Tour video

As some of you may have heard, we've been making a tour video on our travels, which we have linked below.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=2Ztk-ecYl4g&feature=youtu.be

A huge thanks to all the amazing people we have met on the way, and hopefully see you soon in the UK!

Clare, Sophie, Audrey and Izzy

16th - 19th September - Aiken

Having discovered our blog's most animated supporter, we would like to dedicate this post to our favourite little fat fan-girl, Parker Stoker, without whom we would undoubtedly have been lost in Aiken. Not only has he won prizes for good character and moral compass at school, he was also a Wellington at University and most importantly was able to quote our blog back to us, a sure fire way to our cold British hearts. Parker, we hope you enjoy this dedication.

With stomachs uncomfortably full of Taco Bell breakfast and Pizza Hut buffet lunch, we arrived in Aiken after a tetchy eight-hour drive. Unaccustomed to American salt levels, our parched tongues ached at the sight of a fountain spilling what looked like luscious blue Gatorade into the air in glorious sugary arcs.  ‘WE JUST SAW A GATORADE FOUNTAIN!’ we shrieked excitedly at our new hosts, only to be told awkwardly that it had been temporarily dyed blue for Ovarian Cancer Week.  

Dacre Stoker – real tennis semi-pro, owner-manager of the Aiken Tennis Ball Company, World Champion pentathlete, Seoul 1988 Olympic coach, ex-PE teacher, ex-fencing coach to Morgan Morgan (more on him later), keen horseman and dog-owner, international Dracula expert, keeper of the Bram Stoker legacy and father of the more famous Parker – gave us a characteristically warm Montreal-style welcome and took us on a driving tour of Aiken’s beautiful wooded trails and polo fields. Having spent our trip in hot pursuit of real tennis royalty (see, e.g., earlier posts on Steve Devoe, King of Jamestown and our hotel in Queens), we felt the hand of fate on our shoulders when we were unexpectedly forced to choose between staying with the kingly Stokers or David and Gail King.  Sophie and Clare held back their sneezes for long enough to lie about their overwhelming cat allergies and grab a space at the Stokers’, whilst Izzy and Audrey were sufficiently star-struck by Gail’s close relationship to Clare Balding to plump for the King household.

After an iconic dinner of gumbo and peach cobbler, David King worried about Clare’s voracious attempts to scrape the ornamental fox off the plate with her spoon and forced a gigantic second helping upon her. Staggering under the weight of pudding and three of David’s lethal margaritas each, we were capably guided by Parker (Stoker Jr) to Aiken’s classiest hotspot, The Wilcox Hotel. Here we met three key movers and shakers of the Aiken court tennis scene: Morgan Morgan (née Morgan) dressed impeccably in a crisp white shirt and spotted bowtie; Rakesh Jasani, proud owner of the finest volley in Aiken and a large chain of not bad hotels; and Jason M. Mengel, modest stakeholder in Trio, Charleston’s most banging club (don’t bother going there, you won’t get in). M.M.n.M. kindly bought us drinks, and Izzy - with her unerring scholar-athlete’s nose for the worst cocktail in any establishment - opted for the “Naked Grape”, an appalling mixture of overripe chardonnay, vodka and tiny denuded cocktail grapes. It fell to a crumpled Rakesh to finish it manfully. Back at the Stokers’, Parker showed us what a southern midnight snack looked like. It looked like cold gumbo and a large glass of milk.

Day one of our not-so-friendly doubles tournament dawned with the big reveal of our mixed partners for the sojourn. Izzy and Clare were to be paired with local dynamos, polo players extraordinaires and BFFs Henry and Bill respectively, whilst Sophie had been paired with Sneaky Kiki and Audrey with the infamous Francois “Frank Glass” Verglas. First up, Team Kill took on Team Hizzy, with a fusillade of insults exchanged between Bill and Henry more than rival to Frank and Brian’s forcing battery. Choice examples include “Fuck Pig” and “Asshole”. On asking, in as earnest and cutglass an accent as she could achieve, whether there was anything in particular to watch out for when returning Henry’s serve, Clare was informed (to be read in a Southern drawl) “Nuthin. S’not very good.” Henry and Izzy’s partnership was marred by occasional Hizzy fits, with chemistry suitable for the most destructive of atomic bombs and body language to match (see below for choice photos), despite Izzy’s cheery protestations that she had had the best of times, honestly. The charismatic partnership of Kill ultimately proved too much for the despondent Hizzy, coming through to a two-set victory 6-3 6-1.

