I could take a point off Serena Williams

So I was in the boozer with them lot right, and somehow the topic of conversation comes round to tennis or some shit, cos Wimbledon was coming up, but I don’t watch any of them Tory sports so I’m stuck flipping beer mats, just staring off into space like. Half-listening to this Jess, Pete’s bird, going on about some poll they’ve done saying something like one in eight men thought they could take a point off of Serena Williams, the tennis bird. This Jess was going like, how ridiculous it was, how could any man think that, all this, but all I’m hearing is a challenge and I didn’t want to be the boring fuck adding no patter all night so I thought go on, why not take the bait, go on mate. So I go and say like, yeah I reckon I could take a point off this bird. Pete just starts with his shit-eating grin, and Jess just goes all boggle-eyed staring at me.

            – What makes you think that then? Rob is leaning in to us like, all proper and big man style.

            – Have you ever even seen Serena Williams play Nev? Jess is going like. – She’s the best ever. This bird’s really giving it the big one here.

            – She is pretty good, Pete chucks in, the cheeky cunt, and Jess loops her arm through his like.

            – And you’re just some fucking guy, says Pete in the chicken shop, watching the guy behind the counter squirt mayo all over his chips. – No offence, slimey little fucking Pete says, and the lump of meat on a stick keeps revolving.

            So I’ve been taking the bait all night and I’m gonna need to justify myself for this to go anywhere like, so I just come out with: – Well, I haven’t played tennis since that one PE lesson when they said we’d got special funding from some organisation, and then after that it was back to running to the tree and back. But I remember from that one lesson that all the kids would just smash the ball into the net all the time and you’d just win the game by accident, not even doing anything. So obviously that wouldn’t happen as much on the pro level like, but I’m guessing it still happens enough for me to win just once by accident, right?

            And the others are all falling over each other at me saying this shite, which is good, good patter is good patter like, even if you’re the fucking jester in the middle of it. Better to be a clown than stuck saying nothing, contributing nothing, like.

    – Yeah, sometimes, this Jess bird finally pipes up, putting me out of my fucking misery, they make errors, but only against other pros, and if Serena was up against you she wouldn’t have to try that hard, she’d just play easy to make sure she didn’t mess up and she’d still destroy you.

            And fucking Pete has to add in something, of course, lest we forget his existence: – If she did hit a serve as hard as she could at you, it might rip your bollocks off Nev!

            So I’m the fucking court jester and doing a great job at it and all, but I’m actually starting to believe in myself here. I want to stake my claim that, actually, I’d be able to do this. Cos all my life people have told me, oh Nev, you can’t do that, you don’t have the right qualification, you don’t have any experience doing that, maybe you should just make that your hobby, rather than try to make a living out of it.

            No prick’s ever believed in me, and I’ve never believed in myself, so, actually, I’m gonna fight my fucking corner one this take a point off Serena Williams patter.

            So now I’m bigging myself up and that: – Yeah, I says, I know she’d fucking smash me in a full fucking tennis match, but this scenario we’ve invented, I only have to beat her in one point, one bit of the game, right? And I’m saying: – I reckon, at one point in the game, even against us, she’s going to fuck it and overhit the ball or hit it into the net or something, and I’ll win the point, the only point I need to win in this imaginary scenario, just by pure accident like.

            And this is when things got fucking weird like, cos now we’re all taking this mad hypothetical serious like.

            – Well actually, big Rob turns around to us and starts wearing his explainy face, actually, I used to work in hospitality at Wimbledon, like really close to the players and that, and I actually, actually, like befriended the Williams sisters last year. I have their numbers and all, and their agent’s numbers as well. If you wanted, I could actually set up a game. Like, it’s Wimbledon next week so they’re all in the country, and I could actually, actually, book us at Wimbledon too, because they do these practice games and stuff to make sure all the courts are ready to go. If you actually, actually, wanted to make this a reality Nev…

            And they’re all falling over themselves again, chips flying round everywhere, expecting us to be bricking it and groveling, all desperate to back out. But I wasn’t fucking bricking it, I was feeling, fucking, determined at this point, I was like, fucking, let’s have it! Let’s do it!

