Come across a sport which I find listening about even more bloody boring than golf. F*cking tennis!
Three people, a gormless younger woman together with an older couple, possibly her parents, got on at North Greenwich.
They had obviously been at the tennis going on at the Dome, because the airheaded cow spent the entire, now seemingly, endless journey to Stratford reading crap about the players, results and statistics from her phone in a loud and bloody irritating estuary accent.
I could still hear her drivelling as I made my way to platform 10 to catch the 1716.
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