Backhanded Compliments

July 4, 2008

I’d never gone to watch a game of tennis before. Not properly. I’ve stood here and watched bigger boys knock a greying Dunlop ball backwards and forwards, but that doesn’t really count. Having lived within 3 miles of Wimbledon’s All England Club for the past ten years, there was bound to be a time where I decided to set aside the fact that I couldn’t really care less about tennis, and go and have a look. Andy Murray’s triumph the other day spurred me on a bit. His subsequent annihilation by Nadal made me have second thoughts. But yesterday Jenny and I bit the bullet.

Tickets are cheap after 5pm, and as an added bonus you don’t have to camp overnight on a pavement and get rudely awakened by a sneering steward with too many airs and graces at six in the morning. So we left the house at 4pm for the long walk down there, and it immediately began to piss it down with rain. Plough Lane looks pretty rubbish in glorious sunshine, so you can only imagine what a torrential downpour does to the aesthetic qualities of the dog track, Wickes and Allied Carpets. But we marched on, and the grim industrial estates gave way to bloody massive mansions and nasty sculptures stuck on front gates.

Getting in is a palaver. You’re told to go to Gate 3, but to actually enter Gate 3 you have to nip in through Car Park 6, skirt around the golf club, under an awning, put your umbrella down, get told by an officious wanker to put your umbrella down while you’re ALREADY putting your umbrella down, go through a bag check and a security scanner, up some stairs, onto a bridge over the road, down the other side, back along the road and finally into Gate 3 where you hand over £12 each and emerge into continuing torrential rain.

“The referees expect that the current downpour should only last another 20 minutes,” said a disembodied voice over the PA, “followed by a long period of fine weather extending into the evening. So please be patient.” We showed our patience by spending £22 on two 125ml bottles of champagne (that’s about a glassful each) with two straws. The straws bobbed up and down and caused the valuable liquid to froth up and spill out over the sides. We chucked the straws away.

Not much was going on, obviously. Just lots of people milling about. Officious perma-tanned blokes with hats and lapel badges. Post-menopausal women stuffing their faces with strawberries and cream. We noted that Martina Navratilova and Helena Sukova would soon be resuming their match against Annabel Croft and Jo Durie in the Ladies Senior Doubles, so we wandered over to Court 11, by which time the rain had stopped. We scraped the water off two seats using the official Wimbledon brochure as a squeegee, and sat down. Soon, the court was packed with people keen to see a glimpse of Martina in action, if you’re a tennis fan, or a glimpse of Annabel Croft’s underwear, if you’re a pervert. They strung up the net, court officials took their positions, and then the referee announced that Ms Croft and Ms Durie had “retired”, and the game was over.

They’d been 1-0 down in the second set after losing the first 6-1, but still, just give up? By forfeiting the game and pissing off home, they actually deprived people – many of whom had forked out way more cash than we had – of a bit of entertainment. It’s only senior doubles, innit. A bit of fun. A chance for people to see former stars gently knock the ball back and forth. And they just thought, nah, we can’t be arsed.

So we went to Court 2, and saw the men’s doubles semi final resume; it took 4 points for that match to be finished off. Uh. But just as we were considering going home after watching approximately 3 minutes of tennis, joy of joys, Mansour Bahrami and Henri Leconte walked on to play Vijay Amritraj and Gene Mayer in the Gentleman’s Senior Doubles. They messed about for two hours with trick shots and faux arguing, gave everyone a good laugh, and they even decided to play the full game before walking off court. Of course, I’ll probably find out now that Jo Durie and Annabel Croft were projectile vomiting in the dressing room and simply unable to continue for health reasons, but I doubt it. Lazy bastards.

Time Out: Sheet Lightning

July 27, 2002

You’ve met someone new, and you’re both suddenly overcome with an insatiable urge to shag each other senseless. But you want somewhere discreet, comfortable and quiet, which rules out your place, their place and the local sub post-office respectively. So where’s it going to be? Maybe some of London’s swankiest hotels wouldn’t be averse to letting out a room for an illicit afternoon liaison?

