Newspaper article Evening Chronicle (Newcastle, England)

You Can't Be Serious

Newspaper article Evening Chronicle (Newcastle, England)

You Can't Be Serious

Article excerpt

I'd half expected a mad Mullah, with a shaggy wig covering his nether regions, to steal the show at Wimbledon.

Let's face it, the whole place has gone to pot since they relaxed the rules allowing coloured kit.

So why not go the whole hog and have fancy dress?

The problem would be keeping out the heavily disguised imposters.

I mean, a mad Mullah could pull a racket from under his beard, smash a few balls towards the royal box and then go on to beat Tin Henman in straight sets, before any royal bodyguards had time to react.

But then, even the strawberry sellers at Wimbers have better security than your average Windsor Castle royal birthday bash. So, I suppose, Mad Mullah would be kept well away from Centre Court and Her Maj'.

Instead, he'd be restricted to court 14, where he could quietly get on with thrashing Leyton Blewitt or some eight feet tall, stammering Czech.

I've noticed from watching coverage of the great event that most of the security men at Wimbers have shiny new uniforms.

That's because they were only appointed this week. The Lawn Tennis Association hired a job lot who'd just been laid-off by the Royal Protection Squad.

But the real story behind the endlessly repeated TV clips marking Prince William's 21st birthday is that they confirmed he's going to be a slap head!

By the time Wills finds his Queen - no, not Prince Edward - he'll be walking up the aisle as naked as Andre Agassi.

The poor lad may be a strapping six feet tall and inherited his mum's stunning features, but when it comes to hair, he's in follicle regression. He will soon be going the way of those three other magnificent salon Princes - Charles, Philip and Bobby Charlton.

Yes, the HRH in front of Will's name definitely stands for Hair's Run H'orf.

Of course, he could have covered his thinning pate by borrowing the castle invader's syrup. TV news bulletins showed the party nut wearing a lavish thatch under his flowing robes. But as funny as his outfit was, no one was laughing after he'd outwitted half the Metropolitan Police Force, SAS marksmen, the Welsh Guards, Special Branch, MI5, the Royal Protection Squad and Hendo Garvie from Ultimate Farce.

And so, to the tennis. Or, as Greg Rude-sedski would put it, "the F***ing, sh*t, w***er tennis."

The Canadian's four-letter volley certainly livened things up on Centre Court. The green blazer brigade from the Lawn Tennis Association almost choked on their Pimms.

But it was more remarkable for the BBC2 commentary of John McEnroe, the former tennis firebrand and scourge of umpires everywhere. He had the cheek to slam Rude-sedski for his outburst. Surely, Mr McEnroe, you can-NOT BE SERIOUSSSS!

I watched Spooks again this week: Yup, I still don't get it!

As Captain Scarlett and Karen McDonald slipped away after being rumbled with their hands in Mike Baldwin's knickers at Underworld, Corrie slipped effortlessly into another round of tantalising stories. …

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