The Nick Evans Mans Guide to Summer

THE NICK EVANS MANS GUIDE TO SUMMER

(Warning This Blog contains partial nudity and misogyny)

 

 

 

It's summertime!!! Britain swelters. The heat wave continues with no end in sight. The Lions beat Australia, Murray is Wimbledon champion, England are caning the Aussies in the Ashes & Chris Froome won the Tour De France. Fuck me, does it get any better for a bloke? All that's needed now is discounted Stella and free hand jobs on the NHS (by Stella) Even Kate & Wills joined in by delivering a Royal baby boy. Don't worry the Mans Guide to being a Royal will follow in the next few weeks

 

With all this sporting excellence I've had a constant semi on for the past 2 months. This is a little tricky when you're sunbathing in your Speedos in the park, but nothing an experienced campaigner can't hide with a handily placed copy of Mobility Scooter Monthly #Nonce.

 

The weather is simply splendid & it feels like the first genuine Summer for ages. Not the measly week of Sun we usually get. This is proper Summer. Pub gardens, BBQ's, River Thames, Pimms, melting roads, rail tracks buckling, long tailbacks, sun beating down from 6am, brown singed grass, thousands of fleshy bodies packed onto a tiny bit of grass, heavy binge drinking & girls in tiny outfits (unless you're in the North of England - then it's all year round) - Yep it's the great British Summertime.

 

Men struggle in the summertime. It's the genetic compound of testosterone, heat, lager & sweaty bollocks. So I thought I would write a little Mans guide to the Great British Summer time to help us blokes get through it and give you girls some tips from the inside to help your man. I haven't tailored it for trannies or hermaphrodites though, so if you are a little unsure of your sexuality simply take the Mans guide, chop it in half and slap on a pair of heels from Primark. It will all make sense then.

Enjoy;

Fitness

Some Men want to show off their body in summertime. Preparations would have begun with endless bench pressing and bicep curls to look good in a vest. Here's a tip for you men. Nobody looks good in a vest. The only way you should wear a vest is if you are in a retirement home. Think Uncle Albert and think on.

Men do not care about proportionate muscle mass, it's all about the upper body to show off the 'guns' and 'pecs'. They may have the legs of a chicken and the chest of a bear but that's all that matters for summer man. The result is they look like an upside down pyramid, otherwise known as 'tossers.'

You will see these strange specimens walking around arrogantly with over large sun glasses and tightly fitting vests to show the kind of body they think is fit and everyone thinks is fat. Tread carefully around these meat heads. Heavy acne on the back and an ultra 'take themselves too seriously' look means they are on steroids. Watch out for this - it will mean they are close to complete violence or mental breakdown. Think Raul Moat in a souped up Astra.

Early morning runs outside in the sun with your top off is a joy of summer for some men. Sucking in the view, the weather and the great outdoors is a cracking way to start off the day. In addition there is always a regular dose of fitties you will pass so the ability to genuinely guilt free perve is immense. Forget the view of the country side check out the amount of camel toes you can spot as they run past in their Lycra. The only way to start a summers day

For men not interested in fitness the Summer poses a problem. Man tits - how do you hide them? Usually with both hands after a regular diet of BBQ burgers & beer. They cannot be covered up by heavy jumpers or jackets, so the faithful shapeless large t-shirt is at a premium. Vests are a definite no go in this instance, unless of course you have no shame, morals or sense of pride. I'd advise any male Fat Goths to remain indoors for the length of the summer. This weather is not for you. Remain in your darkened room eating Black Forest Gateaux listening to Morrisey until Autumn. Only then is it safe to venture out.

Summer Fashion

Men generally have the style of Mary Queen of Shops on Acid. No more is this exposed than during the summer. The hot weather is tricky for men & they generally fall into 3 categories.

Those who never try. Those of who try but fail miserably. Those who succeed in failing but are comfortable doing so.

The best summer wear is of course anything from Sports Direct. This involves 3/4 length tracksuit bottoms/shorts which have the material of bible paper. These cheap little fuckers are actually heat conductors and encourage the terrible man disorder called 'sweaty nad syndrome' . This is when Mens bollocks become over heated and leak down the inner thigh.

 

Any long period of sitting will mean this runs to the arse cleft and once that goes you have an all over sweat situation that no amount of talc or deodorant will fix. This is effectively pants Armageddon and smells worse than a portaloo at Glastonbury. It's groin meltdown, like a BO Bomb has gone off. Stay well clear.

In this instance girls. Never ever contemplate giving him a blow job. You may as well suck off a shit covered Pig. It will be more appealing than your man in groin meltdown.

 

Other favourites of men in the summer is of course the cargo/combat shorts. Usually worn by men who wouldn't even get to level 2 on Tour of duty, let alone real combat. These should never be worn by any man over the age of 40. That's just wrong. If they do, they should be sent to Afghanistan and used as target practice.

 

This is followed by the trainers, short shorts and socks brigade. Everyone knows this is codename for paedophile. Never ever wear this combination unless of course you are a 1970's former Radio 1 DJ or totally deluded.

 

 

The final No go is pale blue shirts. A terrible error in the heat wave and on public transport. This will result in large dark circles under your arms making your arm pits look like they've been crying. This is not a good look or smell and will make girls run a mile. On the other hand if you are a lying bastard MP it maybe a good idea to be photographed once in a while with these.

 

 

This will of course give your PR department plenty of material to spin that you are a man of the people and like 'one of us'. Your not, you're a lying demon politician with sweaty armpits. Get back to your air conditioned Jaguar you cunt and fuck off.

Of course the ultimate for men in summer is the safari suit. It fits all manner of occasions. Work, Pub, Party, BBQ and jungle. It's a top all rounder and if you have the balls (tightly strapped down of course) to wear it you will receive admiring glances, ultimate respect and shot loads of abuse from everyone you meet. Don't be put off boys - our ultimate goal is to do a Roger Moore. Once you have achieved this status you have made it.

 

Sport

A crucial component of summer. For Gods sake watch it on the box don't play it.. A kick around in the park will invariably lead to full rigomortis so it's best avoided. The only sport played should be on the Playstation 2, especially when hot and sunny outside. Wasting a gorgeous summers day whilst trying to get to the Premier league on Championship Manager is an important component of the male summer.

 

If pushed you are allowed to play a game of Swingball against your 5 year old nephew. Make sure you win though at all costs even if it means cheating. If all else fails play an occasional game of rounders. Not for the sport element as we all know it's not proper sport, but because you can laze away in the outfield drinking Cider. The summer sports of choice are of course cricket, rugby Union, cycling, Golf and sweating.

BBQ

The ultimate male domain. This is what separates the men from the boys. No woman should come within 500 meters of the BBQ, unless of course she is naked, in high heels carrying Beer for the Chef. This is purely male territory. Real men shouldn't go for the gas ones. Those are for pussies and men with wispy taches. It's got to be old school charcoal, so the food is black and tastes of embers.

It's a well known fact that Men gauge their masculinity by how they light a BBQ. Firstly pack it with fuckloads of firelighters and twigs soaked in lighter fuel. Then make sure you hunch over it with your face within touching distance downwind with a small lighter and endlessly attempt to light it. Make sure you ignore helpful tips from your girlfriend like 'why don't you use this rolled up newspaper as a torch' and plough on. Your pig headed method should work after 30-40 minutes and by now you should have used every swear word under the sun and made up a batch of new ones. FuckingBBQFuckingwankfuckingfestwanktitbollocks

If you haven't by now burnt your hair then you have lit the thing too easily. You simply must wrestle with it like it's a bear. By now you should have set light to half the garden but at least those bastard coals will be hot. Make sure you put enough on to cook for the British Army and the BBQ will be warm until September.

 

 

Make sure you lump all the meat on together, no matter what size and cook everything for exactly the same time. Employ the 'rythmn' method to your cooking. When it is black outside it is done. Argue with anyone who suggests 'it needs a little longer' by eating several chicken drumsticks, insisting they are fine and developing botulism several days later.

 

Remember Men - NO FUCKING GREENS! The only thing green at a BBQ should be the lawn you cook it on and then it should be burnt and blackened after wards.

 

Seaside

An essential part of the mans summer. You must have a day trip to the seaside. To make it less stressful, avoid driving. Waiting for several hours whilst she gets ready and then load up 8 bags like your going trekking in Nepal is recipe for disaster. If you add kids to the equation you can basically add another 7 hours onto your journey time and 100% stress.

Of course the inevitable traffic and riot in the back seat, with constant demands to stop will mean it would be quicker to get treated on the NHS than drive your family to the seaside. Go by train, it's easier plus there is infinite perving potential behind your sunglasses of course.  

If you are just taking your woman it's a great opportunity to show off your prowess & win man points. Feign interest in little craft shops and boutiques & she will think you're enjoying romantic strolls around town virtually guaranteeing you a blozzer later on. Even seem interested in her conversation and pretend not to stare at other women in bikinis behind your shades. You will have her eating out of your hands by the end of the day & if she's proper filthy. Your ring piece too. Though I wouldn't suggest rimming on a first date and it's certainly not a romantic end to a perfect day out. Remember that boys.

Of course eating is important so whatever you do - DO NOT TREAT HER TO HEALTHY FOOD. This is a big no no - instead binge on fish & chips, whelks, hot dogs, candy floss, doughnuts, crepes, ice cream, fudge and sweets. Seaside fayre is for the clinically obese and you must at all times scoff whatever you can fit in your cake hole. Binging as a couple is fun, however this is counter productive as she will be far too full to give you a blow job later on. You have to weigh up the odds. Blow job or freshly cooked ring donuts? If all else fails and she is too full you can use the ring donut to finish yourself off later.

Your final mission to affirm your masculinity is to win her a cuddly toy on the pier. You are not allowed off the pier without winning your woman some kind of furry monstrosity. It can't be for something shit like hooking a duck. Instead you must throw, kick or hurl something as fast as possible to win. Either dart board, coconut shy or tin can alley. This is essential for a man that you get a crowd, spend £2 for 3 balls and then spend £62 on 21 goes until you finally win.

 

Any man who leaves without winning anything for his bird is effectively cock less and may as well throw themselves off the pier. You are a fucking disgrace if you leave empty handed. You have no place in Mans world. You are letting down the whole of man kind - This is historical and goes back all the way to pre historic times. (well at least black and white anyway)

 

 

This is it boys, Man up. The ultimate test of masculinity and no matter if it costs you £100,000 - you are getting her that one eyed furry fucking gnome. Male pride is at stake here and there is no limit to what you spend to retain it.

 

Remember, whatever you do boys - DO NOT EMPLOY THIS TECHNIQUE UNLESS AT GAY PRIDE

 

 

Once you have bagged her the furry toy you can rest easy. She will be putty. You are officially her hero and you can look around the seaside and feel a sense of superiority over other men who have left empty handed. You are now a man my son. Go home immediately put up some shelves and reverse park. You are on a roll. You are Lord of the pier.

Summer Holidays

These fall into different categories. If you are married with Kids it's technically not a holiday. More a test of endurance. Being on call 24/7, being forced into 'having fun' and being relentlessly jolly will have you craving the sanctity of your shit job and commute in no time. Hang in there.

If you are in a couple you can take her to a romantic little fishing village in the Mediterranean where you can join the legions of other couples wandering around aimlessly hand in hand turning slowly bored and joylessly eating silently in yet another over priced taverna. It's a perfect place to get away from it all, plug in the Ipod, read a book and ignore each other all day.




The true test of a new relationship will be to last the full 7 days without wanting to throw yourself under a Greek trawler. Man up boys. Just remember the footie season starts in 3 weeks.

For an ultra romantic night out take her out to a local bar and watch the pre season Emirates cup. If Sunderland v Coventry isn't enough to get her wetter than Manchester in June, then woo her at the Karaoke after several schooners of Ouzo. It's a well known fact that girls love being sung to, trouble is by the end of the night you will probably sound more like a wart hog mating than Frank Sinatra. Know your limits. Stick to Angles by Robbie Williams. It maybe a shit song. You may sing it like Stephen Hawkins with a throat infection but she'll definitely nosh you off for trying. Bless.

If you are single, its of course the lads holiday. It doesn't matter where you go as all you'll be doing is swapping the inside of one pub for another. Make sure you do not engage in any local custom and speak louder than at home to make yourself understood. It's important to eat local dishes such as KFC & Dominoes and enjoy excursions to historical attractions like the longest established massage parlour in town. If you come back without being arrested, beaten up or in this state you haven't fucking Lived boys!!!


At least one hospitalisation is mandatory for a lads holiday as is an STD. That's a bonus and one to be proud of. Be careful though boys to get tested if you are in a loving monogamous relationship. It's a tricky conversation down the line if you don't.

The final holiday is of course the Great British camping/caravanning holiday. A timeless classic. If your camping make sure you prepare badly, not like those pros who have pop up fridges and cookers. Never go Glamping. That's for people who read the Guardian and watch Grand Designs, Pitch your tent and make sure you look as proud as the first explorers up Everest when you've succeeded. Modern tents are a piss of piss so you shouldn't go far wrong, however if you do get in trouble never consult the instructions or seek advice from your woman. That's recipe for disaster,. Her job is to load the fridge and sort out bedding. Make sure you pitch your tent downwind from the toilet and shower block so you are woken to smells of frying bacon and raw sewage. Always a livener first thing in the morning.

Of course if camping is too basic you can always go caravaning. There are the professional caravaners of course. Who own their own & tow it holding up the entire traffic for 12 miles. It's mandatory to have dopey long wing mirrors and caravans that sound like dildos (Maruader anyone?)  This is essentially a small house on wheels, transferred to a small plot of land. The real pros get the awnings that extend into a conservatory and hang up washing lines and create a walled garden. If you are living in one of these for a week be careful not to eat heavy carbs, The chemical Khazi will become the bane of your life. If you can last more than 2 days in one of these tiny things you are most certainly clinically insane.


Instead I suggest hiring a static. Or an 8 berth. These big bastards are superb. 3 bedrooms the size of a Smart Car boot, walls thinner than Posh Spice and a kitchenette where the only thing Michelin is the tyres it's balanced on.



To be fair modern static Caravans have gone all posh and are reasonably luxurious now. Real toilets and spunk stain free bedding so they are highly recommended for families or couples. If you survive a week in a caravan with your bird she's most certainly a keeper boys. The one for you.

I personally think Caravan holidays are cool. The on site shop which always looks like a Russian cash & carry from the 80's. The clubhouse choc a bloc full of overweight holiday makers playing Bingo and throwing shapes to the nightly Disco. Kids running amok wired on sugar and a smattering of ageing Lotharios from Preston who still think they 'got it'. Presumably they mean mild Racism and Diabetes Type II.

It's a classic British Holiday people and I urge all Men to experience it at least once in their lives in order to receive full Man points (and a bad back from crouching down all week)

SEX

The heat makes men ultra horny. Summer heat. All the skin, bikinis and girls on show makes men behave like a dog with 12 dicks. Walking around certain parts of town is like a fanny grenade has gone off. It literally comes at you from all directions and you don't know where to look first. Men must beware of neck injuries at this time of year as 'rubber necking' is rife.

A general tip is to pick a spot outside a café in the sun. Borrow a cute dog for several hours and then sit back and wait for the tottie to come to you. This will save you rubber necking and provide you with a relentless stream of summer perving right in your face. It will literally come to you and you can sit back, relax and enjoy the view. Happy hunting!!

It's a well known fact that on average 87% of blokes are shit at sex. It's hard enough for girls to put up with their blokes pounding away on them at the best of times let alone in 105 degrees heat when his face looks like A Beetroot salad & he's sweating more than Stuart Hall at a scouts convention. The most popular position in summer is Doggie. That way you don't have to see each other's purile faces and the sweat can be deflected to the sides. Watch out for Sex on the beach though boys. Sand in the foreskin can literally last for months and a sandy arse cleft can leave any man screaming in agony on wiping. Tread carefully nobody wants to be admitted to A&E with terrible rectal injuries and try to explain it's because of heavy wiping from a sandy cleft. It won't wash boys. Literally.


So that's my little guide to the summer. I hope it's been useful. Remember girls it's hard for us blokes in the summer. You think you've got it hard. Get the perfect bikini body, shave your bits, fight off drunk guys, sweaty tits, fishy fanny, pressure of the media to look good in summer, the kids on holiday. I know you have it tough but spare a thought for the poor blokes. We have to last nearly 2 months without Premier league football & put up with all the endless hours of Royal baby shit. Not only that but we have to attend picnics/summer fairs and pretend to look interested. We've got to get our legs out & pretend not to stare at girls for nearly 3 months. Shit the bed, it's murder for us boys. Thank god for the Freight Rover Cup Regional qualifying rounds beginning this weekend. Without it I think I'd have to go and get myself some brightly coloured Chinos and kill myself.

Only 165 days to Christmas. Enjoy the rest of the summer.

If you want any man tips you can email me at itsevo@hotmail.com or visit the website www.mansummertimesweatyarsecleftandbollocks.com

The Nick Evans
#Yorkie

xx

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The Nick Evans on....Andy Murray Winning Wimbledon

He did it. The boy actually did it.

Andy Murray won the Wimbledon Men's Tennis Championship, showing tennis balls of steel to become the 1st British winner since Fred Perry in 1936. Respect to the boy.



It was an incredible performance. Even the most cynical and sarcastic of bastards (Er ring any bells Nicholas?) have been moved into a huge public ground swell of respect and emotion for a game they rarely give two hoots of a f**k about.

It was extra-ordinary. The British obsession with producing A Wimbledon champion is over. He had 16,000 people urging him on centre court and millions more at home. He probably had half the nation on his back. Huge pressure, expectation and hope.

You have to hand it to the man. Not only did he deliver skill and style but nerves of steel and Tennis balls the size of melons to close the game out. What a sportsman.

The sun shone, Wimbledon looked more immaculate than a carefully trimmed bush (not saying who's) and the normally docile Middle England crowd were passionate in their support. This skinny little moody Scottish  kid has grown into a great Champion and a bona fide mature British role model. Respect.

Watching the skill level, pressure, passion and emotion of the occasion made you realise how great a sporting event Wimbledon is. You remember watching classic Borg v McEnroe when you were a kid &  realise why you were inspired to play tennis for 2 weeks every year. You fell in love with it. It's the drama of watching 2 guys slug it out on a grass court in front of 15,000 people & hopefully Murray's victory would have inspired kids up and down the land to get active and get out and play the sport (or any others)

He didn't just muddle through. He went out and won it. He dominated. Beating the best player in the world. Displaying incredible skill, tenacity and courage. As I say he didn't just have the pressure of the final but the whole nation's desire to see a British winner. Big up Andy Murray.

The most impressive thing to me is he has turned himself into a machine. Sure he got lots of stick when he was younger. Stroppy and moody. But so what? He's been the only British player in a sea of useless fucks that could actually do anything. He was young and the very same moodiness and pissed off attitude was only displayed because he knew he was good enough to win but didn't have the full range of tools to get there.

He has turned himself into a machine physically and mentally. He's at the top of his game and has done everything he possibly could. Rung 100% out of himself to get to the top. What a proper British role model. What an inspiration.

I know I'm jumping on the band wagon here, but I'm proper impressed by anyone who turns themselves inside out to get to the top. He has done that. A brutal fitness regime. Losing big games and learning from them and finally coming back to win. Sending himself off to a pro tennis school at 15 and doing what it took to get to the top. I only wish I had delivered 1% of his drive and focus in my lifetime. I think at 15 I was more concerned with getting served in the Forresters Arms and reading 'Big Jugs Monthly' than becoming a pro sportsman. There in lies the difference.

You kind of get the feeling Murray couldn't be doing with all the LTA funding shit, or indeed all the middle class ego ridden politics and got on with what's needed to do. Body is cramping? Change diet. Couldn't last 5 sets. Get fitter. Lower back hurt. Take up Bikram yoga. He has been helped to find a solution for everything but ultimately it came down to his desire to win and do whatever it took to get there.

The only unfortunate thing about the final was the pompous fucks' David Cameron and Alex Salmond jumping on the feel good factor & perform like embarrassing school girls in the Royal Box. How the fuck do they manage to get publicity off the back of Murray's heroics? Makes me sick.



Murray displayed courage fortitude, skill, humility & genuine honesty in winning the title. All the traits people look up to and admire. In fact the polar opposite from those self serving self important wankers. Yet they get the reflective publicity. That's wrong.

I didn't mind the smattering of movie stars and pop stars - that's expected. I mean what would the final be without ego maniac self loving movie stars in shades watching in a pastel coloured suit? It's expected. #standard



It's just the lying morally corrupt politicians I can't stand. In fact every time I see that smug cunt Cameron I just want to punch him, or at least land a 140MPH serve straight into his pudgy gob. (unfortunately my serve is as accurate as a Skud missile in the Gulf war so I'd probably miss by 20KM then have to cover it up and say there was 'limited collateral damage' and edit out the news that it actually hit a school and demolished 35 kids)

Anyway I digress. This is a celebration to Murray and his skills, not a dodgy political moan. I just felt compelled to highlight the nature of his performance and show respect for what it took to get there. If I can learn a small percentage of what he did and employ that in my own life then I'll be doing OK. Hard work, dedication & focus. Unfortunately I displayed none of these on Monday after his victory and bunked off work to lay in the Sun all day. I guess it's progress not perfection.

