If families have sports, I’d say ours is tennis. We always make our annual pilgrimage to Wimbledon even if we don’t have Centre Court tickets, just to lap up the atmosphere – the quintessential English sporting experience. Like going to Lords, I imagine, if you’re a cricket fan. Even leaving aside the tennis itself, there is something very distinguished about Wimbledon – from the ex-military stewards who shepherd us carefully along the snaking mile-long queue (where nobody pushes in, by the way), to the garden jazz band playing in the courtyard, to the massively overpriced Champagne and strawberries and cream. And although the cheering from the crowd may have stepped up a few decibels since yesteryear – especially on Henman Hill/Murray Mount – there is a certain respectful awe among the spectators which I don’t think you get at any other sporting event; they know they’re present at the most famous and desired tennis championship in the history of the sport.

And then that London tradition is ruined by having the vulgar ATP World Tour Finals at the O2 Arena. I’m not surprised it’s an “arena”; it’s a circus.
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