombles of Wimbledon, I mentally sought to chase, With all the enthusiasm others have when they score an ace! Even today I still find those guys quite cute, even though they are now obviously much older, Whilst I find myself less taciturn about my ways, even if my other means of showing it in other places, appear less bold than they were then; Although thoughts of Bjorn Borg or John McEnroe in their tight skimpy shorts still make me delirious, And afore ye or the ref call “Game, Set and Match”, I should perhaps affirm for McEnroe’s benefit I am definitely serious!
Today I again roll my eyes to Heaven and ask God why; “Why was I born without the eye-hand co-ordination to serve, let alone return, a ball? “Why was I born without Tim Henman’s boyish good looks, “Or such fast-acquired talents as his, with which to earn a few more than just a few bucks?”! But then I ask myself if, indeed, that were the case, Would I be any happier for it than I am now, When I feel out of his league, If not, entirely, from outer-space, As I ask “Anyone for tennis” and reply “I don’t really care but I would certainly have Henners”!
It must be “Wimbledon Fortnight” again
ReplyDeleteAs one moment the weather is lovely, warm and sunny,
And the next it is horrible, cold and wet,
Causing both coach and player, as well as commentator and spectator alike, to fret;
And curse that “rain has once again stopped play”,
If not stopped one beholding the beauty of the male thigh
Almost as quickly as one downs vast quantities of strawberries and cream,
As one rolls one’s eyes upwards to God in Heaven to ask why.
“Why do I have to sit in this dreary room”
I would often ask myself as a child at school
More interested in the boys playing tennis on the courts outside,
Than what my then Music teacher, now loyal friend, Derek W MBE appeared to be pontificating about from his backside;
Wishing, instead, that Sir would amplify
More about how a younger boy should blow an older boy’s horn or, at the very least, about the relationship between Benjamin Britten and Peter Pears
Than the volume of his recording of Britten’s War Requiem, if only to capture my interest and imagination as much
As the boys playing tennis outside be they the good, the bad and the ugly, or should one say the incorrigible, the effeminate and the butch!
So as I sit and watch the televising of the men’s games at Wimbledon today,
Trying hard not to drool too much at the pretty ball-boyz as they stand there so disciplined not unlike soldiers on parade standing “at ease”,
One mentally nibbles their sausages, their balls and their macho meaty thighs,
But stops short of breaking one’s teeth as one desists from attempting to chew the bone of their rather knobbly bronze-coloured knees,
One is mindful that it was probably just that which, in my youth, almost certainly gave me away,
As when the guys stopped playing and the dolls came on court to play,
All too soon one would find my interest in tennis would soon go away,
As I would always find other things to do and leave the room and duly leave others to comment
I don’t know about you but I’m sure Lukey Boy is quietly gay!
How perceptive they were, as even then I only ever fancied boys and men,
Albeit it was John Lloyd (not Chris Evert-Lloyd), along with Buster Mottram, who possessed my thoughts then,
And whom, rather than the girls or the Wombles of Wimbledon, I mentally sought to chase,
With all the enthusiasm others have when they score an ace!
Even today I still find those guys quite cute, even though they are now obviously much older,
Whilst I find myself less taciturn about my ways, even if my other means of showing it in other places, appear less bold than they were then;
Although thoughts of Bjorn Borg or John McEnroe in their tight skimpy shorts still make me delirious,
And afore ye or the ref call “Game, Set and Match”, I should perhaps affirm for McEnroe’s benefit I am definitely serious!
Today I again roll my eyes to Heaven and ask God why;
“Why was I born without the eye-hand co-ordination to serve, let alone return, a ball?
“Why was I born without Tim Henman’s boyish good looks,
“Or such fast-acquired talents as his, with which to earn a few more than just a few bucks?”!
But then I ask myself if, indeed, that were the case,
Would I be any happier for it than I am now,
When I feel out of his league, If not, entirely, from outer-space,
As I ask “Anyone for tennis” and reply “I don’t really care but I would certainly have Henners”!