There’s only two basic options for tennis on Sunday mornings at this time of year. Icy or wet. Neither of which is what can be considered ‘ideal’ playing conditions, neither would entice the Federers and the Murrays onto the court; they’d either play on their indoor court or have someone else play for them. A proxy. A servant. But for mere mortals like me, if the choice is not playing or playing in dire and somewhat dangerous conditions (if my wife is to be believed), then there is no choice. You play on an ice rink or a water hazard, because you’re a man. And men are supposed to be brave. And supposed to be ‘on the edge’ and supposed to be stupid.

This morning was the former. Icy. Just a little, which would have melted but the glorious sunshine was just to thin and weak to arrange much meltage. Though not so weak and think or even high enough in the sky that it couldn’t cause temporary blindness for every high-ish ball. That being one high enough to make it over the net. But its worth it. Because I need exercise after my days of excess. And particularly before the days of excess which are about to follow.

Yet before we fly off there’s just the little matter of Manchester United at the Lane. ‘3 easy points’ you may say. Well I’m not so sure. Not so confident. But…

But if we do beat them (from my typewriter to G-d’s ears) and should West Ham draw with the Arse, and if Chelsea, as expected, beat Southampton, and if the season was to finish at six o’clock today; we’d be in 4th place and Harry Kane would play Champions League football next year. And I’d go away a happy man. The happiest man.

Neil Warnock gets axed by Crystal Palace. Who sort of axed him already once, but didn’t do it properly so the whinging northerner stayed there to oversee Palace’s progress from bottom-of-the-table strugglers to bottom-of-the-table strugglers. Not enough though for the powerful men at Selhurst Park who fear the drop, both in leagues and income stream. Drop down a division, well, THAT division and they take back the brand new Bentley and replace it with a 14 year-old Nissan Micra. The players leave, either because they want to or because you can’t afford them any longer, then your wife leaves you to go marry a proper, Premiership owner wot can keep ‘er in da bling and stuff she’s got used ta. The kids are ashamed by the drop in lifestyle and accuse you of ‘ruining their lives’ and you have to start visiting places like Haretlepool and Rochdale on a regular basis.

So you need a saviour. Someone who can keep your team up ‘where they belong’. So you bring in Tim Sherwood. Probably. And he’s the man because… er… because he… hmmmm… well, he did a pretty good job at Spurs, even though he makes my skin crawl.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx