I like that name! The Crudmaster.

As the originator and ultimate authority on Crud Tennis, it has come to my attention that the spirit of the game has become debased. From its origins as a congenial form of psycho-physical repartee, or moving meditation, it has degenerated into something resembling testosterone fuelled warfare.

The final straw occurred when Pliskin, the foremost back court Crud player of his, or indeed any, generation, turned coat and adopted the ‘volley strategy’, first introduced by Slightly, perfected by Solid, formalised by Decoy, and loathed by all true believers in the art and science of harmony in the garden.

The rules of Crud have evolved over time. Originally, free-form volleying could happen anywhere on the court. When this resulted in players taking up permanent residence at the net, the seven pace ‘volley line’ was introduced. Now, players intent on blackening their souls pitch their tents there, instead; and run back to it like headless chickens when finding themselves anywhere else.

One option would be to move the volley line further back. Another would be to abandon volleying altogether. After much thought, I have decided – that is to say, I decree – that henceforth Crud proper shall be played with no volleying whatsoever. Anyone who wants to play the now disgraced version, with the seven pace volley line, shall call it by the name of Crude. Anyone wanting to play a gentler version of Crude, with the volley line midway between the net and the service line, shall call what they play Crude Lite. Crud Lite, of course, is where no bat or ball is used and players merely go through the motions of taking shots. It is for experts, or those with ‘beginner’s minds’, only.

Hopefully, this will usher in a new regime of sweetness and light, of flowing mind and flowing body, where the game is more important than the result. That way, regardless of whether you win or lose, you enjoy yourself.

Next on the list for consideration is the forehand serve, which is on the verge of becoming unreturnable. For the time being, however, we will continue to rely on gentlemen being gentlemen, and saving their killer service for occasions that warrant it.

PS. Talking of rules, when playing croquet, backstabbing is still permissible, but the knife is only allowed to be inserted up to the hilt, and twisted when there, and salt rubbed in afterwards, if the back belongs to someone who would do just the same in return if they could. All knife work must be accompanied with a breezy smile and no barred teeth.

Yes, indeed. The response I got when I stabbed out my answers was:

“You got 3 right!
Poor! Your powers are weak, old man.”

My powers are certainly weak; but I wonder how they got my age and gender right.

You got 3 right!
Poor! Your powers are weak, old man.

In our constituency, Mark Stack of the Protest Vote Party gained 313 votes (which would have been between 314 and 317 if we’d been eligible to make our marks) and presumably lost his deposit.

Heading down to our local polling booth on a balmy evening, none of us had any idea who we were going to vote for. Apparently, the UKIP bloke was barking, the Labour creep hadn’t a clue, the Conservative didn’t need our votes, there wasn’t a Green and the Lib Dem … well, maybe. A brief scan of the list at the doorway left us with no decision to make. Some stalwart, right thinking citizen had stumped up the necessary amount of tin for a deposit and had registered himself as the ‘Protest Vote’ candidate.

Unfortunately, as I had failed to fill in and send off the Electoral Register form some months previously, neither our names nor even our house appeared on the appropriate list so we were deemed not to exist and therefore unable to make our mark.

A pleasant if ultimately pointless excursion, after which we had a tasty supper.