            So somehow, by the end of the night and we’re all going our separate ways, night bus, taxi, fucking half hour walk, and I had my tennis match on Centre Court at Wimbledon with this Serena bird all booked for the very next day.

            I decided to spend the night looking up on tennis and Serena Williams and all that on the internet, so I could make some kind of gameplan. Apparently, tennis games are what they call, best of five sets, and each set you need six games to win. And each game you need four points to win, but for some insane posh boy reason, each point is actually fifteen points, except for sometimes it’s only ten.

            And I’m just like, mate this is complicated as fuck, I’m gonna need a lie down and get back to this, so I crash on my scratcher and classic like, when I wake up, it’s fucking ten in the AM and my phone’s pure buzzing like mad, all people calling us, saying this challenge has ‘gone viral’ and mates saying they’ve got tickets to come see us play fucking tennis, and there’s cheeky fucking Petey messaging us – mate the match is due to start at one o’clock in the afternoon, you’ve got to get here, fucking Wimbledon he means and all, ASAP. But all I can think of is that I’ve got to get back to finding out how many points are actually in one of these games, like ten or forty or whatever it is. But there’s fuck all time for that because Joe Baxi rolls up outside the flat, beeping his horn and screaming in through my window.

            – Yous needs to get in this vehicle right fucking now, this bossy prick’s going, I’m under orders from The Top.

            – The top of what? I crane my head out of the window to shout back, breathing in all the mould growing around there, cos they’re the real fucking tenants. And the guy is just giving us pure death stares back.

            – THE TOP. That’s all he’s fucking saying so no choice in the matter, he comes up and bundles us down the stairs, into the back of this cab and we’re off, with us just cramming in the back seat, cribbing off the pen marks on the back of my hand, pure morning of GCSEs style. I went over the gameplan there and then. I’d at least got as far as knowing that the tennis people alternate turns to serve, so when this Serena bird was serving, I wasn’t gonna even bother trying to return it, cos I’d seen a youtube video of her serving the night before and was like, fuck that, not even gonna try. So my opportunities to win this point were cut in half, straight away, but I would also be conserving my energies for my own serves like. If I hit one good serve and she hit it back into the net or out of bounds, that was game over, then and there, thank you very much. If she hit it back into play, I’d just leave it. I wasn’t gonna get drawn into a tennis match here.

            Following this simple formula, I would get thirty-six opportunities to win a point. One of those thirty-six times, I knew, just pure fucking gut instinct, that Serena Williams, the world’s best tennis bird, would fuck it. Everyone makes mistakes.

            So we rock up to Wimbledon, and there’s this fucking massive crowd of people, a proper throng like, just milling about in that usual posho tennis garb, big hats, sunglasses, slim fit fucking chinos, jumpers tied around their shoulders, all that. And as we pull in towards the big arena in the middle, more and more of these posh cunts start turning around, pointing towards the car, jumping up and down all excited, pure giddy, kid on Christmas morning wank. We’re getting fucking mobbed by these rich boys and daddy’s girls, and there’s these telly cameras and big bright lights and microphones being shoved through the window that I’d fucking left open, trying to get some air on us cos I was pure hanging like, and these sharp and pointy toffs, reporters, jamming their heads in.

            – Why are you a misogynist, Mr Sacramento? they’re spitting into my face, – What exactly made you a racist, Mr Sacramento?

            – I’m still hungover, I says, I’m sorry, cos I’m a fucking idiot like.

            All the posh cunts are laughing it up, and then a whole fucking egg flies in through the window and splats on the empty seat next to us, and then when I look to see who threw it we’ve already sped past the crowd, into some fucking underground magic car park, and I get bundled into this empty changing room and left on my own in this grey as fuck room.

