WALDORF: Come on, Statler, old man. Pack the hamper. Hard-boiled eggs, sardine sandwiches and all the other remarkable English delicacies for our Muppet picnic to Wimbledon, that peculiar combination of garden party, tennis championships and celeb-stalking.
STATLER: Grrr. Can’t do it. In their infinite wisdom the jobsworths of the All England Croquet and Lawn Tennis Club have banned hampers. They assert that this is for security. But since they grudgingly admit carrier bags, which are just as capable of concealing weapons of mass or singular destruction, that cannot be the true reason. This is all to increase the profits for the lousy official caterers.
WALDORF: And look at the prices. Wimbledon strawberries are an annual cliché. But a bottle of the official cooking champagne costs three times what it would at my local off- licence. The only edible item on the overpriced Wimbledon menu is the Bath bun.
STATLER: The Wimbledon crowd en masse is not a pretty sight. Overweight, underdressed, in silly fancy costumes, and chavs with their faces painted. What are they doing now?
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WALDORF: That is called a Mexican wave. It was unfortunately introduced at the 1986 soccer World Cup in Mexico. The Centre Court crowd hold up play while they perform it, and boo anybody who does not join in. They cheer double faults and other unforced errors by the unlucky gladiator whom they have selected to oppose. What is going on now?
STATLER: That is an aged, aged member of an unsuccessful British Davis Cup team holding up play on the Centre Court to introduce D-list celebrities in the royal box. Clapped-out pop singers, actors past their bombshell-by date and winners of Olympic bronze medals for skateboarding 40 years ago. Get on with it.
BOTH: Grrrr.
FOZZIE BEAR: Oh, come on. People will suspect that you are grumpy old men. But the tennis is still exciting, n’est-ce pas? The servers and receivers flicker to and fro, to and fro, O my Lenglen and my Bueno long ago. Ken Rosewall never won, but he had the most beautiful backhand this side of the Elysian Fields. And he used to walk to the ground in his cloth cap from his modest B & B, unharassed by paparazzi and celeb-freaks. Federer and Sharapova are heirs to a noble tradition. Though much is taken, much remains of our festival of high summer.