"Oh what can ail thee, knight at arms, alone and palely loitering?" Keats, La 8elle Dame Sans Merci
Here you are participating in the noble art of fencing in the cool of the salle and there's not a single damsel wringing her hands in gentle distress over your plight. Where are all the fans gone? Why are they crowding round the balding lawns of Wimbledon and swooning in their droves over Borg, Connors and Mottram? Why aren"t they jostling and craning to get a glimpse of your muscular frame as you riposte en fleche?

Well, very gentil parfitt knight, here are a few reasons why you don"t rate in the ranks of the superstars.

First, there's this business of "palely loitering". Ladies have a preference for the strong, virile, bronzed look, and there's not much chance of you collecting that while you shun the sunlight for the murky, clammy salle. And that's the second reason . Seated at a discreet distance from the players at the edge of a tennis court even the most friendly fan



Sex and the


Single Fencer


by Elizabeth Jones


is going to get a swift damp embrace before her hero disappears to shower and reappear wafting aromas of aftershave. One can put up with that. But you, dear sir, spend five minutes on the piste building up a head of steam and the next twenty minutes distributing the condensation on all and sundry. You don't need best friends, or anything else. ln fact it's one of the reasons you lack the anything else.

Then there's all that gear. That's a real stumbling block to international superstardom. Robert Redford or Mr. Universe

 would be unrecognisable masked and clad from head to foot in white. Fencers' wives have to identify their spouses by the tear in the jacket which they mended that morning, so your potential fan club could well end up supporting the other man. ln the days of the tourney proper ladies had to tie bits of their own clothing on to the lances so that they knew which was their man: that at least may be a way forward.

You might think that the flash of steel and scintillating dexterity of blade should make a young maid tremble. Well, it might, but it needs time. ln tennis not only does she have the leisure to turn her head to watch each shot, but she has time to "ooh" and "ah",

and between points she can say dreamily, "Doesn"t he have the craziest backhand?" (Even if it is his weakest shot it sounds knowledgeable.) ln fencing if all that flashing hasn't blinded her and she has speed of light vision, whatever it was he did is in French and everyone is arguing about what it was, so she wisely says nothing.

And how hopelessly perverse to score in reverse! The most ignorant of tennis fans knows that if her man gets more points than the other one he wins. But here when the President, (who turns out to be the man in the middle that the contestants argue with and not the formidable head of some South American republic) awards something to her man he moans and groans and complains of being robbed. ln the tourney proper things were much simpler . The man that fell off lost, and the one that stayed on won. Depending on which of them her clothing had been attached to the lady could faint in horror or clasp her hands in delight at the safety of her honour.

There is just one way you might win the heart of fair lady - if she thought you were fighting for her honour, or your name or country she would give you her all. But while you do it so openly for your own gratification and greater glory I fear that fans will scream elsewhere and recuperate with strawberries and cream.



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