To the Sailing Club! …on Monday evening. Phew, what a scorcher etc. Yep it was a hot and steamy one up in the Sailing Club loft. The first few minutes or so were spent creating some air vents with the new fancy Velux windows that were recently installed.

Next challenge: the net.

I’m not quite sure what happened here, but the option was taken to set up the crappy old net that we no longer use. This ain’t gonna work, right?

Bang on the money. It didn’t work. The net was set up and I stepped forward to be first on the table with a challenging opponent. Not long after my performance started, the net started to droop. I think there’s some kind of metaphor within.

No worries, a perfectly functional and erect net kept us full of beans for the next hour and a half or so.

Away from the table and the social conversation turned towards housing. It’s all about houses, innit.

What are the chances of this: one fellow table tennis player who I was only introduced to last month actually grew up living in the house we now own. He’s pretty much the exact same age as me. Stories from within the four walls were exchanged. I hadn’t the heart to tell him that we’re about to rip out his childhood garden.

The evening carried on and the sun started to set. More annoyingly it started to set right in my bloody eyes from the end of the table I was playing in. This is what I put down my subpar table tennis performance to.

To the Table of Dreams! …mid-morning on Monday.

This heat wave - ALL these heat waves (plural) are relentless. Yeah, it’s the new normal and I’m kinda getting used to them. But it’s right putting me off my outdoor table tennis game.

Get that excuse in early Jase.

We had a leisurely warm up and then went into a match. I sensed little energy or enthusiasm from either side of the table.

Midway through the game and we had an audience. There was some young chap, he must have been three at best on his scooter, who pitched up table side to watch us. This was my signal to start showboating to impress the young dude. He scooted away very much unimpressed.

I pulled back a 3-1 scoreline to within 3-2. I was slightly buoyed and possibly could have gone for the kill. I didn’t have time for the win.

Whatever.

To the Table of Dreams! …for the second consecutive day. The public park was eerily quiet. In the distance we could see smoke emerging from Fingeringhoe Wick. This is something of a worry. The fields around these estuary wilds parts are absolutely tinderbox dry. I did think of doing a rain dance before we had our wiff waff warm-up.

Our first decision was which ball to use. We started TWATTING the ball from corner to corner using the conventional indoor ball. The wind picked up picked up and the warm up became a little more anarchic. Time for the heavier ball.

The wind ball carries plenty of momentum when you it the sweet spot and the ball bounces a few metres back. It then continues to roll way down the long slope of the hill, such is a lack of friction on the bone dry grass. I confess to taking great pleasure in achieving this kind of shot and making my playing partner increase her step count for the day.

The game was interrupted by a celebrating clucking from one of the hens in the nearby coop. “She’s just laid an egg!” declared my playing partner. Yeah, well done you. I’ve got a game of table tennis to try and win.

Somehow I found myself 2-1 in a best-of-five. This isn’t gonna last, right? We went into the final game decider, with everything to play for.

The score actually went up to 10-1-, with 11 needed for victory although two clear points to seal it. I bottled it. Blame the clucking hen that put me off my stroke.

To the Table of Dreams! …on Thursday afternoon. We did umm and ahh about whether a game of wiff waff in extreme heat was a wise idea. In the end you have to just get off yer arse and bloody do it, yeah?

The park seemed remarkably quiet. I know it’s the holiday season but still.

There was a gathering of a couple of young families playing boules on the newly installed Town council surface. This was rather reassuring to see.

Back on the wiff waff table and we opted for the non-wind ball. It felt like we had to give it an extra smash just to get it over the non-net net.

After twatting around a little with our warm-up going corner to corner, we entered into the game. As ever, I started off brightly but then lost heart. I really couldn’t be bothered.

At one stage it got so ridiculous that I took some steps back and delivered my killer spin serve from about three metres away from the table. It worked once but not the second or third time. Oh dear.

I walked away, not in shame, but still with a 4-1 defeat.

To the Table of Dreams! …on Saturday morning. The town and the public playing field were absolutely deserted. I suspect this was a combination of the holiday season and the fourth incoming heat wave of the summer.

Phew, what a scorcher, etc.

We pressed on with our usual corner to corner warm up. The forehands were working out well, not so the backhands. I soon got bored and gave out the command to throw for serves.

My playing partner got incredibly lucky with a couple of shots which graced the edge of the table with the finest of margins. If I was being picky then I would make her play these again.

The wind picked up slightly. It was nothing to be chilled about. It was a most warm Estuary Wilds wind that just added to this sultry atmosphere.

A young kid made his way down a path on a scooter. He smiled as he went past us and gave out an incredibly friendly “Have a nice day.” Same to you, little ankle biter.

I did experiment with some spin. This was completely ridiculous. It involved standing about 3 or even possibly 4 m away from the table and playing my usual spin serve. It worked for the first time, with the ball stopping dead on the other side of the table.

Further experimentations failed badly. It led to a 3-2 defeat.