I'm just gutted I laid down £300 for him to win the Australian Open and not Wimbledon, especially when Paddy Power were offering money back if Murray won. I shan't be betting any more. Though to be fair it doesn't get anymore self absorbed or selfish to put his winning of the title down to yourself for not betting on him. How do you spell Narcissism again?

Final word goes to the genius that is Irvine Welsh. I was told to follow him on Twitter and his commentary of the final was nothing short of genius. His use of filth and language was extra ordinary coming up with his own language and description of the game that will live long in my memory. #Titride Murray being my phrase of the tournament.

So a big hand to Murray. A colossal achievement and day. He's definitely going to be the most famous man in the UK now. Wherever he goes everyone will applaud and be genuinely happy for him. He deserves it. He's a sporting icon now and a genuine Great British Role Model. he's such a top fit sportsman that he actually gets 1 hour sleep and looks like this;



When most of us get 1 hour sleep we actually look like this; There in lies the difference between super human sportsmen like Murray and us mere mortals;



What's actually weird is that he's pleased but not satisfied. In his interviews on Monday he said he wants more. More titles, more Wimbledon victories. He wants to win. More. The hallmark of a true champion.

God. How very untypically British. Most of us would immediately do fuck all for the rest of our lives apart from bask in the glory and give it the Charlie big potatoes. Not Murray. He's already targeting more success. I guess that's the difference between being a winner and not. Murray didn't get where he was by laying on Wandsworth Common in a pair of Speedos turning a darker shade of mahogany did he?

Don't worry the press and public will soon become bored of him winning all the time though and start criticising again. After all, we love a winner. But not too much. That's just too successful then. Kind of makes our own struggles and self worth that little bit harder to take & breads jealousy and contempt. I don't think that will happen with him as he doesn't give a toss. he just wants to win and I'm right on board with that. Full of admiration for the fella. A proper modern British role model right up there with Olly Mears. Sorry I meant to say all the Olympians from last summer.

I'm going to focus on all the hard work, dedication, courage, focus and determination he's displayed to get to the top. Well, in a bit I will, right after I've laid on Wandsworth Common in the Sun and read about his success. Lets hope a little bit of reflective glory and inspiration can rub off. I'm going down the success by Osmosis route. Lets see if that works.

Big respect The Andy Murray

TheNickEvans

xx

The Nick Evans Guide To Wimbledon Tennis Championships

Oh I say, it's that time of year when the country fixates on a small little plot of land in SW19 and everyone becomes a tennis supporter. That's right people. It's the All England Lawn Tennis Championships, or to me and you Wimbledon.

For most of the year people pay as much attention to tennis as they do to a tramp on the street, but for 2 weeks in June all of a sudden everyone becomes John McEnroe and a national fixation takes place.

Never before have the middle classes been so liberated. No more do they have to hide behind their Laura Ashley curtains sipping Pinot Grigo apologetically. Instead they march together. Middle England is energised & celebrated, basking in a magnificent glow of linen for two glorious weeks in June.

The Wimbledon tennis championships is a classic event on the British sporting calendar and here is my guide to it;

History

It's important to know your history. Britain is full of it, which is why the Americans are so obsessed with old fashioned British traditions such as Wimbledon. It all started as The All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club as a private club founded in 1868. Its first ground was off Worple Road, Wimbledon.
 
In 1876, lawn tennis, a game devised by Major Walter Clopton Wingfield a year or so earlier and originally called 'Sphairistike' was added to the activities of the club. In spring 1877, the club was renamed 'The All England Croquet and Lawn Tennis Club' and signalled its change of name by instituting the first Lawn Tennis Championship. The inaugural 1877 Wimbledon Championship opened on 9 July 1877.

The lawns at the ground were arranged so that the principal court was in the middle with the others arranged around it, hence the title 'Centre Court'. The name was retained when the Club moved in 1922 to the present site in Church Road.

Of course if you're a true part time staunch Wimbledon tennis fan you won't give a shit about this and will view the TV images of the tournament, marvel at the immaculate grounds and think it's a fair representation of the UK. If the cameras panned less than a mile to the original site on Worple Road they will see a Costcutter & Lidel supermarket where you are more likely to see a drop out than drop shot. This is more of a fair reflection of the UK now. You wouldn't see Major Wingfield shopping here. More likely the deli in Wimbledon Village for a Rocket and Parmesan Foccacia.

Still at least they changed the name to tennis. Can't imagine 'anyone for Sphairistrike' taking off. Sounds more like a Bondage game.

The local Area

The grounds are set in the ultra posh Church Road, wedged in between multi million pound houses owned by knob head city types, a golf club & the apex of middle class hell, Wimbledon Village. Here you aren't allowed to walk around unless you are wearing loafers and a jumper draped over your shoulders or wearing large sunglasses. Not many mobility scooters here.

The tournament inducts two weeks of ultra insanity in surrounding areas. The shit hole suburb known as Southfields (nearest tube stop) is renamed Southfields village for two weeks. Wimbledon Village is the real deal. Arrogantly middle class all year round. Southfields is all fur coat and no knickers for the two weeks. It's the Jordan to Posh. It tries hard with a couple of pop up wine merchants & tennis shops but ultimately you can't polish a turd and a dirty big Wetherspoons takes pride of place. Still at least they offer Gourmet dining to the crowds who pass through;

Other highlights include multi millionaires hiring out their driveways to dodgy merchandise and refreshment stands, earning a quick buck through car parking or renting out their house for £10k a week and buggering off to their country farm for 2 weeks. Not that I'm envious of course.

The local business community cashes in by raising their prices accordingly and treating visitors with as much disdain as possible. Residents get wise to this and tend to only venture out after midnight to avoid the sea of visors and bum-bags wandering around aimlessly.

For true Tennis celebrity spotting, head into one of the Village's restaurants and you will spot several out of shape former players holding court (centre or number 1) and making numerous trips to the loo to feed their new found post playing days Cocaine addiction.

Of course if you want to spot a former British player, head to Southfields where you can find them sprawled outside Wetherpoons munching on a kebab from the Burger van. All things are relative.

Crowd

The mainstay of the championships. A cross section of the weirdest folk in the UK. Some queue up for days. Camping out throughout the winter for a chance to get in. These people can be found at Cliff Richard concerts and Wimbledon. Genuinely scary individuals.

 

My Mother used to take me when I was a kid. It was an adventure and fun to queue up for hours just to get a chance to stand on centre court and get a sniff of a chance to see up Steffi Graff's skirt. Of course I never told her why I was so keen to go every year but it brings back fond memories all the same.

Queuing is effectively what the British do best. The British are world class at it and Wimbledon is the highlight of the queuer's year. They don't actually care about the tennis. It's all about the queue. The camaraderie. The freezing cold. The pride in getting there before anyone else. The packed lunch and scotch eggs. It's all about the queue and Wimbledon has embraced this. Even distributing queue tickets, before you get your Ground pass tickets. This is the holy grail for the Great British Queuer. Gold dust.



