Whilst we’re waiting for the new football season to start, this weekend represents some kind of pinnacle of ‘other sports’ stuff. As England enter the 4th day of the 3rd Ashes test with every chance to win it but, obviously, an equally ‘every chance’ of losing it. Should the former happen, ‘THE SERIES IS ALIVE!!!’, but if the latter it just becomes damage limitation and seeing just how hateful Australians can gloat.

I have to decide whether to keep sending blogs out about my beloved Premier League or whether to instead write about the Saudi Arabian league for £365,000 a week. Possibly a day, need to read the proposal again. As if.

And then we have the tennis. It took me a few days to fully engage. Seeing Roger Federer sitting in the royal box did nothing to help me. The player who based his entire style of play on me, and the most elegant, wonderful, perfect exponent of the game, now reduced to babysitting Princess Kate and wearing a tie. No Rafa, just a limping Andy Murray and a still obnoxious Novak Djokovic. Plus new wonderkid Carlos Alcaraz and a few 7 foot 3 east European serving machines.

Then there’s the women’s. And I started not knowing any of the gels, they just drift into so many pony-tails with -ova on the end. But once I got over that, I realised the thing which makes Wimbledon so wonderful and special is precisely that. That they don’t need names. Because they all dress the same. None of those green and yellow twin sets they wear at the Australian; no black shorts like in France, no… no nothing!! Except little white dresses and long, tanned legs. And that would be enough, even without the tennis. Then I re-discovered Katie Boulter and I was in love again, until she lost. Yet they know how to play the game too. Which is not ‘that’ important, compared to the length of their dresses, but it helps.

So this week it gets even more exiting. And the cricket’s just gone a bit off as we need 8 runs and there’s only 4 wickets left. Nooooooooo…

Happy, not-depressing-yet, Sunday

A xxxx