            I’m just going to myself like fuck me, this is all a bit fucking strange, and all I can do this whole time I’m stuck in this room, getting bad flashbacks to school, is just stick my head under the water fountain in the corner and pray I can sober up before this tennis wank starts. I can’t even do that though because then the door opens again and in rush fucking Petey and Robby and their birds, and they all look pure white and sheepish.

            – Can someone please explain why there’s a massive Tory throng out there and tickets and journalists and that? I says, since none of them looked like speaking up. I thought this was supposed to be an exhibition like, private and all?

            – Oh Nev! Fucking Jess is the first to pipe up, barely fucking know the bird but that’s how it is. – After the pub I was just flicking through twitter, and one thing led to another, and, well…

            – Spit it out, love, I says, she’s just pure stumbling over her words and her man, the famous fucking Peter, isn’t helping her one bit, the cunt.

            – Well… the bird’s pure tensed up. – The Blue Ticks caught whiff of what I was tweeting, and… see for yourself…

            And this Jess turns her mobile around to us, and the screen’s showing a string of mad short sentences, barely even sentences to tell the truth, all talking about us though, using my fucking name and all, saying I was

            – A classic case of toxic masculinity.

            – An example of why we should all strive to Do Better

            And there was one bird just typing the phrase – This. So Much This. out over and over again like in The Shining. And then underneath an advert for some pish energy drink, there was this banner that read – Official Twitter Moment: This Dumb Chauvinist Thinks He Better At Tennis Than Serena. And underneath that – SERENA WILLIAMS vs Opponent: The LIVE Cancellation!

            This was just meant to be a laugh, like, look at me, I’m the court jester, I can contribute to the fucking patter, ha ha fucking ha, I’m not a boring prick, and now there’s some voice booming through the walls of the changing room, coming from the big arena, some MC type hyping the audience up.

            – Who’s ready to watch the lioness eat her prey? this voice is going, reverberating around my head, no care at all for the fact I’m still pure hanging. – Who’s ready to see some manlet blood?!

            Massive fucking roar from the crowd, and they’re all stomping their feet in unison, and now our dear old Petey finally pipes up.

            – Mate, I’m not gonna lie, he says, you’ve drawn a massive crowd for this, but they all wanna see you get decapitated. Sorry.

            – They all think you’re an awful person, Jess is going, but we know you’re just a bullshit merchant. Oh thanks very fucking much for the backhanded compliment, Your Highness.

            – So maybe if you go out there and you know, play with some personality, make it fun, show your true colours, maybe you can turn them around to you? Maybe Jess pure fancies us, or maybe it’s all in my head, but whatever the case, even big hero Robert’s in on the sympathy: – We’re all behind you, mate. Just remember, she has nothing to gain from this, and everything to lose. She doesn’t want to exert herself more than she absolutely has to either; she’s got to play in actual Wimbledon in a few days! Basically, I think you’re right, Nev. Fucking cheers, glad to hear it. – The combination of her not wanting to put in full effort and the pressure to destroy you from the crowd means she’s likely to make an unforced error. Fuck it, as you say.

            And I’m hearing this and inside going yes man! Yes! This is what I was saying all along! I’m always fucking right about this stuff and no cunt ever believes us, well not anymore! Nev Sacramento is going to prove the naysayers wrong!

            And the MC starts up again: – Now, ladies and gentlemen, let’s welcome our players onto the court! And I haven’t even changed into my posh boy whities yet or anything.

            – Come on guys, I says, holding out my arms, team fucking hug, let’s do this! And we all fucking hugged and bumped fists like sports guys do, and then them lot were off, it was all down to us now. I slapped on my whities and my shitty little wristbands and headband like a proper one of them, and finally picked up the racket thing they’d put in the changing room for us. I was pure hyper, pure sprinting out of the room, through the corridors, through the glass doors, out into the theatre of gladiatorial conflict.