An original queuing queue before you get into the main queue to queue for show courts or even then to queue for food, toilets and outside courts. You even have to queue for the exit, then for a taxi or the tube. It's the premier Queuing event of the year and attracts all sorts. Of course the worst part of the experience for the true British queuer is when they actually get in to the tennis. Then they have reached the end of their fun and immediately go home. For they have reached.........



The crowd are mostly an odd mixture. Loud tourists in a wonderful selection of visors and lightweight jackets. Middle Englanders revelling in their Mecca of blandness. Genuine tennis fans (there's about 6 of those), corporates just there for the jolly with their tags hanging from their lapels like a badge of 'I'm better than you' honour and Members of the club sniffily looking down on the 'peasants' in the cheap seats. It's a strange mix.

Of course the true fans never get a sniff of the show courts and all head for the hill. This is effectively a garden party and picnic spot except your not allowed to take your own picnic. Therefore your picnic is effectively a Hot dog from the catering stalls for £7 a pop and a Pimms for £8. This of course is washed down with the Wimbledon institution of Strawberries & Cream, well 5 Strawberries and a dollop of cream for £5. Nice one Wimbledon. Punters nosh 28,000 kilos of these little puppies during the fortnight, usually because there's sod all else you can afford. Enjoy!

Players

Just like any other sport these days all the players are as dull as fuck. You maybe able to recognise a handful of them. Andy Murray, Rafael Nadal, Roger Federer, The Williams Sisters and the latest fit Russian off the production line. Sharapova anyone? After those your struggling aren't you? Come on be honest you have no idea.

In the old days you could real off a list of players who were characters and identified with. Connors was angry, McEnroe a head case, Borg ice cool, Becker electric, Lendil mechanical, Graff fit as fuck and Navaratolova downright scary. Point is you knew who they were. Plus of course they were actually cool. I mean Borg was the don. His hair, his fashion. Any man that can make Fila cool is the best;



Now most of the players have unpronounceable names from Eastern Europe and scary overbearing fathers hell bent on pushing their kid to a cash cow limit. Add to the fact most women in the female game shriek louder than an ego maniac's orgy and the tennis is as bland as Emmerdale and you have a product that is less interesting than before.

In this year's tournament the players even complained about getting injured on grass. How wet.  

The only injury you can sustain on grass is a rock burn from a spliff or apathy. They were shrieking like an orgy with loudspeakers. Back in the day players wore shorts tighter than hot pants that cut off the circulation to their nads. You didn't hear them moaning then did you. Just high pitch Bee Gee squeaking.

 

Man up modern players. Including you girls.

Style of Play

Since serve and volley went out of the game and the grass courts slowed down it hasn't been the same. I remember watching on TV as a kid, the courts were brown and bare through over use, especially down the middle. Looking balder than an Brazillian with a Vijazzle



Every man's game was a rally of 4 shots. Serve, return, volley, point over. Simple. Now you have to watch for 48 mins to see an endless base line rally. The only base line that should be played is at a Ragga jungle club. Get to the net boys!

Serve and Volley was a sign of masculinity. A real cock wrestle. Even for the girls. Who could get to the net and dominate. It was great. Now the men sit at the back of the court like the girls and endlessly rally away waiting for a mistake. It's duller than watching Loose Women. Still at least those girls have got bigger balls than most of the men's game now. Serve and Volley where for art thou now.

Centre Court

No game would be complete without a few half arsed high pitch shrieks of 'Go on Andy'. Such is the humour factor, 'Go on Tim' still gets laughs. That's about as funny as Joe Pasquale and they always sound like him too.

The camera will always zoom in on the player's team in the crowd. Particularly if they have a well fit partner. They will also focus on a celebrity in the Royal Box. Pippa Middleton scores big points but as long as it's not Cliff Richard we're alright. Especially if he starts singing.

The Media

The media will comment on how shit British tennis is after most of the players get knocked out on day 1.(Stereo type 1) Then it will place massive pressure on Andy Murray or anyone else that makes it to 'the second week' (Stereo Type 2) Finally they will endlessly mention 'the last time a British player won Wimbledon, (Fred Perry, 1936) - (stereo type number 3) the closer Murray gets to the final.

It will also publish photographs of the glamorous pretty players and objectify them commenting more on their beauty than game (stereo type number 4) and finally comment unfavourably on any players that are carrying a bit of weight (stereo type number 5) - though to be fair if you are a professional athlete and lardy you deserve a bit of stick.

TV will of course pray for a teatime Murray 5-setter for viewing figures and become bombarded with complaints from saddos for cancelling 'The One Show' to 'stay with the tennis'. This is a ghood thing though as it spares us from Chris Evans.

Phrases such as 'cut the atmosphere with a knife', 'nerve racking' and 'unbearable tension' will be rolled out and finally when Murray wins they will stick a knob head journalist in front of him (Gary Richardson) to ask the most inane questions you can think of - 'How are your eyes Andy'. Twat.

TV will employ a raft of former players, all winners who look tired and hung over, especially Boris Becker who looks like he's spent the two weeks recreating the famous Ollie Reed Wimbledon Pub Crawl. They will drone on for ages about the technical aspects of a game most of the viewers don't understand anyway. Pointless (very much like the British number 6 seed)



They will of course employ Brits as well who have never won anything to criticise current players. A case of the blind leading the blind.

Overall the wall to wall coverage will cease on finals day and then everyone can forget all about tennis for another 12 months. Sue Barker can go back to her cryogenic chamber and start having her make up blow torched on for 2014 & Boris can go back to his bed.

The Country's Interest

For 2 weeks people become Tennis experts. Berating Murray for his lack of cross court top spin, when the only top spin they have ever employed is telling their missus they'll be home at 11.

People talk about it like they've been into it for ages when really they think a '5 set thriller' is a DVD Box Set of CSI.

For two weeks it's on TV, in the press and everywhere. It is a back drop to June and it wouldn't be the same without it. After 2 weeks we all go back to normal and Tennis becomes as relevant as Nick Clegg.

That's why we love Wimbledon so much. It does set the tone for Summer. Late daylight evenings. Matches going on into the night. Hype and excitement at the prospect of a British winner. The hope and expectation for a game you rarely give a toss about.

It's a throwback to a bygone era. An era of elitism and privilege which has very little meaning to modern Britain but is still peddled around the world as 'quintensentially British'. So British that Ralph Lauren, Rolex and Verve Cliquey pay millions of pounds to be part of it.

Yes it's commercial. Yes it's middle class. Yes it's irrelevant but it is the most prestigious and famous Tennis tournament in the world and it's right on my doorstep. I love it and summer wouldn't be the same without it.

Anyway I must go. That burger van is packing up in my driveway, I've got to go and collect my £400 a day I'm extorting from him and let the people I've let park outside my gaff for £100 out. I hate commercialism of this tournament it goes against all my morals and principals. Having said that, the queue goes straight past my house too so I'll clean up on Umbrellas tomorrow when it rains.

I'll leave this blog with the face of Wimbledon. he pretty much captures everything I love and hate about the tournament. Enjoy the rest of it and lets hope Murray manages to win. He's a Trojan, dedicated, professional, skillful and old school. I admire him and he's a proper good role model.Let's hope he wins and roll on 2014 readers. I can hardly wait.

