Wimbledon, Will It Ever Bastard End?

Wimbledon fortnight. Was there ever a more English phrase than that? Let’s break it down into its constituent parts and study its Englishness. 1. Wimbledon, a dull suburb of London whose only feature of note is a big field covered in dog shit and wombles. 2. Fortnight, an archaic term for two weeks, only used now by the BBC and the elderly. 3. Wimbledon Fortnight, an evocation of gray skies, boredom, class consciousness and disappointment; a sort of sporting equivalent of the plays of Harold Pinter, but with more pauses.

At about the same time, the Americans have Independence Day. For 24-hours they celebrate the liberation of their nation from the yoke of tyranny. They have fireworks and marching bands and everyone has a day off. We have Wimbledon Fortnight, a 14-day celebration, not of liberation, but of tennis, a game that we are famously rubbish at. You come home from work, switch on the box and watch two blokes you’ve never heard of talking about the match they hope to have once the rain stops. Like I said, very, very, very English.