The Frumplingtons

Table tennis highlights were shown, albeit briefly, on the BBC’s Thursday evening Olympics programme. It’s a fast game, but we think it would be ideal for Britain’s former tennis hero, Tim Henman, since his retirement from ‘proper’ tennis. Just one thing worries me, though: Henman’s famous serve ‘n’ volley technique isn’t likely to get him very far in ping-pong — it’s all strictly baseline these days.

We had a couple of other stoopid great ideas for variations on table tennis. These are guaranteed to put ‘bums on seats’ in those half-empty Beijing stadia.

• Tiny table tennis: give the players a special pill or drink (see ‘Alice in Wonderland’ for full details) that would shrink them to the same height as the net. Then pop them on the table and have them play normally, as if they were on a hard court — except with a much bigger drop off the edge.
• Coffee table tennis: due to the much lower height of the table, players could remain seated in armchairs during play. 10-ounce styrofoam cups of coffee could be placed in front of each player, to provide an obstacle and give extra chances for penalty or bonus points if either player knocks over the opponent’s cup.

We hope to road test coffee table tennis soon. It might have to wait, though, till we can find a suitable umpire. If you think you can take any of this seriously enough, please apply via the comments section. We must warn you though: the pay is paltry. Well, the Olympics is supposed to be amateur rather than professional, isn’t it?

It’s Rafael Nadal’s big day tomorrow: his second chance to take the Wimbledon Men’s Singles title off Swiss hunk, Roger Federer. I wonder how it will go, though: will it be Nadal — or nada!

A bit of advice, Nads:

For gawd’s sake, don’t go and blow it in the last set like you did last year!

Rafa has become a big influence on me recently. Last night, for example, before getting into bed I spent two minutes faffing about with adjusting the position of my bedside glass of water: first a couple of millimetres one way, then a couple of mils the other. When Shana asked why I was doing all this, I told her:

“Rafael Nadal always takes a long time lining his water bottles up before he starts a match. It’s all part of his superstitious nature. I’m just following his example.”

“Well, if you take any longer about it, it’ll be time to get up again!” said Shana.

Thus chid, I finished my preparations and got into bed. My pillows, as usual, seemed less than perfectly lined up, but I didn’t bother to mention it. Best to wait, I thought, till I’m absolutely certain. After all, I only have one challenge remaining!

1. I’m left-handed.
2. I own a green t-shirt.
3. Some of my old trousers don’t quite fit right either.

Differences? Too many to count. Nadal’s backhand is slightly better than mine, he has shorter hair, speaks better Spanish… Need I go on?

Shana’s watching tennis on BBC Inactive; you know, all that press the red button now! palaver. It’s the Queens Club tournament this week. It’s only just started and the players are already arguing over whether the ball was in or out. As usual, though, Shana has the answer. There’s no need for Hawkeye. Why not simply cover all the tramlines with Velcro instead? Then, if the ball’s out, it’ll stick to the line. Genius!

The four-yearly yawnfest that is the European Football Championship competition kicked off just over an hour ago. Who will we support? Tough question, that. I could get behind the Germans, perhaps; after all, my great great great great bloody-great grandfather (or it might have been my multiple-ly great grandmother) was a Prussian infantry officer. Best, though, to let sleeping Hunds lie and pick France, instead. The reason’s simple: we just lurve baguettes!

Football has always been a mystery to me. Rugby is more my kind of game. Football refereeing does interest me, though. I’ve never understood why they have to do so much running. If I were a footie ref, I’d spend most of my time parked on a comfy shooting stick in the centre circle and use a good pair of binoculars to keep in touch with the game. The traditional ref’s outfit would have to change too. A flat cap, corduroy trousers and one of those waxed outdoor jackets would do just fine. I could look like a proper country gent if I tried. A flask of tea and a pack of sandwiches would obviously be essential to see me through any dull moments (like corners and penalty shoot-outs). Yes, with me in charge, fussball would become…well, a whole ‘nother ball game!

That settles it. I’m getting my floral notelets out and dashing off a letter to the sweet FA right now. Look out for me on Football Focus soon!

We watched some televised rugby while we had lunch today. Personally, I could watch it all day and still be none the wiser. Maybe I should pop over to the Beeb’s rules of rugby page for a bit of rugger enlightenment.

I did manage to identify one area where the game could be improved though. Being the observant type, I noticed that there is no goalie in rugby. Furthermore, the goalposts are about 200 feet high. This cannot be allowed to continue, I thought. So I suggest that, from now on, rugby should introduce goalkeepers to all teams. The goal height need not be a problem. Rugby could look to the world of theatre for a solution; and specifically to stage versions of things like “Peter Pan” or “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” or any other plays that include fairies or any other character that needs to fly. (Not that I’m suggesting rugby players are like … well, anyway, I’m not doing, so there!)

