Random Thoughts From a Wimbledon Line Judge During the big Match
‘Cor, that tea! I should have gone to the loo before the game!’
‘Ere we go. Right out of the tunnel, mate. Don’t wave to the people, follow the line. Assume the position. Arms behind me back. Legs slightly apart. Right-O!
Crack on, I say! Last match of the tournament. Stands are full; 2.6 million watching on the telly. Gah, this uniform makes me look like a pork pie!
Stay calm, concentrate, react quickly and shout loudly. Cor, I’m knackered. Shouldn’a been knees up ‘avin’ a few pints and tellin’ porkies with me mates last night. Good on me for ‘avin’ a few spots of tea on me way in.
Here come the finalists; Some naff kid from Italy and the cheeky guy with the ritual tics on ‘is serves. They’re just chuffed to be here. Blimey, I hope this is a short match.
The cheeky bloke’s right off the wicket with the tics– tuggin’ his knickers out of ‘is arse. Now a nose wipe. Bouncing the ball right up to the time limit. Just serve it, you twit! Wonder what the Italian prat will be doin’.
Don’t look around. Crouch. Hands on knees. Steady. Eyes on the line. Remain calm. Concentrate…
“OUT!”
Good start; Clear, loud shout; Great reaction time. Arm straight out. Clearly out. Well done, I say!
The Duchess of Cambridge is ‘ere. She’s a tidy woman, that. I could have a right lovely chin wag over a pint at the Hare & Hound with ‘er. Not like the chavs in the nose-bleed section. Look at that winger over in the Gangway. I won’t be givin’ ‘er a snog!
“FAULT!”
Arm straight out to the side. Eyes straight ahead. Not a bloomin’ bit of emotion. Calm, confident. That’s right, you tosser, I called it! Twenty/twenty vision, mate! Not going to challenge the call, blighter? No, I thought not.
Now the Italian is serving. No faffin’ about with ‘im.
“FAULT!”
Arm straight out. Eyes front.
It was a fault, you plonker! Oh, now ‘e’s acting like he’s been gobsmacked. E’s lookin’ up in the stands, ‘e is! The prat’s looking at ‘is coach. Not going to ‘elp you out this time, pillock! Maybe ‘e’s lookin’ at ‘is girlfriend. Don’t even think about gettin’ shagged if you lose, mate!
Here comes the cat-calling! Americans! Twits all, I say. All you Yanks got left is to get pissed on beer. You ‘aven’t had a player in the semis since John Isner in 2018. Europe rules, chuffers!
Cor, that tea! I should have gone to the loo before the game…
“OUT!”
Back to the cheeky chap’s rituals. Arse picking, nose pick, jeté, pirouette, ball bounces…
“FAULT!”
Arse pick, jeté, pirouette, nose pick, minuet, karate kata, ball bounces…Serve the ball, you bloody idiot!
Oi, it’s ‘ot today, innit? Ooh, smashing shot from the cheeky twit! Just brilliant! He really had to leg it for that one.
I hope no one can see my arse sweat.
The ball boy just made a cock-up. Threw a real spanner in the works, he did. You don’t want to be doing that on T.V. He must be gutted.
Sweet cream and strawberries, this is a long match.
Is that Tom Cruise…?
“OUT!”
Arm straight out. Eyes front.
Ooh, the Italian chap is miffed. Bugger off, mate! You’ve gone crackers, you have. Gonna go off your trolley, are ye? Oh, you’re going to challenge that shot, you wanker? See what the Hawk-Eye machine has to say?
That shot was in?! Bullocks! Well, by only a few blades of grass! Anyone would have missed that call! So, I took one in the crapper! You try standing out here in the hot sun for hours with your eyes on a sodding white line!
Stay calm. Eyes front. No emotion.
Did he just swear at me?
“ ‘Fanculo’ back at you, you arsehole! Yeah, I ‘eard you! Bet you don’t know that I have to know ‘fuck you’ in every language because swearing is against the rules at the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club! Lucky for you, you’re losing this match or I’d signal the Chair Umpire!”
Did I say that out loud? I’ve bolloxed it this time. A real cock-up. Looks like I’m being dismissed by the Chair Umpire. Oh well, maybe I can nick the wanker’s official souvenir towel on my way out.