THE ELLPUS GUIDE TO TENNIS AND WEIGHT LOSS.

It is with a deep sense of pride, that I can announce that I have managed to lose three pounds in weight over the past six months. I have achieved this remarkable feat by immersing myself in an organised sporting activity.

It all started back in August of 2005 when, whilst walking in the local park with the better half, I jogged towards a straying football, in order to kick it back in the general direction of several hormonally imbalanced youths.

Whilst halfway through this short jog, I was aware of my wife shouting "FAT MAN RUNNING!", in an attempt to warn other promenaders to keep out of the way. Was she referring to my small amount of relaxed muscle? My robust earthly frame?

This sparked a conversation, mainly one sided I may add, when I was told that I should try to involve myself in some form of physical activity, in order to regain the Adonis like frame that I was so proud of in my twenties.

I pondered on this for a while, and then asked a chum, who recommended a spot of Sunday morning rugger with the rest of the lads from the saloon bar of the Kings Head Pub.

Now....I actually played rugger once at school (and by that I don't mean I once played rugger, I mean I played just the one game). I stood terrified in the middle of a sea of frozen mud with divots and furrows like concrete knives and inadvertently caught the ball.

When I noticed the opposing front row bearing down on me I, unsurprisingly, ran like buggery in the opposite direction.
I would have kept going all the way to the warm safety of the pavilion but tripped as I crossed the line and scored my one and only brilliant try while Bruising my chin, breaking a small bone in my finger and crushing a certain area of the delicate variety.

No.....rugger was not for me. What I needed, was to take up a sport that could easily be shunned during inclement weather, one which involved a small to resonable amount of movement and had plenty of refreshment breaks.
My wife plays tennis and it would be good, I thought, to learn this game in order to give her a good thrashing on the tennis court, instead of the bedroom

So I took up tennis....I equipped myself with an expensive racket, a can of balls and some ludicrous shoes of such glaring whiteness that I went temporarily snowblind until I'd fallen over in them a few times. I summoned the finest Professional to be had at the Regent's Park Tennis Club and took lessons.
Within a very short time I was adept at forehand, backhand, volley and service. I could drop the ball into the required box with reasonably repeatable accuracy and so I felt ready to humble the wife in a game.
The day duly arrived and I limbered up with the prescribed stretching exercises, jogged up and
down a bit, pensively twanged my racket strings and speculatively tested the bounce of the ball. The fragrant one strolled onto the court looking like a vision of female grace and assumed a relaxed pose of politely feverless anticipation.

Now was my moment!...... I cast the ball perfectly, coiled the muscular powerhouse of my spine into an impossible backward curve, sent the racket through a perfect arc and, at the precise moment, connected with the descending ball, my entire strength behind it. I grunted as the shot fired through the box and past the better half in a perfect ace.

She raised an eyebrow.

"Dear God. There's no need to play like an American", she shouted, with which she lobbed a ball up, as if she were testing the wind with a feather and, without appearing to move at all drove the ball back past me.
At least I think she did. There was no actual trace of the ball.

There was an eighteen inch melted scar in the playing surface somewhere just inside the box, a smoking hole in the chainlink fence, and a vague recollection of a furry yellow blur passing my right ear.

I decided it was time for a strategic regroup over a lemon barley water and a Havana.

This is what I learned on that very first day.

You can forget lawns, clay courts, real and indoor tennis, the only real game is Middle Class (MC) or "Sorry" tennis. What follows is a necessarily brief rundown of the rules. As with any sport played to a high enough level, it can take a lifetime to get it right.......

Now.....first of all, the location. It is imperative that the playing surface is a shite, substandard tarmac, just like the player will have learned on in their school, or regimental headquarters.
It is essential that they should be fully open to the public so there is always someone worse than you to tut at.
Private tennis clubs are for strivers, climbers and yuppies.

Your racket should always be last year's top model. This implies the perfect combination of thrift and carelessness, mixed with frightening ability. Most serious players have already bought next year's racket and will spend the off-season soaking the handle in tea to make it look suitably used.

Balls should be marked in felt pen with a secret code (almost always, for some reason, three dots, arranged in a triangle) as MC tennis players who wouldn't consider for a second breaking the
law in any other way are happy to steal each other's balls with the brazen glee of council estate burglars.

Tennis whites are absolutely forbidden. Anyone who arrives on a MC court wearing whites would be seen as "trying too hard", a capital crime in England, and will almost certainly turn out to be some kind of stockbroker or banker.
They may be adept at the regular game, possibly to near International standard, but no one will play with them.

Tennis shirts are for football hooligans, not players. A gardening shirt will suffice. Shorts are never white. They should be blue, school or regimental issue and look like you have worn them sice you were eighteen. This simultaneously implies that a) you don't care for appearances, b) you went to the kind of school that had uniforms and played tennis and c) your arse is the same size it was at 18.
N.B....Selfridge's tennis department sells pre-aged shorts of this kind in sizes up to XXL.

Ideally one should play in original Dunlop Green Flash tennis shoes, ancient but lovingly painted white.
Sadly this is likely to result in ankle and cartilage damage, so many players have regretfully shifted to modern shoes. It is hoped that, with the increasing fashion for "Retro" sportswear, Nike will bring out a ?'Venus Williams/Andrei Agassi, Extra-Fast, Serve Like a Bastard, Mid-Arch-Support, Lo-Skid pair
that looks just like the ancient "Green Flash".
Other recommended accessories are rugger socks from one of the better Eton houses, knackered rowing jersey, T-shirt from bar in Barbados and a straw panama. Things to avoid are dresses, skirts, sweatbands, visors, caps, bobble backed socks, logoed tennis shirts, racket bags, sports drinks, wrist exercisers, elastic bandages, hi-tech elbow or knee braces, towels and bananas.

Finally to the game itself. There is no scoring system as it is considered impolite to actually win. Players knock the ball backwards and forwards in a way that gives the opponent the maximum chance to return. The important underlying idea is that, as two equally charming people, you play evenly until one of you inadvertently makes an error and allows a point. This way, points occur by accident rather than by one player trying harder than the other. This is so much more polite and, as no one would dream of keeping score anyway, highly equitable.
Difficult line or net calls are settled by both players hotly insisting that the other was in the right until one gives in, exhausted. Most importantly, shots that are too good or too bad should be accompanied by the cry of "SORRY".
This should be called in a Windsor type of accent with the emphasis on the long, flattened last syllable, thus…."Sorrrr- ehhhhhhhhhhhh".

If in doubt whether a shot is good or bad, it's always worth expressing your doubt, if the point would be to your advantage.
You should also apologise for the court, balls, weather and dragging your opponent away from something far more interesting. Above all, the golden rule is that you should never be the one that breaks the rally.

The point of all the gamesmanship in clothing is about appearance, and the ideal kit will imply that you are brilliant but far too much of a gentleman to show it.
Some of the best MC tennis players look SO good at the game that they've never actually needed to play it. At whatever level it's played, the game is won or lost before anyone walks onto the court.

So, the next time you see Tim Henman being thrashed by either an American, Australian or East Euro fellow with an unpronouncable name, just spare a thought for the millions of English folk who are cheering him on, happy in the knowledge that he hasn't forgotten his roots and is playing the game in a proper fashion. "Sorrrr-ehhhh!

MARVELLOUS!

Now, with a bit of effort and a hell of a lot of willpower, you too could be the proud owner of a sylph like figure, whilst enjoying a PROPER game.

Good luck!