            The fucking din the crowd greeted us with, I’ll never fucking forget. All boos and jeers and these annoying as fuck performative laughs as I ran on, bumped fists with the guy in the lifeguard chair like they told us to, all of that. The crowd were absolutely howling, all trying to one up the prick in the seat next to them, but I was more focused on my opponent. Finally, I was standing there on the court, game about to begin, and in person, in the flesh, saw just how fucking ripped this Serena bird actually is. Absolute tank of a bird. But I kept my training in mind. Tank or not, it doesn’t matter, Nev. You’re not trying to beat her, all you need to do is stand here, and you will, eventually, win a point by accident. So I just stood there, ramrod straight, like my brother in the forces does.

            – Thank you ladies and gentlemen, the guy in the lifeguard chair started up in this wacky French accent, this is an exhibition contest between Miss Serena Williams. Huge fucking cheer. -And, er, let me see here… Neville Sacramento. Deafening fucking boos man, all in unison, and cunts chucking their drinks at us and then a giant fucking punnet of strawberries and cream just smacking the side of my head and going everywhere, and I’m still just standing there, unmoving, just taking it because I was either too scared or too focused or too hungover to do anything else.

            One of these ball boys came over to clean the mess off of us, and the crowd just did that pure irritating ‘wahey’ cheer these Tory pricks love to do. I fucking hate tennis crowds, posh cunts the lot of them. Anyway the kid does his job and pisses off, and the lifeguard guy is fidgeting in his seat, getting pure restless.

            – Miss Williams to serve, he goes, all of that shite.

            Next thing I know, a fucking rocket ship flew straight past my head, I’m still hanging and standing to attention, and then – Fifteen love, the lifeguard goes, and apparently this Serena bird’s just served and started the match. Fucking thunderous applause and huge cheers go up all around the arena.

            – YOU’VE GOT THIS GIRL.

            – I LOVE YOU SERENA, cunts are going like.

            – Quiet, please, the lifeguard keeps adjusting his fancy trousers, and they all go quiet again. This Serena bird jumps up pure athletic like, and this cannon goes off, BANG like.

            – Thirty love, and another ovation, BANG.

            – Forty love, BANG.

            – Game, Miss Williams. Huge fucking cheers, and the ball boy from earlier ushers us to this seat, this plastic garden chair shite. First game is evidently over and done in a minute fucking flat. But I’m just holding this towel the kid hands us and laughing into it man, cos this Serena bird has just served up four full-fucking-pelt whoppers that I had no intention of returning even if they’d been casually tossed over to us by the ball boy like. I was wearing her down, bit by bit, like the tide or something. How long would it take for her to go easy? And when she did, would she fuck it like?

            Anyway, it was back up off the seats, and apparently we had to change ends now and I didn’t know, which gave the crowd something extra to giggle away about and all. It was us serving this time, so this was the big moment in the game where I actually had to try like. It’d been a good fifteen fucking years since that charity tennis class and the last time I served a tennis ball, but I believed in myself now. I was displaying a growth mindset. I was putting positive energy out into the world. I was following my dreams, manifesting them into existence. I put all the effort my muscles could muster into my serve, and hammered utter fuck out of the ball.

            – FAULT, this guy on the opposite fucking wall screams at us, as my serve went straight over the net and hit the bit of the grass it wasn’t supposed to. But I wasn’t there to piss and moan, or feel sorry for myself. I was there to do a job. It’s not how many times you get knocked down. It’s how many times you get back up. So I calmed myself down like, and went for that second serve.

            – FAULT. Straight into the net. That fucking knowitall fault cunt, screaming at us, another reason why tennis is so shite. Whole crowd’s tittering away, but I don’t let myself get gotten to, just get on with the next serve. I am an athlete, powering this ball not only over the net, but into the right bit as well, then SMACK, it comes right back past us and there’s another huge cheer from the crowd.