 

Team Sneaky then took on Team Fraudré, with Kiki returning a Gazzling display of shots with great gusto to land better than a yard. Audrey’s usually patchy serving was much improved with the additional pressure of curving railroads and twists around Francois and his obstructive leg brace, who ardently defended the galleries from the first minute of the warm up with volleys only second to Rakesh's. Her desperate cries of “yours!” as she threw herself from side to side were met with equally resolute refusals of “non” in return, but eventually they prevailed through Sophie’s Alan Oliver inspired dives and Kiki’s astonishing reflex volleys to a hard-fought win.

 

After of day of disappointment and at times even despair, Izzy of team Hizzy was delighted to discover that Morgan Morgan had suggested for dinner a fine restaurant by the name of “Takosushi”, famed for serving tacos, and sushi. Why had no-one thought of this beautiful and obvious combination before, thought Izzy, for this is surely heaven on earth!

Once the delightfully delicate plates of divine sushi had arrived, along with 3 obese enchiladas oozing cheese and smothered in red goo, straddled ominously by two giant fried eggs (for Clare, of course), we got stuck into the food and famously charming conversation. “My maid doesn’t do everything,” Rakesh announced smugly; “I do my own ironing!” “Really?!” choked Audrey in astonishment, pointing and laughing at Rakesh’s (admittedly) remarkably crumpled red shirt, which began to blend in with Rakesh’s increasingly crumpled red face. Karma exacted revenge on Audrey’s kindly comment, when a huge mouthful of pink salmon turned out to be a huge mouthful of pickled ginger, and a pink-faced Audrey ran squealing, mouth bulging, to vom.

 

The suspicious timing of a men’s only monthly bowling night for 30 odd just married 30-year-old men (plus Morgan Morgan and Rakesh), meant that the rest of the evening’s entertainment was sorted. Frank, Briiiian, Gaz and Tony did not feel out of place amongst Kut, Pat, Byrd, Kizz, Robs, Clayt, Morg, Kesh et al., despite being the only men to be drinking Budweiser as opposed to the Bud Light, the only beverage consumed by these non-scholar bowling athletes. Frankie shocked everyone with a strike on the first shot, Gaz was equally determined to win and huffily proclaimed that “I’m just not used to being bad at stuff!”. An equally huffy Tony grumbled that “Tony’s just a late starter”, whilst non-starter Briiian did not start at all. Swept up in the wave of aftershave, smoke and testosterone, a tiff between Frank and Gaz turned into a full blown fight, in which Gaz punched Frank and led to Kesh chasing his imaginary tail in excited circles and chanting “fight, fight, fight, fight!”. Delighted by this news, (and of course with deep, deep concern for the welfare of their friends), Briian and Tony legged it outside in their shiny bowling shoes, charging madly past the “Do not wear bowling shoes outside” sign. Following this, the ladettes were accepted into the men’s teams, and, having drunk enough buckets of Budweiser between them to be numb to the endless and relentless high-fives, fist pumps, high-pumps and fist-fives, we began to understand the strains of married life.

