by Mal Brown Just call me the Wimbledon Widower You needn't be knowin' mi name Mi life's been thrown into turmoil On account o' some bloody daft game. Fer about fourteen days every Summer Mi marriage gets given the chop When mi wife tunes in to the tennis An' she watches the telly non-stop. It doesn't seem t' matter who's playin' Or if they've been seeded or not If it's singles or doubles or trebles She'll Sit an' she'll watch every shot. Now, perhaps I shouldn't be tellin' But mi love life's gone right up the spout An' it does some peculiar things to a chap When he thinks he's been goin' without. So I thought I'd create an impression Wi' a bit o' what's known as romance I brought home a Chinese an' a few cans o' Skol An I put on some clean underpants. Well, we had our meal (wi' t' telly on) Then moved over to the settee Where I slipped mi arm around her waist An' mi hand I placed on her knee Her reaction to my advances Was just about the best yet "Will ya get a grip a' your urges man Rusedski's servin' fer t' set" Well, I hate that Greg Rusedski An' I hate that Michael Chang An' I hate Sir Cliff soddin' Richard An' them poxy songs what he sang An' as fer teenage billionaires I begrudge 'em ev'ry last cent An' Desmond Lynam's paid too much An' so is t' Duke o' Kent Well it's finals this comin' weekend So I'm goin' to bugger off out I'm puttin' mi hikin' boots on An' I'm headin' up Kinder Scout Where there's no prima donnas an' tantrums No umpires an' no dodgy calls An' I won't go bright green wi' envy When Henman gets given new balls But I think I'd better get used to all this Even though it's makin' me vexed Cos we've got a subscription to cable TV An' t' Mongolian Open's on next There's a moral attached to mi story To ignore it could be yer downfall Never get wed to a Wimbledon fan 'Cos love'll mean nothin' at all.
The end