            – BASH HIS FUCKING BRAINS IN GIRL.

            This happens another two times, and then it’s right back to this Serena bird serving. And she hasn’t figured out my gameplan yet, I’m pure delighted when four more monster serves blast past us, each one sapping a little bit more of her energy like, so at three-nil we’re sitting down again, but this match is far from over.

            – I just can’t stand mediocre men like him, this bird behind us in the front row is saying.

            – He’s disgusting, this other bird’s agreeing with her, just look at him! Scum like that have no right to interact with us in our SPACE!

            And I’m just chomping on my banana like, come on Nev, don’t take it personally like, it’s not their fault they think all that pish, they’ve been told all that by the Blue Ticks, but I can’t stop myself from giving them just a little bit of a stink eye, and when I turn around I see that they’re both wearing these little light blue badges, pinned to their big girl’s blouses, with a little white bird printed on them. I realise the horrible truth: They’ve not been told that by the Blue Ticks. They ARE the Blue Ticks! And I’m fucking raging now, cos they’re the ones who stirred this whole thing up, they’re the reason I’m making an arse of myself now when all I wanted to do was not be a boring cunt, and I can’t even calm myself down before it’s time to play again like, and I’m up to serve still fuming and all. I get the bastarding ball over the net, but when Serena hits it back over I fucking go to try and hit it like a raging idiot and I just stack it, head over heels, the works. Whole place erupts, crying with laughter, heads rolling down the aisles. And I’m in my own head now, I’m like, oh Nev, you’ve done yourself there. Get back on the plan. Just serve, fuck all else. Serve and fuck all else. Serve and fuck all else.

            Anyway, six FAULTS from the fault cunt and four more bombs from Serena later, we’re back on our chairs five-nil.

            – Can I have some earplugs or something, pretty please? I ask the ball boy, and off he rushes backstage, pure terror in his eyes. That break, to avoid hearing the Blue Ticks, I stick my fingers in my ears and hum Firestarter. Perfect. I lose the next four points and it’s back in the garden chair again, where I see a lovely fresh pair of yellow earplugs, just waiting for us. I pop them in, and pop the towel over my throbbing head. I could get used to service like that and all.

            Then the kid’s all tapping us on the shoulder like, more like smacking us cos of all this nervous panic shooting through his body, the poor little shit.

            – Mr Sacramento, the lifeguard’s going all French at us with his microphone, please return to the game. Laughter engulfs the arena, the place was like a fucking Peter Kay gig and all.

            – If you do not return to the game, Mr Sacramento, you will forfeit the set and match, thank you.

            Apparently this lifeguard cunt’s been asking us to get back on the court and I was doing fuck all on account of my shitty little earplugs, so I’m running out there as fast as I can, silly little clown being a silly dumb mediocre man as advertised. But what was that about ‘set and match’ from the lifeguard? Even if I forfeit this set there’s still one more Serena has to win afterwards, right? I’m saying all this to the lifeguard.

            – Tennis is best of five sets, I says, that’s what it said on the internet last night.

            – This is a best of three contest, Mr Sacramento, the lifeguard says, and great whoops and jeers fall down from on high, the silly little man hitting all the right notes for these posh cunts. Those two Blue Ticks were smashing their thumbs into their mobiles, furiously typing shite onto the internet with these massive beaming smiles on their faces. Kids on Christmas morning and all, they’re loving my performance. And so are Robby, Petey, their birds, all them lot. For the first time all match I catch them living it up in the premium boxes, players’ entourage only. Them lot give us a thumbs up. I give them a thumbs up. I’m still feeling good. That Serena bird’s still gonna fuck it. And with that well in mind, I step up to serve.

