As I peck away at the pixels, Britain’s sporting man of the moment is cruising his way comfortably through the early stages of Wimbledon.
Long may it last. I can truthfully swear to you I had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with our miserable performance in Brazil, but my powers of prediction are notoriously inclined to put the mockers on just about anyone’s chance of success. So, suffice to say Good luck Andy, keep the flag flying - while it’s still intact and we’ll keep tucking into the strawberries. Not forgetting the Pimms of course.
While on the subject of strawberries, I personally don’t think they are a patch on last years’ fabulous crop which seemed to go from strength to succulent strength week after week. Must be something to do with the on-off weather - or the Pimms of course.
No doubt tennis aficionados will be fully aware that our very own Mr Speaker of the House of Commons, was top seed in the Under 12 National Championships in 1975, won by man of the moment in the commentary box Andrew Castle. I must admit I hadn’t the faintest idea – which is probably just as well, the thought of Mr Speaker in shorts could have put me off for life! The game that is not the strawberries - or the Pimms.
I don’t know about you, but I become increasingly irritated by all the BBC’s channel-hopping in their coverage of Wimbledon. Half way through an intensely exciting match the still delectable Sue Barker gaily announces termination on that particular channel. “But don’t worry” she trills, “you can still watch it on the red button.” Well I don’t want to keep fiddling around with red buttons or any other colour buttons come to that thank you. I want to sit back armed with my dish of strawberries – and Pimms of course, relaxing to the nod-making pings, pongs, oohs and aahs that are the very essence of my favourite couch potato pastime.
As for all this new-fangled video technology that gives us live pausing and play-back plus goodness only knows what else, my box of tricks doesn’t seem able to cope with it either. TV recording and old age, are definitely not for the faint hearted. Oh how I yearn for the days when you just switched on, twiddled a few knobs or pressed a few buttons and hey presto. (We’ll conveniently forget the hours of chasing a picture round the living room floor with the portable aerial.) And apart from getting cross with the screamers and grunters, I’m sure I am not alone in finding the vocal habits of some commentators equally irritating. You know, the ones who insist on talking avidly over the serves and throughout play – usually about themselves.
Finally I see the prize money for singles winners this year is now £1,760,000 - up 10 per cent on last year. Not bad for bashing balls over a fishing net with an over-sized fly swat!