 



The Nick Evans

xx

The Nick Evans on......Honesty

Honesty is a tricky subject for men. Most of us are born bull shitters. It's just we never like to admit it.

Honesty refers to a facet of moral character and connotes positive and virtuous attributes such as integrity, truthfulness and straightforwardness along with the absence of lying, cheating or theft.

Honesty is revered in many cultures and religions. Honesty means being truthful, trustworthy, loyal, fair and sincere. Not the most rock and roll of personal attributes nor are they fashionable but by Christ are they powerful when used.

Lets face it, we live in a dishonesty world. The truth is a rare commodity. Whether it be politicians saying what they think the public want to hear, major corporations moving corporation tax offshore, bankers and financial institutions hoodwinking us, companies advertising their products, scammers scamming us, junk mail junking us, Group on discounting us, image consultants moulding us or celebrities annoying us. It's all a bunch of bull shit. The scary thing is millions believe it. Or do we?

I usually write reasonably funny, slightly piss taking 'Guides to...Man stuff', listing 10 irreverent matters on a particular subject to make you (the reader) laugh and post good things about it. I like making you laugh. I like humour. I like people laughing at stuff I've written or said. It makes me feel good. Especially if I've created it. After all a narcissist's ego's need feeding right?

But this is not a funny guide (OK I will do a bit at the end then to try and make you cackle) - but I've recently woken up to the fact I've been dishonest for ages. Bullshitting myself & others without even knowing it. Or if I did know, I became so used to doing it I didn't know how to act any different. It became my friend. The norm. I lied to myself and I even started to believe it.

It took a radical act from someone close to me to shake me out of my coma and see the truth. The brutal truth about myself and I didn't like what I saw. Self serving, self centred, chronically selfish dishonesty wrapped up in what I thought 'being a nice guy'. I wasn't. Sure I did good things. I have a good heart. We all make mistakes. But constant deep rooted dishonest behaviour deeply hurt people. It made me think about my moral code, my integrity, my truthfulness both to others and myself. Was I being the best I can be? What had I learnt from my parents, my grandparents?

In my case my heroes. Father and eldest brother have been my Male role models. They were alcoholic lunatics. Build it up & smash it down, full of ego, charisma, bullshit and dishonesty. I so wanted to be like them. Not my quiet, hard working, diligent trustworthy, solid and honest Grandfather. I wanted the outlandish bull shitting. That's what caught my attention from an early age and I thought it was OK to be dishonest. Trouble is I had my Mother's genes too. Caring, sensitive, moralistic and good. I didn't like to let people down. I had a conscience - so there began a double life from an early age.

First example was trying to be one of the boys, leader of the pack. Full of cockiness and pride so I had respect when underneath I felt less than, needy and weak. That's dishonesty from an early age right there. The outside not matching the in. Progress into adulthood and you have chronic secret drinking away from the family, seedy behaviour and finally dishonest womanising over a long period of time. Is it honest to get someone to fall in love with you because you don't feel good enough yourself? That's a dishonest selfish act right there. See what I mean now?

Don't be thinking I'm being too hard on myself here or beating myself into a self pitying state. I'm not. I've seen the brutal truth about myself and I want to change. 

I've recently made a commitment to try and be honest. I've had a spiritual and Karmic shift on this gear. It feels good. It's tough as sometimes telling the truth is scary and can hurt people, but over all it is for the best. Life is cleaner and clearer that way.

There are of course many layers of dishonesty. The nasty deep down and dirty dishonesty. Stalkers, criminals, paedophiles, rapists and fraudsters. Hell bent on lying, deceiving, cheating and lying for criminal & personal sick gain. We shall leave them be for this blog. Too much mess on that subject.

Then you have the mass corporate dishonesty of the capitalist world. Greed and everything that comes with chasing a pound note, monetising life. We are a market, a brand, a consumer. A saleable commodity and greed encourages dishonesty. Organisations & institutions will stop at nothing to make money.

Then there is the media dishonesty. Presenting an image rather than the truth. Reducing everything to a sound bite or instant image. Even creating news which is total fabrication - (Hillsborough, Leveson Enquiry anyone?)

This is followed by the personal dishonesty of yourself. Be it work, tax, relationships, sex and life. It's up to us if we choose to engage in that or not. We are not robots. We are human and make mistakes.

There is social media dishonesty of presenting a face to the world you want to be seen as, yet the truth is somewhat different. How many of us have looked at people's Facebook lives and thought 'you bastard, you look like you have an amazing life' or even amplified our own?

Then finally there is the self honesty. The real guts of the truth. What I talked about in my introduction. This is the one I am really interested in. Am I being true to myself.

Are you? To people in your life. To the world. This is often hidden and people can last for years fooling themselves or behaving in a certain way that is simply not their calling. I know this because I have done it for 39 years until recently. I'm only just discovering the layers of lies I have lived by, told myself and listened to for longer than I care to remember.

Example? Well, do you have days when your inner voice tells you, your not good enough, your no good, it's all over. They (whoever they are) are better? - Is this the truth? Who says? It's a form of self dishonesty that can last for years. It can hold you back. Affect your life so much without knowing it or being able to do something about it. Self dishonesty.

Consider yourself a good person? I know I did. Whilst doing good things for others but deep down I knew I was doing it to get rid of my guilt for other behaviours. Is that so selfless then? No it's deep rooted dishonesty and it's a real belter.

It's OK of course. Not dramatic. Nobody can see it. It doesn't make me a monster or terrible person. But it gnaws away at my soul causing unhappiness and pain. You act on that pain, make poor decisions thus affecting others. It's a ripple effect. A domino all born out of dishonesty. See where I'm going with this?

My point I guess is being true to yourself & uncovering layers of self honesty can have a massive impact on your life and those around you. It doesn't have to bring fame or fortune but it can lighten the load. Even if it's just making you smile more or feel better about yourself. It could of course help you with a job, starting a business, growing a family, making better decisions or having better esteem. It's not rocket science but it eluded me for years. I certainly don't have the answers but I'm starting to understand the solutions

Of course you must be careful with honesty. You have to filter it to suit society. If someone is a proper knob. Telling them publicly, out loud or on social media can cause a whole heap of trouble. Either through libel, stalking or getting your nose broken. Unless it's Simon Cowell, tread carefully.

If you're in a business meeting or interview it's not the socially acceptable thing to stop the meeting and confess openly your feelings of unease, discomfort and fear. This can cause embarrassing silences, loss of the deal or being sectioned.  Instead I would say recognise it internally, acknowledge it and try not to break down in blubbering tears. It will be OK.

Honesty about a searing resentment towards someone is tricky. It's usually better to share it with another person rather than stabbing the one you have a resentment against in the eye with a battered sausage. Sometimes we have to be honest but tailor where we put it.

That's not to say it's not a good thing to tell people the truth about them. Sometimes it shows you love someone enough to want to try to help them if you see an area you think is a problem to them. It shows you really notice them. This is called an intervention, or in my case 'preaching bastard'.

