Fellatio Lopez? WHAT

If my mother was a Wimbledon umpire, she’d be the Jade Goody (too soon?) of tennis officials; it’d be hilarious, yes, but the players would end up aiming aces directly at her face.

“So what’s the name of this guy Murray might be playing in the quarter final then... Fellatio, right?”

Are you having an effing laugh? I glance over, a bit distressed, equally amused, waiting for her to crack a smile. Was that a little joke on Janice’s part, referring to this professional tennis player as a blowjob? This, surely, must be the pinnacle of his global career.

“Fishano?” I could end this torture now, but it’s just too damn funny as she reels off another gaffe. Rifling through the paper, she eventually finds out it’s Feliciano, turns a shade of crimson, and the matter is most definitely closed. My madre is often a clever woman, but Spanish first names clearly aren’t her strong suit. Manuel becomes Manure, Esteban becomes Oestrogen, and the whole thing is a massive screw up.

Then again, some of these players don’t exactly make it easy; I found a junior in the Boys’ Singles and Doubles with a wonderfully eccentric name. Aslan Karatsev. Yep, read it and rejoice; this curly haired Russian cherub has been named after a lion in a kid’s book. A very heroic lion, that may be, but a fictional big cat nonetheless.

Completely unrelated, but...

I walked out of the house yesterday morning, blinking in the morning sunshine and already sweating like a newborn piglet, when suddenly an introspective fashion drama occurred. I was wearing a Beatles t-shirt.

Now, I do like the Beatles, don’t get me wrong, yet only with a passing interest like most casual fans. Strawberry Fields Forever, Help, Can’t Buy Me Love, Something, amongst others are up there. And yet, can I be considered enough of a fan to warrant waltzing around, declaring my loyalty for them on a t-shirt? It seems a tad fraudulent; I wasn’t there in the Cavern Club at the start of their careers, I didn’t witness Beatlemania, I didn’t scream my ass off at any of their concerts. And then, I see a teenage girl, of about 14ish, flicking her hair in the air like she just don’t care y’all, wearing a Rolling Stones t-shirt. Fake tanned to the hilt with some Pat Butcher earrings on, I don’t think she even knows who Mick Jagger is.

The Beatles related guilt quickly receded.

J Au revoir. x