Aiken’ to redeem ourselves after a mediocre night’s sport at the bowling alley, we showed up pumped and full to the gills of Gatorade for the second day of doubles.  On the basis of a shared affection for TakoSushi, Hizzy’s on-court relationship blossomed, and they pushed Fraudré to a nailbiting third set before succumbing 6-4, 2-6, 5-6.  In their turn, the Kill partnership suffered 2-6, 4-6 at the remorseless hands of the Entente Cordiale, failing to convert Bill’s lashing forces into the chases they so desperately required and forgetting even to fist-bump in their anguish.  Kiki’s violent wrist action of the previous day compelled her to retire from the fray (and Henry had long since exited the building), so Izzy adopted sweet accommodating Parker for her partner in a 6-5, 5-6 cliffhanger against Sophie and Clare.  Morgan Morgan, meanwhile, took sweet accommodating Audrey for a nine-hole round on the manicured grass of Cedar Creek golf course. 

Having had our earnest dinner invitations rejected by just about everyone, we headed out to The Brewhouse for our customary carb overload accompanied only by the ever-faithful Morgan Morgan and sweet accommodating Parker.  Parker was the innocent double-victim of an early round of Fives, mistakenly downing his pint as well as accepting the fine of a large Naked Grape.  Izzy and Clare were less naïve, converting a disappointing Fives loss into a rampant victory as they compelled the group to accept a round of the most repellent shots in Christian the barman’s repertoire (an acidic mixture of Fireball and peppermint liqueur), whilst they sipped on delicious B-52s paid for by the sweet accommodating Aiken locals to their right.  

Unable to retain a straight face in any further game, Izzy and Clare were rescued by the imminent arrival of Clayton “Dawg” Vaughters and Sarah Morgan “Kale” Morgan, toting two bags of butternut squash and kale.  After an earnest conversation about the pressures of kale preparation, the scholar athletes and their little fat fan-girls headed to an establishment fondly referred to as a ‘nightclub’ to take the evening up a gear. En route, Sophie and Clare discovered the happy outcome of the Indy Referendum, and promptly sprinted towards the alluring blue flume of the Gatorade fountain in their uncontrollable glee, with speed and finesse as yet un-witnessed on the tennis court.  Andy Murray was still British!

On arrival, Izzy immediately accosted the DJ, a nervous-looking man with a moustache to rival the one she’d previously had close contact with in Newport. DJ ‘Justyn’ was surprised and hurt to find that no one (apart from Sophie and Clayton) was keen for his uniquely soulless brand of ‘house’, but instead preferred ‘MUSIC WITH WORDS’. Clayton enticed Clare onto the dancefloor with a curious mixture of raving and ballroom, spinning her in his manly arms so that the pair were visible only as a whirlwind of intertwined long blonde and brown hair. Morgan Morgan, meanwhile, took sweet accommodating Audrey for a six-pocket round on the soft brushed felt of the pool table.

Plodding home for a traditional feast of gumbo and milk and a 4am swim (having daringly flouted the 30-minute waiting period usually recommended after a full prawn-based meal), we retired to bed, safe in the knowledge that this was a place we could actually return to with some dignity still intact.

15th - 16th September - Washington DC

The image above depicts only the second worst reception we have met with during this tour.

Plodding through a maze of unprepossessing concrete corridors and growing increasingly frustrated at every dead end and locked door, we stomped crossly into the sleepy hollow of Pro Ivan Ronaldson, son of the more famous Chris. Casually leaning against the solid glass main wall of the court was a man whose RTO forum internet presence almost matched his imposing physical stature: the man, the legend, Temple Grassi. Decked out in gleaming whites and goggles, he ran through our schedule for the day and gave us a quick and valuable lecture about on-court safety, accompanied by a potted history of the club and its luminaries. Visit the RTO forum for specifics.

