Category: Fiction

Chapter 5: When Mary met Renshaw the “Chihuahua”

John “Heart Man” Hartley, finally met his match in 1881, when William Renshaw stepped onto Wimbledon’s tennis court. As the son of James, a flax spinner textile worker, he was determined to exploit Wimbledon to make a career from glamorous luxury clothing that could be associated with high society and athletic skill.

My aggressive Renshaw chihuahua, with his superdog ability to rush across the court, combined with his take over the world strategic tendency, which was hard wired into the architectural plans of his soul, encouraged the victory favours the prepared instinct that was pumping through his manly body with industrial strength.

William brought true dog fierceness to the traditionally sissy sport, as described by former 1878 Wimbledon champion Patrick Francis “The Mentalist” Hadow.

The “Renshaw Rush” effect had penetrated my hypersexuality in the most potent advanced fighter jet prototype thrusting way fathomable, that my low level intelligence clearance had to accept the fate of my temptress temple of femininity, and pounce on him, with the power of the yet to be discovered Goliath Bird Eating Tarantula. It only took me 5 minutes to get my hands onto his long strong wooden cricket bat, and that’s the story of how I conceived my second child.

Chapter 4: When Mary met Intel Powered VW Beetle Herbie Lawford

Heart Man was back on the court in 1880, up against Herbert Lawford, which went down in history as the tennis equivalent of the Battle of Salamis (480 BC), famous for depicting the smaller Greek force defeating the much larger Persian force.

It was my much smaller Wolfsburg stockbroker macho moustache wearing human asset lover, Herbie, the ‘Greek-German’ of English heritage, that impressed my excruciatingly feminine over-qualified yet highly trained in the arts of subtle Mexican etiquette, sense of desire, the most.

John Hartley the Persian may have won the Wimbledon Championships in 1880, but Herbie won my national Swiss cheese caseus helveticus award, reserved only for the most desirable of Fievel Goes West hunky mice strongest man contestants.

Herbie’s Lawford forehand produced so much rotational topspin, that I fantasised about so many what ifs, that there was no hesitation in my mind… After Hartley gave my Herbie number 53 a good thrashing, I congratulated Heart Man, and then took Lawford by the hand, and expressed in the most physically symbolic way conceivably imaginable, how being number 2, can sometimes mean being the boss in the bed chamber of Lady Wimbledon’s Rose & Crown pub, conveniently located very near Marryat Road, the easiest route to take if you want to get to The All England Lawn Tennis Club from Wimbledon Village. It has a great view of London’s skyline too, as you descend Marryat’s hill.

Chapter 3: When Mary met Viking Warlord John Hartley, a Serialised Tennis Novel

John Hartley, a member of the Yorkist White Rose glass-making militia of the Viking county of Yorkshire, stepped onto the Wimbledon tennis court, to face opponent, V. S. Leger Goold, a typical Romeo & Juliet Irish stereotype, destined to fulfil the prophecy of a tragic Shakespeare Monte Carlo life script.

I took one look at Hartley, and a Scandinavian clergyman rush of Church of England Temple at Uppsala, took over all my senses and I immediately knew that he was the reincarnation of Thor, the muscular thunderous Berserker of my Viking-Casanova hybrid fantasy. I had always wanted a man to dominate me, and my fellow Wimbledon villagers, just weren’t up to the job.

My Viking Mesoamerican Mayan Heart Man, Sir John Hartley, was in my line of sight. The 1,100 spectators made me well aware that other women might want him for themselves, so I made certain he’d be mine as soon as he left the court. I seduced him with my look of love and blood red lips. He responded by holding my gaze. I approached the head of the Scandinavian priesthood, and told him to impress me with the longship, he had anchored in Chelsea Basin (harbour in London). He was up to the challenge. He didn’t disappoint.

Chapter 2: When Mary met Mentalist P. F. Hadow, a Serialised Tennis Novel

Patrick, The Mentalist, as I liked to call him, due to his unique magical, mind-reading, telepathic, precog, psychic, fortune telling ability, was a mesmerising experience. It’s no wonder that he beat my one time animal lover, Spencer Gore. The one and only match, the “challenge round” as Spencer called it, was where my rugged Harrow School boy Patrick proved his gladiatorial masculinity in the ring. Spencer’s volleying style didn’t have a chance against my mentalist’s exotic Sri Lankan, Sinhalese, Tamil, Ceylonese, bright red juicy lobster technique, sending his balls high into the sky. I loved it when after giving Spencer a good thrashing, he walked up to him, in the most confrontational way imaginable, and whispered into his left ear “You’re such a soft sissy… Go back to your woman, and tell her I’m available to satisfy her quench for a real man’s masculine squeeze.” That was my cue to approach Patrick. I grabbed his hand, and dragged him to the Dog and Fox pub on 24 High Street in Wimbledon Village, where I got as high as possible on cat sized aphrodisiac oysters, before I put my deep ocean drenched tongue into his ear, and cleaned his wax filled love tunnel. I continued to pleasure my man of all men in the same vain, day and night, with no break, 24/7, until he decided for some bizarre reason, to return to his full time work in Ceylon (Sri Lanka), as a Ceylon black tea plantation marshal. I told him I’d finance a luxury Wimbledon lifestyle for him through my embarrassingly large trust fund, but he was adamant that his 6 children in Kotte needed their father to teach them in the ways of Eastern business. Of course, I can take a hint, and so I agreed to accept his line, and my eyes moved on and began to scan south west London with ultra high definition falcon vision, searching for a man that would be able to keep my insatiable maternal instinct as filled as possible.