Oxford’s prince of pulling, baron of banter and lord of lash returns with his thoughts on Wimbledon
I’ve been spending my summer grappling with a tricky philosophical question: what’s shitter – Wimbledon, or my toilet after a Vindaloo and a twelve-pack of Stella? But, after about two seconds of deep thought, I’ve made my mind up. You guessed it. Wimbledon is the sloppiest turd in the sporting world since Paula Radcliffe last went jogging.
People tell me tennis is laddish. Yeah, about as laddish as turning down an orgy with Mila Kunis, Kelly Brook and Daenerys Targaryen to go serve salad to a Lib Dem party conference.
I would sooner cook my testes in a panini-maker than go near centre court. Everything about it is one hundred percent bollocks, with added shitness.
From the wanker in his fucking massive chair (compensating, much?) to the creepy little ball boys (an ironic title – they’re all eunuchs), the place reeks of soggy strawberries, middle-class pouting and Clare Balding, who is frankly nowhere near as hot as the lesbians I have seen on the internet.
Wimbledon seems to suck in the dregs, the detritus, the Channel Fives of society. The male players either have a penis that is microscopic, like Rafael Nadal, or far too big, like Serena Williams.
As for Andy Murray, well he is hands-down the most boring Scotsman I have ever seen. Where is his irn bru, his alcoholism, his propensity to swear at the English and bottle people in kebab shop queues?
Then there’s the women. Now, I admit some of them are pretty tidy. Maria Sharapova would get my Wimbledong any day of the week, and that Simona Halep had a bigger rack than the Tower of London, at least she did before some prick surgeon went all Jolie on it.
Also, Laura Robson, if you’re reading this – unlikely, I know; the OxStu is shit – and you want to get grand slammed, meet me at the Teddy Hall bar. Bring baby lotion and a fly swatter…
Sorry, where was I? Got distracted by that image. But I’m back now, and I’ve washed my hands. Anyway, just because a bunch of hotties do something, that doesn’t make it laddish.
For instance, you might be surprised to learn that there’s quite a few 8/10s among the Wadham Feminists. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to turn up every week and pretend women aren’t objects, does it?
Incidentally, I did once infiltrate that hairy-pitted cabal. I learnt a hell of a lot – you know all their prattle about fucking the patriarchy? Boy, do they mean it literally. Talk about Emmeline Spankhurst.
But back to Wimbledon. It’s shit. Try something more fun, like going paintballing, but fill your gun with ball bearings. Now that’s a ball sport Agony Lad can endorse.
The views of Mr Lad do not reflect those of the editorial team of The Oxford Student. Please address any complaints to Agony Lad’s pidge at Teddy Hall, or, failing that, firstname.lastname@example.org.