“Grab your coat you’ve Temp-ulled!” he yelled enthusiastically at Sophie, whipping off his real tennis bow tie and beckoning her onto court for the first match of the day. “And Audrey, you’re next!” Izzy and Clare, though understandably disappointed to miss the chance of a lifetime to take on the Dauphin of Prince’s Court, muttered jealously that the Grassi was almost certainly greener on the other side. Sophie’s much-vaunted hand-eye coordination was temporarily thrown by the large yellow Furbies which passed for tennis balls under Ivan’s lax reign. (We hope the esteemed Aiken Tennis Ball Company, said to be on the verge of receiving a valuable new lease of life, sends a new batch soon.) Having stoically dealt with Sophie’s self-indulgent display of trick shots, Temple retired with dignity after a battering from Gaz and his penchant for mirthless dedans forces.Izzy romped through her match against Bob Forbes and was rewarded for her rapid improvement by a much-coveted Ronaldson handicap cut. Stealing the first points for Washington, Cecilia broke Clare’s heart and shook her confidence daily – though with the help of Taylor Swift, she sh-sh-sh-shook it off and proceeded to put in a frankly dazzling display in the doubles alongside Izzy, fizzing mis-hit volleys into the winning gallery off the tambour. Tony Henman’s fatal misreading of two Chase 2’s in Audrey and Sophie’s doubles led to him spending an uncomfortable night in the Princes Court bin.

Oxford 4 – 2 Washington

 

Sophie vs Temple Grassi: 10-1

Audrey vs Temple Grassi: 10-3

Izzy vs Bob Forbes: 10-1

Clare vs Cecilia Forbes: 5-10

Clare and Izzy vs Cecilia and Britt: 10-5

Audrey and Sophie vs Britt and Christine: 8-10

 

At the beautiful Grassi home, our eyes were drawn to a number of compelling objects: a large backgammon trophy, a Jesters Club almanac (from which we covertly noted down a few key email addresses) and a ludicrously friendly Corgi named Louie.  After Temple had finished explaining that one of his backgammon players had pulled out of the tournament at the last minute (what a stab in the back-gammon, we thought!), he directed us to our lovely sleeping quarters, and Sophie was disgruntled to find herself shacked up with Clare yet again. A few short showers later, we descended to dinner with our by-now trademark Formal Wet Hair Look (‘Why are there never any hairdryers in America??’ Izzy screeched) and enjoyed a variety of drinks including premium vodka, rum, gin and red wine.  Ellie Grassi (Cousin of American Etonian and International Man of Mystery Schuyler Wickes) prepared an incredibly delicious meal, which we interrupted periodically withboring anecdotes about our formative years in tennis. We were joined by Audrey’s friend, RT lass and rackets WAG Mary Livingston, who filled us in on which internationally ranked tennis players had “done kissing” with one another (hint: lots!).

 

Temple commemorated our visit with a wonderful gift of a Princes Court racquet, which will be hung in Merton St just above Craig’s jealous reach.  He also provided us with individual Princes Court transfer tattoos to flaunt during our matches in Aiken.  Finally, he regaled us with a lyrically imaginative and technically tight poem about the day’s events, in which he informed us that he had pre-emptively emailed Aiken to warn them about the ‘ladies from Hades’. By far his best gift, though, was some sage advice about the dangers of plagiarism and the importance of thinking for ourselves. So, here, for the first time, Temple, we have cautiously attempted to find our own voice: 

 

There once was a Jester named Grassi

Who billeted Oxford en masse – ‘E

Safeguarded his poem

So we said this’ll show ‘im

We’ll write him a limerick that doesn’t scan or rhyme.

 

 

13th - 15th September - Philadelphia and Lakewood

Prior to our arrival, Assistant Pro and World Number 23 John Lumley had capably forwarded us an email which filled our small bitter hearts with joy. Lynn Penn, a Chemistry Professor and Life Guru, had offered to house us, adding reassuringly that her refrigerator was rarely without a plentiful selection of champagnes and other sparkling wines. True to form, she stood in the street to greet us, clutching a flute of possibly refrigerated champagne or other sparkling wine. We were ushered into her beautiful row house and given colour-coordinated pastel loungewear suits and slippers. There was also a friendly sheep. He was called Sheep and he was very photogenic. 