As I was saying before I so rudely interrupted myself, re. very tall rugby goalposts, goalkeepers could be fitted with a suitable harness and suspended from a crane. When a penalty kick is given, the goalie would then be winched up by another member of the team and, with luck, could then perform a spectacular save. With a few good goalkeepers around, we should eventually see an end to those ridiculously big scorelines that rugby is known for. After all, how can anyone take a game seriously if it ends with results like 54-9 or 63-12 ? Let’s raise rugger to the level of fussball and make its fans proud of those one-nil wins and 1-1 draws. Now that’s what I call tension. That’s what I call real sport!

It’ll soon be time for Wimbledon again and we all know what that means, don’t we? Yep, strawberries that cost more than a barrel of oil, intermittent rain for a whole fortnight, and not a chance of seeing anyone even vaguely British within half a mile of anything that looks like a winner’s trophy.

Even so, you’re still unlikely to spot this gorilla (pictured left) on Centre Court. Looks to me as if he prefers clay to grass; and bananas to tennis balls. Besides, he’s straight out of the imagination of illustrator Jan van Haasteren and has no existence outside of a jigsaw puzzle we completed recently.

I’m not sure where Haasteren gets his ideas but I do know one thing: the muscular player (below left) is more he-man than Henman. Speaking of which, now that the Great Henman has retired, are they going to rename the famous Henman Hill? And if so, what’s it going to be called? (Personally, I always thought it should have been styled ‘Henman hillock’: makes it much easier to write good limericks, if you see what I mean.)

Here’s something else you probably won’t see at this year’s Wimbledon. Know why? ‘Cos it’s the wrong kind of barker, that’s why!

Oh, and here’s the overall view, just to prove we did actually do the whole puzzle and not just a few funny bits.

You’ve probably heard by now: Roger Federer beat Raffy Noodle in five sets in today’s Wimbledon Men’s Final, and has therefore now equalled Bjorn Borg’s record of five consecutive Wimbledon wins.

Federer won a big shiny trophy for his efforts. Believe us, Rog, it’ll need a lot of polishing. Just go steady: you don’t want to wear your serving arm out, do you?

The most amazing thing about Federer, though, was the suit he changed into when he went to collect his trophy. (By the way, does he get a ginormous cheque as well or does he have to put the big brass pot into hock for a year in exchange for some prize money? I’ve never been too sure how it all works, you know.)

Anyway, back to the Federer suit: it was sparkling white. Absolutely brilliant in its sheer whiteness. And anyone who knows what the Frumplingtons are like, knows exactly what we’re gonna do next. We are about to throw down the gauntlet:

Roger Federer: dare you take the Fried Egg Sandwich Challenge?

Lincoln City, the ‘nearly men’ of league football — so called because they have reached the play-offs in League Two for five years in a row without managing to escape the lower divisions — have failed yet again to gain promotion to League One. They achieved this spectacular feat by being roundly beaten by Bristol Rovers at Sincil Bank earlier this evening. The aggregate score (it’s called ‘aggregate’ because Imps fans, understandably, greet this kind of score with a stony silence rather than cheers) was more like a rugby result than a football result: 7-4 to Bristol.

The new football season starts in August. Not long to go. It’ll soon be here. And you never know, next year could be the one the Imps have been waiting for. League One, here we come. Now where have I heard that before?

Lincoln City v Bristol Rovers match report available over at the dear old Beeb. Hint: it’s not for the squeamish.

Chris

I am an armchair sports fan and I have spent the last twenty minutes yawning my head off. (Actually, I spent most of it eating toasted cornèd beef sandwiches and slurping strong tea, but poetic licence and all that…)

So, what, you may wonder, is the reason for my ennui?

It’s the dull-as-ditchwater Davis Cup again, that’s what!

Is there any sporting competition more confusing than this never ending tennis tripe? With other sports, things are much more straightforward: football has its World Cup, which is played every four years, and there is a clear, if not always deserving winner, at the end of it; golf’s Ryder Cup is similarly easy to understand; and cricket has its own World Cup, plus of course the Ashes, with clear winners and losers (hello England!) in each tournament.

The Davis Cup, however, just seems to go on and on for ever. There never seems to be an end to it. Ask most tennis fans and I bet they can’t tell you who won the Davis Cup. Most of them probably wouldn’t even know when the finals were being held.

And how many people know there is actually a women’s version of the Davis Cup? Yes, you’ve been watching the BBC’s coverage of the Davis Cup (congratulations on managing to stay awake, by the way) and you’ve only just realised you haven’t seen any female players yet. Well, the women play in something called the Fed Cup. No, I have no idea why you never hear any mention of the Fed Cup on telly, never mind actually see any of the matches. Rampant chauvinism on the part of television executives maybe? Or perhaps the Fed Cup is really dull. Perhaps (how can this be?) the Davis Cup is actually the more enthralling and exciting spectacle of the two!

The crowd are certainly a bit of a rabble though, from what I’ve seen. Every point is followed by a cacophony of horns and squeaky inflatable sausages that spectators never seem to tire of banging together. It’s never like this at Wimbledon, you know.

Still, you never know, it might all be worth it in the end if Britain wins the trophy.

Ah, hang on though. I’ve just seen Tim Henman on the list of team members. Better get 50p on the Netherlands sharpish then. Gotta be a cert to win, haven’t they?

Chris