back in the day, my dad was a banker. he worked at the head office in london for a few years, which had 2 squash courts in the vaults, and most mornings would play a game with a colleague
one morning he was challenged to a game by his boss, a little man who was as mild as milk with a posh eton accent that could cut glass.

so dad was rather surprised when this guy turned into a roaring, swearing tiger on the court. after a tense game, it was getting very close. dad had to keep a straight face as his boss got so incensed that he started pacing up and down the T, bouncing his brand new racquet off his forehead, and shouting, "IT IS NOT THE RACQUET'S FAULT, MALCOLM. IT IS NOT THE RACQUET'S FAULT."

which did the poor racquet no good at all 5 minutes later, when my dad beat him. with a howl of rage, malcolm smashed it against the wall and turned it into little matchsticks...
( rachelswipe with a fork, Thu 3 Oct 2013, 11:57, 3 replies)

Thing is
It IS the racquet's fault, Malcolm. It's ALWAYS the racquet's fault.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Thu 3 Oct 2013, 12:26, closed)

so, you're saying your dad, as a banker, is responsible for the recession?

( The Doveston haunted by the memory of his own amnesia, Thu 3 Oct 2013, 12:49, closed)

I've always assumed that this is how all squash players act,
squash being the preserve of city wankers.
( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Thu 3 Oct 2013, 13:46, closed)