The Philadelphia Tennis and Racquets Club is an improbable creation. It houses, amongst other things, the earliest non-ground level swimming pool in America, a useful and popular barber shop, ample and spacious guest rooms, branded and fragrant handwash, a vodka luge ice sculpture of Lady Godiva and at least 18 staircases. In the lift we heard the unmistakable rattle of a Maximuscle chocolate protein shake accompanied by a gentle Mancunian rumble, and our starved hearts soared. Had Craigy Greenhalgh been lured by the promise of Philly cheesesteak and Philly fillies to make the thousand-mile Philgrimage to see us? Alas no, it was a second-rate smelly squash pro who promised neither basket of backhands, basket of forehands nor indeed the coveted basket of back walls. 

The creators of the court itself seemed to have missed a crucial memo explaining that a) real tennis is a different game from lawn tennis and b) is not played with a bouncy rubber ball that launches itself off the back wall to land First Gal at the gentlest of Audrey’s caresses. Pro and World Number 63 Rob Whitehouse took one look at our stubby bronzed legs and unfairly presumed that we would barely make the Fleur at a sluggish crawl, let alone dive coltishly for the First Gallery.  Rashly, he doubled our handicap advantage.  Our pride stung, we spurned his patronising offer of a Gatorade and galvanized ourselves for victory on tap water alone. Sophie had a clammy tussle with Auxiliary Fireman Dmitri Karapelou; Audrey took on Estonian Venture Capitalist Alvar Soosaar; Izzy made sweet sweet poetry with PhD Biologist Elizabeth Browning; and Clare wiped the smile off freshman Matthew Angelides’ cherubic face. 

Oxford 6 – 0 Philadelphia

Sophie vs Dmitri: 10-5

Audrey vs Alvar: 8-1

Izzy vs Liz: 8-3

Clare vs Matthew: 8-7

Sophie & Audrey vs Alvar & Dmitri: 6-3

Clare & Izzy vs Liz & Matthew: 6-5

Alvar compensated for his team’s devastating loss with artfully-prepared deli sandwiches, fluent French and a kindly offer of business career advice to would-be medic Audrey, which would have been better suited to would-be businesswoman Izzy. In the meantime Sophie and Clare “got lost” in a winding staircase marked “Swimming Pool Only” and, to their surprise and delight, stumbled across a swimming pool! Surprised and delighted, they took a surprisingly delightful selfie and convinced a surprised but delighted functionary that they were merely passing through on their way to the ladies locker room. Alvar took a select party to see the splendour of the club’s basement which boasted a possible Rodin sculpture of eight men rowing in a cavernous trout, a mallard-themed room to which duck-enthusiast Clare was not privy, and a German beer hall.

We had meant to set off for New Jersey at 3pm, but at half past three Clare was still wiping angry tears from her tiny piggy eyes, cursing her lack of devastating forehands and relishing her own inadequacy. Mingling her tears with the driving rain, she was driven militantly to the car by an irascible Sophie and a coolly efficient Audrey. Izzy’s contribution was unmemorable at this point. With thirty minutes to cover a ninety-minute journey to Lakewood, we took the speed limit as a loose guideline and screeched past shocked Hasidic Jew after shocked Hasidic Jew at an unorthodox and irreligious 96 miles per hour. The fortified papist enclave of Georgian Court University, capably managed by the Sisters of Mercy (in this case neither departed nor gone), instilled us with Catholic guilt and ensured that on our return journey we genuflected to the speed limit and genu-reflected on our sins with genuine contrition. Once out of the car, we circumnavigated Jay Gould’s mammoth casino complex with increasing impatience and dampness. A kindly functionary reminiscent of Andrew hastily covered up the piles of white powder we discovered upstairs and chivvied us downstairs to the dusty subterranean tennis court. On our way we passed a drab Student Support Centre, an indoor polo field-cum-ballroom-cum-basketball court and cheery signs advertising Justice, Devotion, Honour, Respect and Chastity. Our kind of place! 

