Armchair referee

As the sun sets on the badgers and barn owls of Bill Oddie’s Britain Goes Wild, we can now sit back for two weeks’ post-work TV watching another endangered species in its natural environment — the half- decent British tennis player.

Wimbledon gives us the chance to place our hopes and dreams on the fragile shoulders of Tim Henman and Greg Rusedski. Auntie Sue Barker will no doubt herald the renaissance of British tennis when Barry from Southport manages to surprise a young Spaniard who has never seen a grass court before. But while we continue to pin our hopes on someone who had a court in his garden as a kid, and a foreigner, it’s hardly a sustainable revival.

We should press home our advantage of playing on a surface that no one else plays on by transferring the whole tournament to an environment more familiar to most British players. Rip up the grass and replace it with pot-holed Tarmac. Take down the nets, or at least tie a big knot in the middle, sprinkle liberally with dog poo and broken glass. We should insist that each court contain an old BMX bike, a pit bull terrier and someone called Tracey whacked-up on cider. Then add two puffing thirtysomethings waiting for an ambulance after one of them attempts to hurdle the net, gets caught in the knot, and splits open his head. It wouldn’t hurt to tweak the current strict dress code to encompass a more “street” look of straight-leg jeans, no T-shirt and Burberry cap, and replace Robinsons Barley Water with a compulsory booze-cruise fag break.