I regret I will not be going to Wimbledon this year. Hang on, I never go to Wimbledon. I'm a football man. I'm not interested in any other sport.
If ever I went to Wimbledon, it would be as the Scottish vendor depicted by Frankie Boyle: "There's no strawberries left. You'll have to have chips."
My gym is attached to a tennis centre which is unfortunate at this time of year, when you can't get parked for all the 4x4s and BMWs. Generally, I just leave my 10-year-old dented Focus across the entrance and only come out of the gym to move it when the honking horns reach a crescendo.
At least the horns drown out the grunting from the courts. That's the problem with tennis: no decorum. You can see the players' pants and everything. Why don't they have ugly players? There aren't even any bald ones, which shows how prejudiced it is.
It attracts all the wrong people, not least the lesser royals. That one who looks like a horse was there. OK, that doesn't narrow it down. Even Bill and Kate showed up, along with Bruce Forsyth, Cliff Richard and other decadent hedonists.
It's a suburban Glastonbury, a bourgeois racket, a horrible hiatus before the football resumes.