Tally Ho! Anchors aweigh and how the Dickens are you?

 Well it’s of to SW19 for me.  Managed to bag a couple of briefs for next week’s Wimbledon final FOC, gratis and for nothing. 

Not too sure if it’s for the Men’s or Ladies though.  But that’s a mere academic point as one finds it increasingly difficult to tell the difference between the chaps and the chapesses on the court these days anyhoo.   Bring back the frilly knickers for the fillies, says I.  And long trousers for the gents. 

I watched some fellow called Mario Sharapova yesterday.   Deuced good-looking cove.  Blonde hair, six foot two and eyes of blue.  He could carve out a fine career in Hollywood were he to learn the Mother Tongue.  Wouldn’t even to change his daft, girly first name either.  A lot of Italians on the silver screen these days.  Can’t think of any offhand mind you. 

 I can’t even phone my Californian correspondent, Arnie, for a hint either.  He’s not been talking to me since I told his wife that the last born got the father’s looks.  Don’t quite understand why she flew off the handle at that.  It got even worse when I joked that maybe the big fellow should get a Maternity Test.  Bloody foreigners.  I tell you, they speak a different language. 

 Anyhoo, you’ll naturally be wondering how one managed to winkle the tickets for the princely sum of sod all.  Well it’s all down to my good friend Staggers: a spot of Yuletide misfortune; and the inefficiencies of the Communists running England’s legal system.  

Six months to come to trial?   Not that I’m complaining, for once.  It’s worked out bloody well for me.

 You know Staggers, don’t you? Eton, Cambridge and, latterly, MP for some dreary industrial town in the north.  Now set for an appearance at the Horseferry Magistrates Court.

 Yes old Staggers has got himself into a bit of lather.  Got caught welcoming in the New Year with a Guardsman in Hyde Park, y’see.   In a very friendly fashion.  A very good friends fashion. 

 Foxed me for a minute when he told me about it I can tell you.  Storm in a teacup I thought.  Staggers has always been a confirmed bachelor.  A bit like Ted Heath except less dangerous to the country. 

Thank God for the voice of reason that is the BBC.  I can now accept that I have lesbian tendencies.  But I refute the accusations that we’re all Good Europeans.  

And Staggers’ little incident is proof positive.  Quod Erat Demonstradum no less, as we with a better education than the plebs are want to say.    Found in flagrante, i.e the privates were on parade, amidst the rhodendrons with the thermometer hovering around zero.  Makes one proud to be English.  You wouldn’t find a Frenchy or a Jerry showing their mettle in such a manner.

 Naturally I immediately offered my services as a character witness.  And by immediately I mean that I had a good chuckle first.  Steady on, one has to get one’s priorities in order.  Nothing better than an old chum with more boodle in the bank letting you know he’s come a cropper.  Schadenfreude the Jerries call it.  They’ve simply got hundreds of words associated with gleeful misfortune, invasion, world domination… but funny isn’t in their vocabulary.  Strange that.

 Anyway, the upshot is that as Staggers is otherwise detained, I get free tickets for Central Court at Wimbers.  Or is it Centre Court?  Can’t remember.  Better bloody seat than Staggers is facing I’m sure.

 Now you’ll need to keep this to yourself, under the hat so to speak.  Old Staggers has taken out one of those Super-Duper-Injunctions to stop the info appearing in the News of the Screws come Sunday. 

Waste of time and money, says I, as it merely means that some idiot with nothing else to do will plaster it all over the interweb.  Rum show that.  You won’t catch me baring a chap’s delicate matters so lightly.  But you wouldn’t catch me baring the delicate matters in Hyde Park either.

But, hey ho! One lives and learns.