Local NuttersEverywhere in the world has its fair share of deranged people. I grew up in Wolverhampton and remember the Polish tramp who lived in a tent on the roundabout. Legend had it that his coat was stuffed with cash. More recently I notice the guy who spends his day pushing a trolley round Camden Sainsburys shouting, "Best of luck!". Constantly. Tell us about your local nutters. Points for details. Extra points for photos.
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rob, Thu 16 Sep 2004, 11:54)
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Not exactly WimbledonThis is bending the rules slightly...
When we were young 'uns my best friend's dad worked at the local psychiatric hospital. It was a private hospital and extremely well funded to the point that doctors and their families had access to some awesome facilities; swimming pool, tennis court, sauna and the like. Myself and my friend (we'll call him Terry but that's not his name just incase his Dad gets into trouble) would regularly pop down after school for a game of tennis.
One early evening we were playing away pretending to be Agassi and Ivanisevic when this little old lady with gray hair appeared out of nowhere on the other side of the high wire fence that surrounded the tennis court. Terry tried a few words of conversation ("hello", "are you lost?" etc.) but when they were greeted with the trademark mong reply of "Nnnnnggghhh" we just ignored her as best we could and carried on playing. This became more and more difficult as she started shaking the wire fence and going "Nnnngghhhh" more and more loudly. At first we were quite frightened but at the end of the day she was a little old lady and there was a wire fence between us. And so her "Nnnngggghh"'s were soon countered with such witty responses as "Yeah, that's right 30-Love, me to serve" and "What do you mean, foot fault? I was taught by Wade". Much hilarity ensued until the game finished and she was still there "Nnnngh"-ing away. We left the court and she walked over to us and gestured at Terry to hand his racket over. At this point part of me suddenly expected her to take to the courts and produce a dazzling game. 15 years of psychiatric poking and prodding forgotten in ten minutes as she was finally able to communicate with her silky baseline skills. But no, she took the racket, hitched up her dress and proceeded to frig her bare old-lady bush with the handle of Terry's racket. Terry grabbed the racket then quickly dropped it, never ever wanting to touch it again, and we hightailed it out of there.
We didn't play tennis again after that, the running joke being:
"Game of tennis?"
"Not if your mum's gonna be there again".
(, Thu 16 Sep 2004, 13:34, Reply)
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