            And then we’re back in our chairs, three lost games later, and I’m not feeling so good anymore, cos this time around, when we get up off our shitty garden chairs, I only have one more game in which I can realistically take a point. Serena serving is a no-no, so I have to get her in game five of this second set. Otherwise, well, I’m cancelled. And there’s no coming back from cancellation. So I just take her next four serves, let them go past us, not even blasting past anymore cos she’s figured out what I’m doing and isn’t putting full welly into them now. Not that she was ever breaking a sweat anyway. The tide was not eroding her as fast as I’d hoped. Why did I ever open my fucking mouth in the boozer? Just stay mute and patterless forever, then no-one can hurt you. And I’m thinking all this shite in my head at four-nil, and it’s all bleak, and then something proper mental happens. These three fucking geezers jump down from the stands and onto the grass, rushing towards us specifically. They were waving these flags behind them as they pelted along. One of them was the English flag, then another with the letters ‘E-D-L’ written on it, and I’m like, oh fuck no, not fucking this like, not fucking this, and they’re just crowding around us, these wankers.

            – Oi mate, you’re a hero to us all, one of these cunts says, you’re an inspiration.

            – You speak common sense, another goes. Fucking no I don’t, mate, I speak pure shite.

            There’s fucking booing all around us, and I’m trying to get away from them, not involve myself with them at all cos fuck me, if my reputation could sink any lower with this posh cunt crowd, these thick cunts would be the cunts to do it.

            Then the fucking security come out and BANG man, down these geezer cunts go man, they get dragged off and Serena and I are just left standing there while the crowd murmur away, and all the official-looking types are gathered off to the side in official-looking huddles like. I looked over to the Blue Ticks, and it didn’t look good for us. I needed to act to stop the Blue Ticks, the official-looking types, the whole crowd, and the whole world from thinking I was with those fucking racist cunts. So I make straight for the lifeguard, wave at him to stop him adjusting his trousers.

            – I would like to tell the crowd that I am not affiliated with those men whatsoever, I says, thank you.

            The lifeguard looked confused, discomfuckingbobulated, but eventually he got on his microphone: – Mr Sacramento would like to make clear that he is not affiliated with those men whatsoever, thank you. And like, the crowd didn’t really know what to make of this, one or two of them did like a single hand clap but then there were also boos and jeers.

            – THAT’S NOT ENOUGH, the first Blue Tick shouts.

            – CHAUVINIST PIG, the second Blue Tick yells.

            So I goes to the lifeguard again.

            – I condemn these men and their beliefs, I says, thank you.

            – Mr Sacramento would like to make clear that he condemns these men and their beliefs, thank you.

            That woke the crowd up a little bit, I actually get some applause this time, some fucking cheers and all! Fuck me man, that was a good feeling. But the Blue Ticks still had their arms folded. So one more time I wave to the lifeguard.

            – I condemn these men in the STRONGEST of terms, I says, thank you.

            – Mr Sacramento would like to make clear that he condemns these men in the STRONGEST of terms, thank you.

            And the Blue Ticks, they sit unmoving, but slowly, slowly, they rise, rise to their feet, and begin to clap. Dry, slow claps to start, but slowly, slowly, they break out into full on fucking applause, them and then another posh cunt, and another, and another, until the whole of Wimbledon is stood clapping for us, for little old Nev. Finally, they realise I’m not such a bad guy after all. And there was Serena, stood right next to us.

            – I want you to know kid, whatever happens in the next couple of games, she looks into my eyes with that strong, confident gaze, says: – I wish you good luck. And then she just ran quick as you like to her end, and I pottered over to mine, and were on for game five like. The crowd was clapping for us, the atmosphere was pure electric, and with all that support behind us, I made my best serve of the match, pure POW like. Magic in the air.

            Didn’t fucking matter though. Ball gets battered back into my end, straight through us, fifteen-love mate.

            And the crowd were still behind us like, even at forty-love, my last chance to win on my serve. These posh cunts actually wanted to see the impossible happen now, so I psyched myself up, threw all my power into this serve, and down it fell, over the net, in the right bit. Serena walloped it back but I caught it and sent it back over the net. An actual fucking rally had occurred! The crowd was gasping in excitement, in that fucking annoying way tennis crowds do,  irritating Tory bastards.

            We battled relentlessly, though I have been told that I did, in fact, relent, after two more back-and-forths. Serena just smashes it back at us, I whacked it back at her, but JUST fucking out of bounds man.

            – FAULT, the fault cunt was right on it, and I’m just pure deflated at this point but the crowd went and applauded us anyway, all the way from parking my arse in my chair again through to running back out onto the grass. No earplugs necessary now like, only some proper big balls, cos I was about have to actually try and return these fucking serves.

            I swung at serve one, but the ball was actually behind us when I did. I swung at serve two, but the same thing happened again. Then on serve three, thirty-love, Serena fucked it. Serena went and served it straight into the fucking net, and the crowd went pure mental like. Whooping and shouting and gasping and all those other Tory noises. Then it all went deathly fucking silent for her second serve. It was slower, more deliberate, and that actually threw us off, pure wasn’t expecting it so slow, and I just whiffed on the ball completely, like a total clown. But instead of laughing at us, the crowd just went on with their posh boy, daddy’s girl noises, and that, I didn’t even mind that anymore like. I was just pure focused on getting that bastard ball over that bastard net, and whatever happened from there, at least I gave myself the chance.

            So, final point, winner takes all, like. Serena stood, like, prepared the serve, and then boomed it, supersonic, as fast as she had all match, and I just went and scooped the ball with my shitty racket, just fucking barely pinging the thing upwards towards the net, the whole crowd went like – huhuhuhuurrrrr, as it dinked on the top of the net, and deadweight just curled over and began falling towards the grass on the other side. Serena had become so fucking accustomed to us just not even attempting to return her serves like, she had grown lax, and was just stood at the other end in the spot she served from, as shocked as anyone else that the ball had been returned, completely unprepared for it like. She made this superhuman leap forward to reach the thing but it fucking fell in, right by the net, BAM, hit the ground and I collapsed, balling my fucking eyes out, cos I’d fucking one it. I’d won the point. My torment was over man, I had won the challenge! Confetti falls from the sky, crowd are going pure mental, I’m in shock like but just on instinct I go to the net and bump fists with Serena, thank her for the game, she thanks us, we’re all just oozing class here like. We bump fists with the lifeguard man in the high chair and all the official-looking types and all the reporters start rushing in around us, and I’m just taking it all in man, still pure hanging and all. Them lot are up in their private box but they come down too and we all just hug and celebrate with each other, like I’d done it, I’d won it all.

            Then there was this full-on posh prize-giving ceremony and all, and that MC from earlier was talking us up.

            – A few hours ago, he says in his posh boy accent, you were a walking cancellation. Now, you are the champion of Wimbledon, and he explained that the official-looking types had decided to just cancel the actual tournament this year and just give us the trophy, winner’s purse and all, and that I was now being referred to by the Blue Ticks as the ‘People’s Prince’ and that.

            – How do you feel, Nev? The MC asks.

            – Oh, I replies, it’s the best day of my life, so it is. I couldn’t have dreamed anything like this could ever come true.

            And I was right, it was the best day of my life, like.

            And the next day, I got taken to visit the queen like, cos I’d won the Wimbledon, and she talked to us and said she would knight us at the end of the year like, and I went and like, killed her man, just fucking snapped her neck like right there and then, cos I’m not fucking royalist like, I fucking hate the monarchy man, so did my da, like.

            – Son, he always used to say, if you ever meet the queen, kill her, like, so I did, for my dad like, hahahaha, I killed her and all. They chucked us in here, in the fucking slammer hahahaha, and they’re gonna give us the rope in here and all cos of regicide and that, hahahaha, they’re bringing it back just for little old me like, just cos I killed the queen.