This is where it can all go wrong. In my case the desire to tell the truth has often ended in offering advice on a range of subjects I'm not qualified, to someone who hasn't asked for said advice. This nearly always ends in tears, misery and long bouts of silence. Hopefully I will learn to be asked first one day before wading in at the deep end. I know I'm in trouble when I can feel my mouth going on it's own and the pointed finger is placed in the face of the poor person on the receiving end. When the phrase "What you need to do is....." comes out of the locker it's time to run for cover. It's like honesty tourettes sometimes. Dreadful.

I have always been honest with how I feel. It's how I operate. I'm dreadful at hiding my feelings. If I'm angry I go off like a fire cracker. If I'm excited I'm like Ken Barlow at a Scouts convention. If I'm hurt I go all moody and sulky (pretty much like all men) and so on. I wear my heart on my sleeve. If my feelings don't come out they fester and boil. This used to end in a mammoth drinking session & chaos. Now it ends with anger.

The flip side of the coin is suppression. Keeping the feelings all in. Letting them fester inside. This is a weird form of dishonesty. It's not for me to criticise as I've fucked up many times but I find this one of the most dangerous & under-rated forms of dishonesty. It's never seen by the outside world yet keeps the person in pain for ages. Restricts their life, their freedom, their sense of fun, their openness in relationships and can in some cases end up with it causing physical illness. The body cannot cope with such internal mental stress. It will collapse in some ways. All brought on by a sense of self dishonesty that people never see or are able to lock out of being locked in. It's painful to see & frustrating.

So why am I saying all this? Because I want people to be true to themselves. To break out of that locked in dishonesty I was in for so long. To be true to themselves. To be set free. To tell the truth about themselves. To connect with others like me and say 'it's OK to be a bit of a fuck up. We all are! Now move on'

So there we have it. Not many answers there I'm afraid other than to say it's been on my mind a lot and I had to say it. I've been so dishonest for so long it's good to come out of the closet so to speak and admit it. I hope it encourages you to do the same.

It's time for new beginnings and if I'm caught lying ever again I've totally fucked myself here haven't I? Nothing like someone droning on publicly about honesty and being truthful and then carrying on like a knob privately. Still if I do that, at least I can become a politician.

 "Honesty is the first chapter in the book of wisdom."- Thomas Jefferson.

The Nick Evans


If some of you readers like things a bit lighter and funnier - Here is a little something for you;

The Nick Evans Mans Guide To Honesty - Girls take note.

Size

Men if asked how big you cock is. Simply subtract 2 inches from your waist and add it to your old chap. That way your entire body mass is technically correct. Just distributed more evenly. It's not being dishonest it's simple mathematics.

Image

Never let anyone see the real you. Simply post up pictures of random women, you in a bar, on holiday and in massive groups of people on Facebook. That way people will think you are man about town. Check you have put 20p in your electricity meter in your bedsit 1st in order to power up your laptop to peddle this lie on social media.


Sayings

To begin a sentence always use the term, 'To be honest with you'. Make sure you then follow this up with more shit than a sewage works. Nobody expects truth after starting with that phrase. It's a get out clause.

General Knowledge

Make sure you come across as fountain of all knowledge. Use the term 'I know' a lot. Of course you don't. But make sure you excuse yourself to the bathroom and google whatever is being discussed. It's important you come across as a know it all and have the solution for everything. If you don't know dismiss whatever is being discussed as 'bollocks'. Contempt prior to investigation is an important part of the dishonest male's armoury.

Women

It's perfectly normal to exaggerate your sexual conquests. Maximize this in male company so you come over as a cross between Warren Beatty & Casanova. Of course this works in the opposite way in female company. Minimize your history and be sure to say you haven't been truly satisfied yet. Be sure to gloss over the orgies, swinging parties and 22 year old nympho you dated last week. Having said that your failure to locate her clitoris and make her orgasm will highlight your lack of sexual expertise. Stick to spark plugs on a Ford Focus. You have more chance rummaging under that bonnet than hers.

Your Woman

It's important to tell her truth how your feeling. For instance 'Im horny' or 'Im hungry'. Once you have received the brush off retreat back to familiar silence.

When asked how she looks in a certain outfit this is when your new found honesty and when to employ it is tested. A simple 'lovely darling' will mean the above is far more likely. The real truth your thinking that she looks like 'James May in Drag' is best kept in your locker.

Diplomacy can increase your chances of getting fed and sucked off. Honesty will kill them dead.

Cheating

You cannot lie on this subject. Women just know. The one technique you can try to employ is the tried and tested 'best form of defence is attack'. When confronted with the truth try and bluster, shout, scream, wave your hands around and point out her bad points. If this fails play the self pity card and shed some tears of self. However we all know including you, you've fucked up badly and she will see through your pitiful attempts at dishonesty. man up, admit and immediately move out to a mates room in Harsleden. You have fucked up. Honesty will only come after you have realised the full extent of your selfish fuck up and you lose the best thing that ever happened to you.

Of course you could always try Monogamy gents. Just a suggestion, weird I know but well worth a go.

Drinking

If you are drunk and asked how many drinks you've had it's important you stick to 'a couple of pints'. This signifies sociability without going over the top. The fact you can barely stand doesn't mean anything. You drank on an empty stomach of course.

Underplay your drinking spree with 'I had to, they forced me to go to the pub'. Make sure you speak really slowly like you're learning to get over a stroke to reinforce the lie you're off your face. Finally when you have puked up, blame it on a 'dodgy kebab' not the 18 Jaeger bombs you sunk at closing time.

Arguing

Never admit your wrong. Never listen to her. Talk over her. Raise your voice. Be unreasonable and finally storm off to the pub. Make sure you've had a few pints and loosened up before texting her, "have you realised I was right yet?" Good luck sleeping rough.

Sport

A great one this. Make sure you endlessly talk as if you're a level 5 coach and former professional player. Rinse the entire game, pundit, fan, player, manager, coach who has ever played the game. Then when offered the chance to actually play in a kick a bout, feign injury and blame your 'dodgy back'. It's important never to show you have the sporting ability of a Saveloy.

Keep up the good work boys - hope you enjoyed

The Nick Evans

Twitter - @goanick




 

1st Anniversary of Lillian Probert's death - Me Nan

Remembering my Nan

Today, the 21st June 2013 is the 1st anniversary of my Nan's death. I am in Llanelli with my Mum to mark the occasion. It's not a sad time because her spirit is still in us. She lived until 97 and had her time on the earth. She was ready to leave. It was the right time. She's genuinely at peace. She was remarkable. She was the classic Welsh Matriarch. She was my Nan and today we remember her and all other Nan's out there we so fondly recall (or as she would say 'whatacall').

Here are my memories from the Eulogy I gave at her funeral last year. I'm sure you will recognise some of your Nan in her.

EULOGY TO NAN  AT HER FUNERAL FRIDAY 29^th JUNE 2012.

Here is my eulogy to Nan. Or as others know her, Mum, Lil, Lillian, Auntie Lil, Nan Lil, Mrs Probert or Mrs P.

She lived such a long life, and was so well loved by so many. Her Daughter Jan and Son Ken, Her 3 Grandsons& 1 Grandaughter, Her 2 Great grandsons and 2 Great grand daughters, her sister, her nephews, her nieces and so many friends from Llanelli and the community who loved and respected her. We are all here today to pay our respects & celebrate her life.