Cynthia takes my call at The Metropolitan. It’s a hotel proud to offer the sexiest night in London, but that’s not quite what I’m after. I explain that I need a double room for myself and a (cough) special friend, but only for a couple of hours. After a brief silence and a stifled giggle she advises me that she could offer a king sitting room for £150. What about something with, say, a more seductive atmosphere? “Ah,” says Cynthia. “So how many people will be in the room?” Cynthia is clearly more open minded than I am. I reassure her that orgies are the last thing on my mind (well, perhaps not quite the last thing), and she comes up with a king size bedroom for two overlooking the park for £225.

Surely rock star haunt The Portobello must be no stranger to hot afternoon action. Their website describes the sultry decor of their Moroccan style rooms as having “the atmosphere of a Berber tent”. I look for a picture of a Berber tent on the internet and find something that looks like a bin liner in a sandpit. This is not promising. But when I call, Hannah offers me a “spectacular four poster bed, which you climb a ladder to get into.” Sadly she can’t offer me a special price for just spending a vigorously lustful afternoon in it. “It’s not our concern for how long you’re actually in the room, I’m afraid.”

Lisa is a businesslike woman at the Pelham Hotel who discusses my request in a more matter of fact way. “How many hours do you need it for?”, she says, her tone suggesting doubt as to my ability to keep it up for very long. “Oh, 3, maybe 4,” I say, casually. She advises me that there’s a lovely double room on the 4th floor, decorated in red, boudoir-style, and if I only need it for a few hours, well, £135? Bargain. But Lisa’s not done yet. She offers to have rose petals scattered in the room, champagne laid on, fruit… Fruit. Fantastic. This is more like it.

But it’s not always that easy. No 5 Maddox Street have a reputation for complete devotion to the whims of their guests, but getting them to give me a discount for a room for a lunchtime bang is well nigh impossible. “What do you MEAN?” says the girl on the reservations desk, impatiently. I don’t think my request is so unusual. Hotels throughout the world are crammed with people copulating at all times of the day. I’m just being honest about it. I ask her if she could maybe just sling a mattress in a broom cupboard by the lift, but she has already put the phone down. “BUT I WANT TO FUCK IN YOUR HOTEL!”

However, the majority of places are thoroughly helpful and sometimes it feels almost conspiratorial discussing my plans with the staff. Sebastian at the Hempel speaks with a touching and almost fatherly concern that I do things properly. For the ultimate post meridian tryst he gives me half price on a magnificent room overlooking the garden with a bed hanging down from the ceiling. But it’s still £400. Whew. Jonna at the Savoy also offers me a 50% discount, but she can’t appear to get her head round what I want it for. “I suppose I’m after something luxurious and very sexy,” I tell her. “Er… but you only want it for the afternoon?” She gets the gist eventually. “OK, if you’re in at 2 and out by 6, we could give you a king room for £200, or maybe a junior suite overlooking the river for £290.”

To get some perspective I try the County Hall Travel Inn. Instead of slogans like “an environment of strength and gentleness”, or “unparalleled sophistication and elegance”, this is the type of place which entices you with the promise of “no on-site parking” or “hairdryer may not be available, please check first.” After a lengthy wait for an operator which begins to dangerously dampen my ardour, Michael answers, considers my request, and advises me that their rooms don’t become available until 2pm. I say that 2 until 4 would probably get the job done. But he can’t budge from the American style room rates, as much as he would like to. It’s all night or nothing. How unadventurous.

My last conversation is with a lady at the Regency, a four star hotel on Queen’s Gate. I’m blunt about my requests. She’s blunt about the prices. “Four hours? We can give you a standard double for £60, or a double superior for £80.” It doesn’t sound as if I’m going to be cavorting within sumptuous Egyptian cotton sheets with a 450 thread count for this kind of money. Maybe they could offer me a suite? There’s a gargantuan pause, accompanied by some tepid jazz funk. Hang on, she’s back. “Hello, sir? I’m sorry, I can’t let you have a suite for an afternoon.” “Really?” “No.” “How about on a different day?” “No sir.” “Not even if I pay full rate?” “No.” Hmm. So I’m permitted to indulge in all manner of depraved activity in their cheaper rooms, but not allowed anywhere near their expensive furniture. And I thought a stain was just a stain…