Hey, hey all you sporting funsters out there looking to get a surrogate life – welcome back to the latest fake reality show: "Game, Set and Match".

I’m Wayne Arthurs. In case you hadn’t noticed me, I was that pale imitation of a tennis ball serving machine who was sidelined by that 35-year-old young buck Jonas Bjorkman in straight sets. GSM is for lovers of a good racket with a poor grip on common decency. Huh, as if being a good guy ever rated … or got you onto centre court. Or your own locker!

Do you know how humiliating it is to share a communal change room with the white, poor people who do the laundry for the Williams sisters?

I’m thoroughly sick of being as unconvincing as a Barry Manilow paternity suit or a Spice Girls non-surgically enhanced body parts reunion. As a dirt-dishing MC, I intend to produce something I could never manage on the outer courts -entertainment that grabs you by your body piercings like a meth-amphet muddled, mud-wrestling momma on a mission to mug and hug.

Tonight on GSM, we take a burnt-out former world top-10 tennis player – big, strong, good looking, but goofy as all hell – and have him court disaster. And where would we find such a hunky hack?

Well, it just happens that Mark Philippoussis is at another loose end. His show, Age of Love. bombed out faster than an Aussie female tennis player in a slam.

Just like in so many tournaments, his TV quest for fame, fortune, a new Ferrari and the phone number of a hot 16-year-old Russian rager is over before he got a chance to warm up his balls – Slazenger, of course.

And with no Wimbledon wildcard in sight, we decided to have The Poo looking for his perfect match in all the wrong places.

Here’s the set-up.
Mark, fresh from being dumped by a bunch of mature-aged mums and a bevy of young babes, is looking to regain that star on his door with a new TV gig.

But, here’s the rub-a-dub-dub. I’ve lured Mark to the studio for one more chance to redeem himself on a new pilot show I’ve concocted – “Lusty Lobbers”.

I’ve conned him into thinking that the girl of his dodgy dreams is on the other side of this studio petition and all he has to do to give her his best serve is answer her probing questions.

In truth, I have invited Cherilyn Hewitt – the mother of Little Lleyton – here under false pretences. A desperate Cherilyn believes I have found someone willing to coach LL like they, Team Hewitt, know he should be.

Neither The Poo nor Cherilyn knows the identity of the other.

Cherilyn: “We are looking for someone flexible enough to bend over backwards to give us total satisfaction.”

The Poo: “It all sounds rather exciting, especially the we bit. You have other partners?”

C: “Yes, we play as a team. You’d have to satisfy the three of us – four if you count young, bouncy Bec. Otherwise you’d be punished – severely.”

TP: “The more the merrier, I always say. And I live for pain … as long as it’s just a game, where you get to party after losing?”

C: “How would you start giving us what we want?”

TP: “By, um … letting you all beat me? Believe you me, I have a natural talent for it. It doesn’t even take practice.”

C: “Fine … we like keeping the hired help in their place. We’re also looking to put some grunt in our stroke play? What have you got?”

TP: “Uhm … a crazy desire to meet you all the more you talk like that.”

C: “We also like to COME … ON!! for our country with everyone watching …when do you recommend we make our best play … when we’re a rubber down, so the crowd goes wild?”

TP: “Gulp, er, I don’t usually worry about rubbers. I just usually try to get the rhythm thingo going.”

C: “Do you mind dressing up in an Adelaide Crows outfit? It brings out the passion in us.”

TP: “Well, whatever turns us all on.”

C: “You sound just like the person we’re looking for. There’s just one last thing we’d like you to do.”

TP: “Yes?”

C: “Show us how to do tricks with Roger Federer’s head.”

TP: “Ummm … maybe I can do you all a double deal with me and Rafael Nadal.”