It was a busy Monday evening at the Sailing Club table tennis Monday social. We had six players. Some new rules were delegated on the spot: rather than play to 21, it was dictated we would play to 11 so everyone had some table time.

This meant for some very speedy play. You have no hiding place, no mercy when you are playing to 11 points. Within a blink of an eye you can find yourself six-nil down and pretty much chasing the game.

I came close to departing one game on a classic table tennis bagel - aka zero points. I managed to salvage some sense of respectability.

My final game of singles was my best game. It was an epic match, which, despite being played to 11, ended up with me winning 16-14. We had tied the game at 10-all and you needed to win by two clear points.

Some pretty random doubles followed. I made a suggestion that we play as a threesome. No one laughed. I think some of my fellow Monday Night Social players even took the comment as the innuendo that wasn’t honestly implied.

To the Table of Dreams! …on Saturday lunchtime it’s been a while since we rocked up and played outdoors.

The field around us was extremely parched. It was like playing on the Oval table of dreams back in South London. Whenever the ball bounced off the table and behind you, it just kept on bouncing and bouncing and bouncing and then rolling.

Our first task however was to wait for some little shits to leave the table. As ever they were treating it as their own personal dance floor. The entitlement of some of the jumped-up middle-class little twats around here is unbelievable.

There was also the strange sight of some cutlery left underneath the table. I suspect this is another hangover from people mistaking a table tennis table for a picnic table.

We were both out of form. Let me rephrase that: I was more out of form than my playing partner. She managed to BATTER me 5-0, despite playing some very questionable shots.

There was talk of playing best of 11. I really couldn’t be arsed.

A mixed session for me at the Sailing Club Monday evening table tennis social. I was absolutely on fire for the first game. My opponent didn’t get a look in. Everything I hit was gold. I even had a smoking gun celebration moment.

You dick.

It was another hot and sticky one up in the Sailing Club loft. We had the balcony open. This led to one shot from an opponent heading out the balcony doors and landing pretty much down below on the Sailing Club hard. A rescue mission took place with a friendly face down below.

There was also a Sailing Club committee meeting taking place downstairs. Apologies to the more sedate members who were sat around the big table deep in discussion. When I celebrate a winning shot, then fuck yeah, I celebrate a winning shot.

I was particularly pleased with an absolute smash of one return that landed on my side of the net, but the momentum was sufficient to propel it over and then stop dead right on the other side. There’s no coming back from that.

Despite all this hyperbole I was actually pretty crap for the rest of the session, all fur coat and no knickers so to speak. I can talk a good game yet delivering when it matters is something completely different.

#tabletennisdick

To the Sailing Club! …on Monday evening. If it’s a Monday evening then it must be the Sailing Club table tennis social session. We had five players for this evening, pretty much the perfect number.

It was bloody stuffy up in the Sailing Club loft. We had the Velux windows and the balcony door open. A gentle breeze was coming through, but it was still pretty much hot, sticky scenes, you know what I mean.

Two players played, three sat off, then rotated. Those sitting off were regaling in Regatta tales from the weekend. One of the poor Wiv One Designs took a bit of a battering in what was a very congested estuary.

There was also plenty of talk of mud. I did clock whilst out for a walk earlier that the mouth of the Roman River is pretty much silted up. It was speculated that we’re not too far off from the whole river being so silted that Regattas of the future may be in doubt.

It got a little lively towards the second half of the session, when the fellas from Alresford Creek rocked up for their monthly social in the bar below.

Chin chin.

The main noise we were making was from a cracked ball. We played on for around five minutes or so before realising that the ball was actually dead.

Doubles ended the session. I got a little overexcited, and embarrassed myself with an inappropriate noise coming from a rather sweaty backside. Apologies, I’m not sure where that came from.

We all decided it was a good time to call it quits.

To the Table of Dreams! …early on Saturday morning. We were fresh (or not so fresh) from dropping off a load of trash at the monthly bulk refuse collection point. The Table of Dreams was within our sights. This was too good an opportunity to miss.

Also making the most of the early morning was one of the hens in the nearby Coop. She was making a right old racket, rejoicing in the fact that she had just laid an egg. Well done you.

My playing partner was a little lame. Don’t scroll down to the final score if you want to see an average table tennis player being trolled in real time.

She made a lame excuse that her contact lenses were in back to front. As a non-contact lens wearer I can’t see how that is possible. My excuse was the big fat dog who ran up beside me, took a slight 45-degree detour, and then did a massive dump. The dirty dog etc.

A fat wasp also hovered over us throughout the game. This was pretty weird. We tried to get a look to see why it was so fat. Was it pregnant? Do wasps get pregnant? Nope. Eggs, innit. We still had no idea as to why the lard arse yellow and black thing was so obese.

It wasn’t even 9 am yet and still the young footballers were warming up right in the middle of the heat. It looked bloody hard work.

We had a little extra time than usual. We decided to play on in what was quite an epic game. The final scoreline of a 4-1 defeat to me doesn’t tell the full story. I’m not sure what the full story is to be honest.