This script is written for Ray and John,
the producers who put all the good plays on:

THE CENTRE

For a specialised activity;
a throng-attracting, buzzing sport facility
at the bottom of Underhill's back garden,
tucked close to the verdant vistas of the Lane.
A typically busy hive wherein workers
strive to create the honeyed strokes
and savour the sweet taste of success
at the world's fastest game.
Where the playing area is sectioned
like a giant honeycomb,
and where, through unique colonisation,
it is possible to fulfil an away fixture
yet play the game at home.

This is my next piece of verse entitled "Pirelli". It is dedicated to the same lovely person who brings so much joy to all our lives!!

Excuses, excuses, are all I can hear
Another blowout, another kick up the rear
This time it was - "I have hurt my right knee"
"Whilst polishing the floor at BTTC"
Well this is a porkie I hear you all say
For our friend was asleep at that time Sunday
"Magners and Bulmers - that's why I had a big gob"
"See you all later, if I don't have a job"

Came across this news article on the BBC web site. Thought it was rather amusing. The full article including picture of arsehole can be found at this link:- http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/tyne/7378695.stm

A front seat car passenger was photographed baring his backside at a speed camera in Northumberland.
The "mooning" man was snapped by the mobile camera as the black BMW X5 drove past on the A1171 Dudley Lane in Cramlington last month.

His behaviour has been labelled as "dangerous and offensive" by road safety campaigners.

Keith Good has inspired me to write some verse for this site. Thanks Keith - any chance of some prose in the near future:-)

Here is mine entitled "A Night At BTTC".

Why can't I hear the music play
When the volume on TV is so loud today
All I can hear is blond Boris pledge
"Sorry mate, about the net cord and edge"
But these are the words of a man who travels
From airport to airport, his time unravels
"Do me a burger, if there's one in the freezer"
"Nevermind that. First pay for those pizzas!"

Are these blogs real??? I reckon they are made up by the BTTC staff to make it appear that anyone ever visits this site.
In fact, I reckon they made this blog up as well.

The table tennis gods again
summon believers to Barnet Lane;
pilgrims pay May month homage there
at the sport's shrine in Hertfordshire.

Players stretch sinews and strain nerves,
they unleash mesmerising serves;
amid the heedful hullabaloo,
a vigilant voice: 'Did you get through?'

One court becomes a boxing ring,
contenders throwing everything;
the ball's a face; the bats are fists -
they're metaphoric pugilists.

Fading hopes snagged in the net,
no wonder players tend to fret,
stretched on the rack, forced through the hoop

Relishing a results-rich run of form,
I set off for The Centre full of gorm;
throughout the evening I would not be ruth,
my killer instinct sometimes wanes, in truth.
My tactics in each contest would be ept
and focused concentration would be kept,
I would move in a chalant, gainly way
as list and ert invigorate my play.

Then ugly gruntlement struck as before:
how could I know what the fates held in store?

Form, you are a fickle thing,
veering from foul to fair;
you make feel a fulfilled king
or fill me with despair...

Exiles 7 had to stop their match until a replacement ball could be found because one of their players was going home and taking the ball with him.