faschismus in south-west london

ahhh... yay dahling, i spent the day at wimbledon recently. a dream come true. it's like walking around the set of a gralph glauren catalogue shoot. luckily i had a spanking hangover so i hit up the pimms at 10:31 (gates open at 10:30, within those 60 seconds i leveled two large german women discussing mauresmo's triceps and a boy of twelve in purple and green shorts and shirt standing at attention next to court thirteen). fuck 'em, i got there first.
so, drunk by 10:37 (funny enough, the obstacles above weren't on their way to the drinks kiosk, so i was allowed to lean on the counter and suck down pimms until the gin (or whatever the fuck it is made of) began to seep into my bone marrow) i met my party and settled under the blazing northern sun to watch some russian supermodel kick the shit out a czech supermodel. women's tennis is really worth watching. i have to admit i spent the entire match staring at the two women's asses (four cheeks) in the guise of discovering how they generated such "torque" on their serves (something i overheard some commentators discuss the other day). it was marvelous. divine. unfortunately, the match ended and i was forced to sit through a series of uneventful match ups before another attractive russian hit court 3.
however, within that era of great patience i noticed something singularly disturbing. namely, that i was taking part in some sort of fascist spectacle only humanized by the players themselves. a frightening discovery on par with a recent realization that employment is haunting me once again.
the court itself was manned by six ball boys standing awkwardly upright with two tennis balls shoved up their asses. they occasionally scurried across the court to retrieve the numerous faults rebounding from the net and then turn 90 degrees and rolled the balls in some absurdly giraffic-fashion to the corner-boys and girls. an asinine display. but to make matters worse were the damn ushers next to the courts ushering ushees into seats and