To the University! …on Monday morning for yet another hybrid of table tennis and squash.

But wait! What’s this? Why don’t we add pickleball into the mix?

We were playing table tennis inside a squash court with the option of using pickleball bats.

My playing partner had earlier in the morning been pickled so to speak. It was tempting to switch to the big old bats on the University Table of Dreams.

It was a little hard to concentrate inside Squash Court 2. Squash Court 1 was housing some hardcore squash players. There’s a particular grunt associated with squash players when they reach hard for a ball.

We had a little more of a leisurely session than the fellas next door. We were playing with a drooping net. This led to some very low shots that made the clearance with ease.

The first game in particular set out the stall for what was to come. We play the international rules of first to 11. If it’s 10-all then you need to win by 2 clear points. The first game ended up 18-16 in my favour.

“Oh that was a soft serve”

…remarked my playing partner after she messed up, yes again.

Yeah and that was a bloody hard return from me.

Never mind, luv.

I had to make a break for it midway through the session for a toilet dash. I was leading 3-1 at the time.

I think that was my downfall. I couldn’t recover after the toilet dash. I ended up walking away losing 6-3.

“You had me.”

That’s what she said.

To the University! …on Friday lunchtime, or more to the point, to the University Squash Courts. Except we weren’t playing squash, we were playing table tennis, natch.

This has fast become our fave new menu for a game of wiff waff. The space is just superb with its small enclosed four walls. There’s just enough room to carry out some long shots, but then you aren’t walking your arse off to retrieve any ball that has just been TWATTED.

We had a pretty half decent warm-up. We were going from corner to corner at some pace. The forehand’s working out okay. The backhand needs a little bit of practise. It does make a very reassuring spectacle and sound when you get the perfect rhythm however.

And then the game started. You know how this one is going to end. I did try, I did try and pace myself. I know I need to start playing cautiously and then ramp it up, but I just get carried away and go for the win.

tl;dr, I never win.

I think at one stage the scores were 3-3. Hey! I’m still in this! 4-3 and 5-3 then soon followed. By this stage I was just dicking around and seeing where the mood took me with each shot.

That’s a fast track route to defeat, fella.

A challenging evening of table tennis down at the Sailing Club on Monday evening. That’s challenging for me, not so for my opponents. tl;dr: I was absolutely shit.

I think I may have won the first match, but then that was as good as it got.

I managed to convince the other players that we should play to the international standard rules of first to 11. This makes it all the more important to be on your game right from the start.

In my defence, I did experiment with wearing my specs. I really struggled to see the ball last week. I rocked up, looking cool as fuck with my specialist sports glasses. Sadly, the look wasn’t replicated with the style of play.

I pretty much shot my load, getting very excited with some smash shots. A couple of them went in the corners, but the rest of them missed the table by a long distance - a bit like my fancy sport specs.

Oh dear.

I wasn’t quite as unfortunate as one of the other players who went to take a dive shot and allowed his table tennis bat to take his weight as he fell to the floor. Sadly, his weight was heavier than his table tennis bat, which came off with a snapped handle.

Whoops.

I didn’t fare any better when we switched to doubles towards the end. We played on to 21, which gives you a bit more time to experiment. By experiment, I mean twat around and try shots that you know you can’t pull off. I lost all three games of doubles that I played.

That kinda evening.

To the University Table of Dreams! …on Monday morning. Once again, wiff waff.

We rocked up at the University Sports Centre. It was busy, being the first week of Freshers' Week.

A wrong turn to the right and we could have gone straight into a careers fair.

Whoops.

Think carefully. Which direction do you want to go in, Jase? Right for the careers fair, left for table tennis.

Just like 1990, when I was turning out for registration, I made the correct choice.

Careers fair claptrap.

The table tennis itself, to be fair, wasn’t all that. My playing partner was in a very talkative mode.

“Less chat, more play.”

… came instructions from me. She responded with an absolute volley of power shots, corners to corner on the table each time.

Oh dear.

I did find my way back into the game.

“That was a poor game from me.”

…commented my playing partner.

“Yes it was. You were fucking awful.”

In my favour was she her unfortunate timing with a sneezing outburst. I managed to TWAT the ball just as her eyes were closing ahead of the full sneeze trauma experience.

I was always chasing the game. We both got a little reckless towards the end with some fancy Dan shots that didn’t exactly pay off.

I walked away with a 5-1 defeat.

I considered turning right and heading to the careers fair and asking about what opportunities there are to play professional table tennis.

An interesting Monday table tennis social down at the Sailing Club. We rocked up and there was no one else there. Eight hours earlier and it was the exact same situation at the University squash court - an hour to ourselves with a table that is a dream to play on.

My first concern was being locked in overnight at the Sailing Club. There could be worse places to be abandoned. There’s a fully stocked bar down there.

There was some Sailing Club meeting taking place with some of the old boys down below us. I ventured down there just to let them know of our presence and to ask when they would be done so we wouldn’t be locked in.

I made an absolute dick of myself introducing myself, and then realising that I actually knew three of the old boys sitting around the table.

Let’s get back to the whiff waff, right?

We played on for 15 minutes or so. The light was fast fading. A very brave couple were launching a kayak under moonlight from the hard below us.

And then A turned up to rescue us. To be honest I can only take an hour or so of playing with my usual partner once a day. Two hours would have been excessive. A made it a friendly threesome.

