Talking of Eastbourne, I once went there with Harold for a few days. Someone had lent us a nice apartment quite close to the Devonshire Park Tennis Club, and we happened to be there in June, when the famous ladies' tennis tournament takes place. We had found a nice little pub right next to the tennis club, I think it was called The Ship, where we used to go for a pre-prandial before our pensioner's special at the Star of Bengal.
One day we were heading for the pub and Harold idly observed a lady who was minding her own business walking in the same direction: "You know all these women who go to watch the tennis? I think they're all lesbians." This was such a typically asinine Harold comment that I just snorted. On a bad day I might have laid into him but it was sunny and I didn't want my mood spoiled.
Billie Jean is not my lover
We went into the pub and took our drinks to a table on the mezzanine from where you could see the tennis courts. There were only a few other customers in the pub at that point, and we didn't really take much notice of them. However, an hour or so later, I noticed the pub was filling up, and that almost all the tables were occupied by women, in couples or groups. Within another half hour the place was heaving with women, many of them in Doc Martens and butch haircuts and drinking pints, and Harold was the only man in the pub. He started to look a bit hot under the collar.
"I don't know what you're worrying about," I said. "I'm the one who's got to go to the Ladies."
I girded my loins, if that is the correct expression, and headed for the loo. There was no-one in there, and I breathed a sigh of relief. However, on closing the cubicle door behind me, I found a freshly-inscribed piece of graffiti, announcing:
One day we were heading for the pub and Harold idly observed a lady who was minding her own business walking in the same direction: "You know all these women who go to watch the tennis? I think they're all lesbians." This was such a typically asinine Harold comment that I just snorted. On a bad day I might have laid into him but it was sunny and I didn't want my mood spoiled.
Billie Jean is not my loverWe went into the pub and took our drinks to a table on the mezzanine from where you could see the tennis courts. There were only a few other customers in the pub at that point, and we didn't really take much notice of them. However, an hour or so later, I noticed the pub was filling up, and that almost all the tables were occupied by women, in couples or groups. Within another half hour the place was heaving with women, many of them in Doc Martens and butch haircuts and drinking pints, and Harold was the only man in the pub. He started to look a bit hot under the collar.
"I don't know what you're worrying about," I said. "I'm the one who's got to go to the Ladies."
I girded my loins, if that is the correct expression, and headed for the loo. There was no-one in there, and I breathed a sigh of relief. However, on closing the cubicle door behind me, I found a freshly-inscribed piece of graffiti, announcing:
"MARTINA I LOVE YOU"
I locked the door firmly. Harold smirked all the way to the curry house. Still, if I do retire to Eastbourne I will make sure I take my gay umbrella. I might even take up tennis.
It starts like this ....
And ends like this?
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