No Smoking No Trainers

No smoking no trainers

Once you’re through the gate

It’s the Wimbledon final

We mustn’t be late.

I’ve got two great tickets

It should be some match

But outside the ‘Members’

I find there’s a catch.

The Met Office said

That the day would be hot

So I’m dressed in a kurta

Which proves I’m a clot.

“A jacket and tie sir

Or you can’t come in

No don’t look surprised sir

Your outfit’s a sin.”

Then as his gaze lowers

He gives me a frown

We don’t allow trainers

In this part of town.

In pleading my case

I start dropping a name

But the look on his face

Says it’s me who’s to blame.

My guest of the day

Starts to remonstrate too

“Is there really no way

You can let us both through?”

We glance at the hatcheck

Who gives us a smile

Her coat does the trick

But her neckties are vile.

But still there’s a problem

My footwear won’t do

But my trousers just hide them

I call that a coup.

We finally enter

The inner sanctum

To hear all the banter

And watch all the fun.

We stroll up one flight

To where luncheon awaits

A heavenly sight

Served on white china plates.

As soon as we’re done

We repair to the bar

To join the vast throng

Downing Pimms by the jar.

I light up a gasper

To unwelcome stares

Another disaster

They must come in pairs.

But now for some tennis

Upon Centre Court

Nadal v the Swiss

Which is always hard fought.

The match appears endless

The longest yet known

The rallies relentless

They’re both in the zone.

As Fed breaks the record

Of grand slams to date

We’re all overawed

At poor Rafa’s sad fate.

The thought of mixed doubles

Seems one match too far

So to lighten our troubles

We head for the bar.

No smoking no trainers

They know at a glance

When seasoned campaigners

Are taking a chance.