In preparation for our visit, we had exchanged an absurd number of emails with American Etonian and International Man of Mystery Schuyler Wickes. Having pushed him to his Wickes end, we were saddened but not surprised when he was called away on business. We hailed Mary, our substitute guide for the afternoon, and bade her tell us the history of this morally confusing place. She explained that, tired of being cooped up on rainy days, Former World Number One and Olympic Gold Medallist Jay Gould had splashed the dirty millions of his father (and 9th worst American CEO of all time) on a sports complex that Iffley Road could only dream of. Impressed by this DIY attitude, we filled our personalised Georgian Court platypus water bottles without the help of a kindly functionary, gamely fixed the broken net and uncomplainingly schlepped the heavy ball sack from the cupboard where it had lain for the last 125 years. Accustomed to a rather higher standard of indoor lighting, we bemoaned the dim and dusty interior but soon knocked the cobwebs off the penthouse with a few well-placed railroads. Lacking opponents, we had no outlet for our characteristic ruthlessness and were forced to resort to vanity. Many carefully staged videos later, Clare shattered the camera by tanking a wayward volley at Audrey’s head. Clearly it was time to go home.

Returning to the Penn household, we had a day in the city in which to convince Audrey that Philly Cheesesteaks were not only edible in the technical sense but also desirable. Yet again the Ice Queen with her fear of cheap (m)eats prevailed and we all had expensive deli sandwiches and salads for lunch. Like true scholar athletes with a nose for the late Impressionists, we sniffed out the Barnes Collection; and like true scholar athletes with a nose for late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century bronzes, we sniffed out the Rodin Museum.  The picture you see below was snapped with great daring and bravura, as Sophie sustained two bouts of angry telling-off from the knuckle-cracking functionary (reminiscent of Andrew) to take a snap of this stuffy Victorian man’s erotic daydream:

Audrey swiftly tired of walking at a contemplative tourist’s pace and demanded that we visit a cake shop on the other side of town which closed in precisely nine minutes’ time.  It was half an hour’s walk.  Sophie, Izzy and Clare were terrified of her retribution but finally rebelled and collapsed into a bus shelter in exhaustion. Drained of salts and spilling lactic acid from every orifice, we stumbled back into the grateful embrace of Lynn’s grilled chicken feast. Somewhat revived, we finished our time off Rittenhouse Square in the mediocre Sunday ambience of the Black Sheep bar.

11th - 13th September - New York

10th - 11th September - Tuxedo

The White Wolf, with his powerful reach, had seemingly informed every law enforcement agency in the US that we were armed and dangerous. At the gates of Tuxedo Park, our entry was blocked and we were unfairly profiled as scummy riffraff. We deployed our cutglass British accents and plowed our way up an intimidating drive lined with fin-de-siècle architectural gems, holding our breath until we reached the reassuringly-named Clubhouse Road (a close cousin of Jamestown’s racquet-shaped Racquet Road). Pro and Former World No 2 Tim Chisholm assumed we could find our own way to the court, and took care of some important telephone business. 

Left to our own devices, we enjoyed Tuxedo’s selection of premium monogrammed towels and soaked up the prestige on what was probably our favourite court of the trip. Lacking opponents, we drew on our growing frustration with each other to engage in a competitive doubles battle, unceremoniously discarding partners as they wilted. “Will SOMEONE take Audrey off my hands!” grumbled a hypocritical Clare hyper-critically. (Hippo-what?)

Cursing Sophie’s lack of organisation, the team packed their bags for a deeply unsatisfactory night in a flea-ridden motel. Never one to abandon a chase, Sophie spotted a kindly-looking observer in the dedans and proceeded to ambush him in the parking lot. Within five grasping minutes, she had secured beers, dinner, four beds and a full driving tour of the Park. We were now assured accommodation that was neither hotel, motel nor indeed Holiday Inn. Get Inn!