We decided on reverting to the standard table tennis rules of playing to 11. The Monday social at the Sailing Club has had a tendency to stray towards 21. You have too much luxury there to climb back from any deficit. Play to 11 and it’s game on, full on, right from the start.

A ball change was needed. We were playing with our own 3-star ball. It was incredibly fast and light. We switched to one of the Sailing Club ball, which was a lot slower.

It was a fantastic session. We got to rotate, with only one player sitting out for 2 minutes or so. Some pretty sharp shots were played.

To the University table of Dreams! …early on Monday morning.

Having signed up for University sports centre membership, I might as well make the most of this whilst I am still crocked. Running around playing pickleball could be particularly painful. Standing at one end of a table and TWATTING a little ping pong back and forth, however, is piss easy.

We had a change of scenery for our booking on Monday morning. Having previously played in the entire basketball-sized sports centre with one table in the middle, we opted instead for the squash court.

This meant that any powerful smash shots unreturned by my playing partner didn’t lead to her having to trot off halfway down the sports hall just to retrieve the ball.

But it wasn’t all one way traffic in terms of her going for the shots. Far from it:

“The next improvement for you is to try and put topspin on your backhand return.”

Thanks for that, luv.

My reply was:

“The next improvement for you is to try and hit the table.”

She rose to the challenge. Predictably I fell to an 8-3 defeat.

To the Table of Dreams! …on Thursday afternoon.

We rocked up at the quaint rural village public table to find it covered in graffiti. There was a crappy KFC style chicken along with a CND sign.

Some people.

There’s absolutely no fucking need for this. You wouldn’t find this back in Lambeth. Some of the self-entitlement from the middle class little shits around here is unbelievable.

Not surprisingly my mind wasn’t focused after this trauma I was slightly triggered with class war rage. This led to the scoring going a little wonky.

“Less chat please.”

These were the instructions I gave to my playing partner. She wanted to bang on about all sorts with nothing to do with table tennis. Focus on the game, luv, and don’t forget what the score is.

The park around us was absolutely empty. This makes a change from the heatwave summer months, when we attracted the attention of dog walkers, young families, and general local bum dossers.

“That was a good return, wasn’t it?”

…remarked to my playing partner with a high degree of sarcasm after I messed up.

In my defence I’d almost just been taken out by a conker falling from a nearby tree.

It all then went a little weird with both the scoring and some of the conversation, which I was keen to cut out.

My playing partner found herself 3-0 up. I stormed back to take it to 3-2. This has been something of a familiar pattern of late, with her concentration failing.

“Whenever it goes up I have trouble maintaining it.”

…said my playing partner.

She didn’t appreciate my response of:

“That’s what she said.”

Lost 4-2.

To the Oval Table of Dreams! …on Wednesday lunchtime. We had a short window of opportunity in which to go about our whiffing and whaffing while luncheon was taken over the road at The Oval.

Cricket in September is always an interesting proposition; table tennis in September is an equally interesting proposition. The kids are back at school. The local primary school along Bowling Street Lane was buzzing with kid activity.

Think plenty of screeching, whooping, and general enjoyment. Contrary to popular opinion, I’m not the type of guy that appreciates plenty of screeching, whooping, and general enjoyment.

Just STFU.

The Oval Table of Dreams is always a welcome distraction from the cricket, but it’s perhaps my least favourite table to play on. I love the urban setting but it has its challenges.

Whenever a ball lands on the nearby road, the angular nature of the gravel makes it something of a random lottery as you try to retrieve it. Add in a little local dogshit and it becomes a little troublesome.

The planters around Bowling Green Lane were another obstacle in trying to recover a bouncing ball.

One of the council workers was being very industrious on the other side of the road, trimming the communal hedge. All the extra noise was something of a distraction for me. That’s why I lost 4-0.

A half decent evening session down at the sailing club. This was my second hour of table tennis for Monday.

Live to spin, spin to live, etc.

It was bloody stuffy upstairs in the sailing club loft. My style of play reflected all that energy as I reverted to brute force to batter my way through my opponents.

Five minutes in and this led to a smashed ball.

Whoops.

It seemed to be working however. Somehow I managed to beat the best player.

He didn’t take it in the best of spirits and demanded we play a grudge match out again. I called it a rematch but he stuck with grudge. It’s him that’s got the problem, not me.

He got the better of me but only just. I thought it wise to call it quits before taking home a 2-1 defeat.

We finished off with the usual doubles. We had a tight game with my partner and I leading 20-19. I gambled the house on a killer spin shot that landed pinpoint on the corner of the table.

I was so happy I could smash another ball.

To the University Table of Dreams! …on Monday morning. The students are still a week away from returning. We had the entire Sports Centre to ourselves.

A decent warm-up started the session: corner to corner, forehand to forehand, backhand to backhand. TWAT it as hard as you can.

I’m starting to feel that maybe warm-ups aren’t adding anything to my game. Soon I found myself 4-0 down, with my opponent laughing at me.

We were also attracting interest from the viewing gallery above, with some staff members assembling to also add to the humiliation.

“Shall I play left-handed to make it a fair game?”

…asked my playing partner, the cheeky cow.

This was the inspiration I needed. One of the best rallies we’ve ever played then took place. I went from 4-0 down to coming back to 4-4.

“The tension is rising”

…remarked my opponent.

“Yeah, for you, love, but not me.”

5-4. GEDDIN! Take that! Who’s laughing now? Ha bloody ha.

It wasn’t quite Forest away at Highfield Road in the League Cup, 1991. If you were there then you know.

But I’ll take it anyway.