We are here to share memories of Nan. To honour her life & her spirit. To remember what made her so special to us. They are not just my memories but all of ours. I speak for everyone who loved her.

Margaret Lillian Daniels was Born 13th April 1915. On the Bryn. The 5^th of 10 children. Her father, or Daki, David Daniels was a chauffeur and her mother, or Mamgi, Mary Jane Daniels a maid. She spoke so fondly of her childhood and how it shaped her attitude to life. She would remember how her mother would cook fresh bread, cakes and suppers, clean, keep the house and bring up the children. Big boiling pots, cakes left out to cool. Her father reading the paper. Learning respect, family love and honour. It shaped her life. She was a happy from a young age.

She was a tough character. Angelic but strong. Packed off to work at 14!!!!, (told you she was strong) becoming a housemaid for a Bank Manager in Park Howard, She cried herself to sleep every night but worked there for 6 years. She was a grafter.

 

It was here she met Edwin Vernon Probert. Not keen at first she played hard to get. He was keen on her so one night he walked her home and bought every Chocolate Bar in the sweet shop to win her over. She always had a sweet tooth.

 

Later He chose a weekend riding a Norton motorbike over meeting her. She wrote him a letter saying it’s me or the motorbike. They were married for 51 years! He made the right choice!

 

They were married in Dafen church on 26^th March 1940, Easter Saturday. Their wedding present was a joint of welsh lamb! They moved into Brynmoor Road and so started a beautiful 51 year marriage and a 72 year stay at number 14. She was the oldest member of Dafen church, the longest serving resident of Brynmoor Road. She really was the best.

She lived in Brynmoor Road for 72 years and in that time cooked 296,567 Sunday Roast dinners, 600,966 Rock Cakes and said 'Therewarthen' 3.4million times. She was a star. Everyone loved her.

You couldn’t leave the house without a straining stomach or 7 litres of tea inside you. I never met anyone who loved ‘a nice cup of tea’ as much as her. I think she was responsible for 50% of PG tips sales in Wales.

She was an avid watcher of the news & weather. Lunchtime, early evening and News at ten. Forget BBC news Just ask NanNews. Always up to date and sharp as a knife. I miss my weather bulletins.

She Loved to talk. Sometimes barely drawing breath. But she did get the occasional thing wrong. For instance she felt sorry for those long distance HIV drivers. Would occasionally like a cubicle of chocolate and liked Michael Portaloo on the BBC.

Her house was immaculate as was she. Neighbours remembered her for having the shiniest door knocker in Brynmoor Rd. She was always cleaning the front. Standards you see.  Even the parlour (or front room) looked like a showroom, though it was rarely used. I think she was saving it for Terry Griffiths, the home town boy. Or as Nan used to call him ‘Terry’. She always had a soft spot

She used to lower her voice when she talked about neighbours, as if they were listening. Her memory was incredible and she could bamboozle you with her complex knowledge of what was happening in Llanelli. Linking several stories into one long Nan monologue.

She always stuffed money in my hand when i visited, she was a total giver and carer. Hard working, humble and loving, but would never say it. She liked to send cards with footballs or trains on the front even when i was into my 30's. You never grow up in the eyes of Nans.

 

She would hum and sing when she was going up the stairs in key. Always so happy.

 

She answered the phone in a posh phone voice ‘Heelllooo’ – oh it’s you Rob

She soft spot for boiled mints and always had a bigger supply than Rowntrees. Humbugs and Butter mints were her favourite. This love of mints made her coin the immortal phrase "Do you want a mint in your mouth?" - As opposed to where Nan? It was a legendary catchphrase.

Her cooking was legendary. Victoria Sandwich sponge, Christmas cake, Bread and Butter Pudding, Ham and Parsley Sauce, Rice Pudding, Welsh Cakes and homemade Chips. Bread and Butter was placed on the table at every meal time. Butter melted in front of the fire. She was proper old school. Always fresh cooking. Never packaged. No microwaves. A big lover of 'Chops'.

 

Like most Welsh women She was a feeder. Her way of expressing love. But she was relentless.  

"Want a sandwich?"
"No thanks Nan, I'm OK"
"Rock Cake?"
"No Nan, I'm stuffed after the Roast Dinner at 11am"
"Have a Breakaway"
"No thanks"
"Blue Ribband?"
"No"
"Have a Kit Kat"
"No Nan, I'm full"
"Biscuit?"
"No"
"Rich Tea, that doesn't count?"
"No thanks Nan"
"Digestive?"
"No"
"Fig roll?"
"No"
"Garibaldi?"
"No Nan, i'm stuffed"
"Ok then, if you're sure"..............
,.......................................
"Crisps then" and so on

When we were children we used to spend summers with her and put on at least a stone. Welsh women like their men sturdy.

I can still see her false teeth in the old Stork Margarine tub by the sink,

I can see her in The kitchen rubbing Nivea cream at bed time. I can picture her old shopping trolley in the conservatory, I can see her in her housecoat, going to the shops on a Friday and getting her hair ‘set’.

 

I can see her sitting in her chair watching Emmerdale

I can see her Drinking a cup of tea and eating a kit Kat

I can see her immaculately turned out in what she like to call a new ‘rig out’

I can see her Popping into a room you were in and saying 'therewarthen', like a Welsh gap filler. It was a word that meant absolutely nothing but said so much.

In short she was adorable. The last week has seen a steady flow of visitors, paying respects and wishes. The Kate and William commemorative plate had to be moved from the mantelpiece to accommodate the cards. She is well loved.

I suppose that's what happens when you have been so respectful and lovely to people throughout your life. It is given back.

She was so active, It must have been be hard to lose her fierce independence. She was a proud woman. And despite everything she never complained. Never showed pain. ‘No one likes a moaner’ she used to tell me. She was always so ‘up’. Everyone who cared for her said how much of a model patient she was. She had a stronger life force than anyone I've known. Her will was cast iron. Her spirit strong. Even to the end.

Something that sums up her spirit – About 5 years ago she fell over and broke her leg. Ken arrived to pick her up and put her in her chair. He said "I'll call an ambulance and the doctor". She said ‘No fuss, just take me to bed and I'll have a cup of tea’. Amazing!! Rock hard.

It was nice to listen and spend time with her over the past year. To Learn from. To learn respect. She came from an era when life was simple. Family was key. You didn't moan, complain and were grateful for your lot. She was a Grafter and humble, No ego. No resentment. She didn't talk about emotions but was full of love. Like all people of that era she would never say it but would show it through actions.

Nan. We salute you. We salute your attitude, your spirit, your gratitude. We salute your life. When you were asked about the secret to your long life, you pointed to you’re legs and said ‘these are my transport’ .

Your legacy is a message of hope, of positivity, of activity, to get on with life, to be grateful, to be happy. We celebrate your life.

It’s hard to think she is no longer here, because she has always been here. The constant mainstay in all our lives. Death is sad. Loss is hard. But she is not lost. She will never go. Because she lives on in our hearts & our souls. She will live on forever.

Goodbye Nan. We love you. We remember you. May you rest in peace.  

 

 

Lillian Probert

 

PS Nan - If you are listening, PG Tips sales have decreased by 24% and the Rock Cakes down here are shabby.