Archie Gwathmey – cousin of Temple Grassi (watch this space), former Harvard Squash Captain, ardent golfer and an extremely elegant man – directed us capably to his beautiful home in the heights of Tuxedo Park. Clare incapably failed to follow the directions, and after taking several wrong turns careered into his rock garden, sneaking back later to replace several large ornamental stones.  Dinner – taken at the Sunnyside Bar and Grill (like it on Facebook or follow it on Twitter!) – was a sight for sore thighs. Keeping on the sunny side, we ordered side after side after side, being treated to complimentary side salads before casting a sidelong glance at the dessert menu. Travis Our Friendly Waiter at the Sunnyside Bar and Grill (of Hayward’s Deli fame) declared vehemently that Cambridge would not have been granted such stellar service. And we can quote him on that (https://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=588053504631882&id=392953914141843). As he gallantly urged us on to “smash the Tabs” we racked up a considerable tab of our own. In exchange for tips, Travis gave us his own set of tips on how to break into the enclave of male chauvinist pigs (aka ‘Toads’) at New York Tennis and Racquets Club. It would be a Travis-ty not to give it our best shot, we thought! Sadly, we forgot to make Izzy faint traumatically on the steps of the club, with Audrey taking down the doorman and Sophie and Clare sprinting onto the court for a jubilant selfie. Hypothetically…

We slept the sleep of the outrageously privileged, and White-wolfed down two large bagels each (for the record, this was the only time on tour that we ever got double-bagelled). Eagerly, we took up Anne Gwathmey-McNifficent’s offer of chauffeuring us around the landscaped grounds of Tuxedo Park. After a historical whirlwind of debutantes’ balls, aggressive golfing tournaments, boating on the lake and harbouring Wallis Simpson, the Park may now be under threat from the dirty millions of a Malay casino owner. The end of a Gould-en age?

 

(Travis: we know it’s hard to read British cursive, but keep plugging away!)

7th - 10th September - Newport

Newport is a golden place, made of sunshine and dreams. It has two pros, both named Rich P. Smith. It followed that we would later dine with two men named Alex and two men named Chris. Our Rich P. Smith greeted us with a warm kiss and a stubbly smile. All four of us (minus Ice Queen Audrey) instantly fell in love, particularly once he confirmed that we could play lawn tennis on Newport’s historic grass courts, once home to the US Open. Rich P.ickings here, we thought!

Jonny’s blissful summer apprenticeship spent at Newport proved an invaluable asset for us newcomers, as did his near-constant supply of Hallowe’en-themed Lindt truffles (once intended for Mrs Whitaker and then lovingly repurposed). Jonny guided us capably to our new home with Mary and Bill, where in traditional style we would go on to outstay our welcome. We were entranced by their Labrador Bonnie and their equally adorable outsize Mini Cooper. Bill and Mary were okay too.

Match day dawned bright and fair. What could be a more fitting backdrop to our titanic clash with Newport than the Men’s US Open Final, we asked ourselves? Unfortunately for Flushing Meadows, the historic Cilic-Nishikori tussle was entirely overshadowed by some of the most gripping court tennis club level has ever seen. Sophie had a sweaty battle with Club President and King of Jamestown Steve Devoe, while Clare traded devastating forehands and nutritional tips with dietician Beth. Special mention in the doubles has to go to Kip “You Baby” Curran and his tiny blonde counterpart, who used all the strength in his 13-year-old body to crush us mercilessly. Clare was forced to resort to lobbing him shamelessly, even on the serve, bouncing giraffes over his hapless silken head.

