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.