Oxford 6 – 3 Newport

Sophie Dannreuther vs Steve Devoe: 7-9

Audrey Davies vs Alex Forbes: 8-7

Izzy Hunt vs Andy: 10-7

Sophie & Audrey vs Alex Forbes & Alex White: 6-8

Clare Bucknell vs Beth Winthrop: 10-5

Audrey & Izzy vs Beth & Alex White: 8-6

Clare & Sophie vs Peter & Kip Curran: 2-10

Sophie & Izzy vs Kip & Keith: 9-8

Audrey & Clare vs Fred & Keith: 10-2

After four matches each, we donned our filthy lawn tennis shoes and headed over to the grass. On the hallowed turf, Sophie tried out the game of lawn tennis for the first time under Clare’s capable tutelage. Having prematurely celebrated a 6-5 win, she was witheringly informed of the rules by a grudgingly impressed Izzy. Wilting in the heat, we took advantage of the National Tennis Club’s premium shampoo, all the while harbouring anxieties about having to return to second-rate haircare products upon return to the UK. We headed out for dinner but found that we had spent so long drinking in the club’s prestige that we were locked in. Refusing to accept the arbitrary closing times of petty bureaucrats (…Andrew?!), the scholar-athletes wormed their way through a four-inch gap underneath the gate, all the while scrutinised by the glaring eye of Newport Private Security. Brains and brawn! This event will be referred to in the history books as Gategate. 

Club President and King of Jamestown Steve Devoe generously took us all out to Lobster Shack for a delicious seafood supper. We enjoyed the company of a wealth of Riches [and Chrises and Alexes], and bibbed ourselves up for a wild lobster ride. At a downtown oyster bar called the Midtown Oyster Bar, Izzy singlehandedly dealt with renowned doubles partnership Sailor Alex and Moustache Alex, while Audrey swatted away underwhelming bobble serve after underwhelming bobble serve. Needless to say, Izzy’s underarm twist will be remembered in Newport for generations. Clare’s lobster made a late break for it, surging to eventual victory in a desperate bid for freedom.

For a small (lobster-free) flavour of the evening, we will soon be uploading a link to show our commitment to homegrown court tennis talent.

Sophie’s tactical loss to CP&KoJ Steve Devoe, coupled with the charms of Izzy’s face, led to the unexpected offer of a tour of Newport Harbour by speedboat.  If we had been nauseous before, we certainly were now (though we clawed back some comfort from being affectionately trampled on by the sharp talons of Steve’s spaniel, Spikey Mikey).  Once out of Newport bay, Clare found her raison d’être in being dragged in a tiny plastic dinghy behind a rapidly moving vessel captained by Poseidon’s representative on earth, whilst Sophie, Izzy and Audrey waterskied effortlessly first time round (technically, Izzy periodically emerged into a nervous crouch above the surf).  Already crowned King of Jamestown, Steve was subsequently appointed Official Waterskiing and Related Sports Instructor to the Oxford University Ladies Real Tennis team.  Hopelessly Devoe-ted to OU, that’s Steve!  

We had hoped to luncheon in the hallowed surroundings of the Newport Yacht Club, but Izzy’s waterskiing took so long that it was already closed by the time we arrived.  Starved and frustrated, we wound up at a downtown pizza parlour, where we destroyed 2500 calories each in three minute’s flat.  Imagine our consternation when we were informed by our hosts that they would like to dine out especially early that evening (6.30pm latest), and recommended in particular that we try the veal gorgonzola!  Audrey gamely chowed down on a solitary stalk of asparagus (which, incidentally, nearly escaped lobster-style), whilst Sophie and Clare mutely nibbled on garden salads.  It’s a sad day when a single bottle of Sauvignon Blanc defeats a party of six.  

A delicious New England breakfast of muffins and assorted jams (Sophie demanded quince jelly and a whole quince) gave us the chance to redeem ourselves in the food stakes, and having eaten our hosts out of their larders, we forced them to partake in an unexpectedly successful six-way selfie.  Despite Audrey’s passive-aggressive watch-checking and grim determination to be on the road, we insisted that no visit to Newport would be complete without a VIP tour of the International Tennis Hall of Fame, which in our case was conducted by a man who was unimpressed by our cheery English platitudes.  ‘Yes, I can see you look happy’, he said suspiciously.  ‘It’s very suspicious’.  Sophie stared hungrily at Roger Federer’s used T-shirt, whilst Clare gasped greedily at the sheer size of Andy Murray’s Adidas footwear.  Secreting neon yellow souvenir tennis stickers about our persons, we crept out of the Hall of Fame in semi-disgrace and waved the fondest of farewells to a town we could never show our faces in again.

Clare, Izzy, Sophie and Audrey