Anyone for tennis? No, thanks...

WIMBLEDON is on again. Whoopee-doo.

So that's BBC2 choked up for two weeks with thwack/chock, grunt, murmur, cheer and applause, then. When I was a kid at primary school in the 70s, Wimbledon was synonymous with crawly-bumlick kids who would give up running about in the sunshine during playtime and dinnertime just so they could go and watch it in the dark, airless TV room with the teachers.

These kids would inevitably get up early on Saturday morning and take over the dilapidated concrete and chain-link fence courts at the local park.

Here, surrounded by dog mess and broken cider bottles, they served and volleyed over vandalised nets and imagined they were Bjorn Borg or John McEnroe. All it took was a Terry towelling headband.

(In a weird swap-around, all those of us who had run around all week at play and dinnertime would stay in dark, airless living rooms on Saturday watching The Banana Splits and the badly dubbed but unmissable The Flashing Blade – all together: 'You've got to fight for what you want, for all that you believe. It's right to fight for what we want to live the way we please ...')

I just never got tennis. It always seemed too formal to me. What other sport do you sit down to watch and eat seasonal fruit? Do you tuck into gooseberries while watching shotputting? Tuck into a punnet of kumquats while spectating archery?

And all the rigmarole of queuing up and not knowing whether or not you'll get in or camping outside all night is unbelievable.

(I used to work near Wimbledon and I wouldn't camp out in the streets.)

I know one thing for sure, if you're queuing up and you spot Cliff Richard in the line, leave the queue immediately and nip to the nearest pub. Because if Cliff's in the queue, you can guarantee it's going to pee down and he's going to start 'entertaining' people.

And something like that can scar you for life.

Perhaps it's because tennis players are playing for themselves. OK, McEnroe might've been American and Borg Swedish, but it's they who get to take home the trophy at the end of the day.

When you're a football, rugby or cricket fan, you're not only going to watch a gang, you're going to watch a gang that represents your hometown, county or country (or, in the case of this European Cup, the country that helped England out the most during the Second World War/makes your favourite post-Saturday night lash-up fast food/has the best-looking shirt).

There are no thrills and spills in tennis. Not like there are in football or rugby, anyway. There are no spine-tingling singalongs from the crowd. There are no flags or scarves.

No centre court invasions. And no one tells the umpire to get some specs.

What they have instead are rallies. Or they used to, before serves got so fast and non-returnable. Which is just the same as watching two football goalies scoring a goal every time they kick the ball out after a goal.

The only thing that ever fascinated me about tennis – apart from the weird, ruffly knickers that resembled Wall's Vienettas that some of the women players used to wear – is when they took their drink breaks.

I like a drop of Coke, but I wouldn't be able to drink it while smacking a ball around a court in 90-degree heat. The thing is with Coke, after a mouthful you need another one exactly 30 seconds later (it's like a liquid Chinese takeaway).

Robinsons Barley Water? 'Worth getting thirsty for'? Only if I could mix it myself because wouldn't it be terrible if you were stuck out there all day and it was pre-mixed and they'd done it too sweet – or worse, too watery?

I think I'd be tempted to light up one of those disposable barbecues. By the time you come back again, the charcoal would be nicely grey and hot and you could throw on a few burgers or a nice bit of mackerel in tin foil.

By the time you came back again, you could turn them over and by the next time, they should be ready to eat. A during-match snack with a little chilled chardonnay. Lovely.

The main thing I've always wondered is what the umpire thinks about while the players are having a drink and a wipe.

'Whoa, touch of MPB there, my friend. Bit of a forest clearing on its way for you.'

'Aw God, I really wish I hadn't had that curry last night.'

'I really need to change my dealer, man. Where's the swimming pool gone?

So what could the British Lawn Federation or whatever it's called do to make tennis more of an appealing prospect for us dissenters? Here are a few suggestions.

1. Nude tennis would be too easy and not very interesting, so what about the opposite? Overdressed tennis, where the players wear about 10 layers of clothing, gloves, Balaclava helmets etc. The first one to faint loses.

2. Hand-grenade tennis. Instead of a ball, a grenade is used but one that explodes only if it touches the ground. This will curtail all those fast serves and encourage back the sporting art of the rally.

3. Impressionist tennis. Not where the players paint in a blurry, neo-pointillist way, but do impressions of celebrities. These would have to be related in some way, eg, Tommy Cooper, Henry Cooper, Henry Kelly, Matthew Kelly, Kelly Brook, Mel Brooks, Mel Smith, Arthur Smith, Toni Arthur etc. The first one to not follow on loses.

4. Clown tennis. Where players dress as clowns and just thwack food at each other. The first one to do a complete circuit of the court before their Ford Model T blows up wins.

5. Wino tennis. Where the players drink a lot of cheap cider, make roll-ups from dog-ends and hurl incoherent abuse at each other. The loser is the first one to be led away by a police community support officer.

But all would be forgiven, as it was back in the 70s, if this huge pile of Wimbledon could be counterbalanced by more interesting sports.

Why don't they bring back Indoor League? The pub games show, introduced by cricket legend 'Fiery' Fred Trueman, featured everything from doms, skittles and darts to bar billiards, pool and shove ha'penny.

Or wrestling on a Saturday afternoon, when stars such as Kendo Nagasaki, Big Daddy and Les Kellett dazzled us all as we scoffed down our beanjar and Ski yogurt.

Or what about diving from Acapulco? Those crazy Mexicans would hurl themselves off 100ft cliffs and pierce the sea as clean and sharp as knitting needles – and often burst their eardrums just for our pleasure.

Real sport.

So, will I be watching Wimbledon? Unfortunately not.

I have other more important things to do like count the hairs on my cat and watch the fridge defrosting.

But to those who will be, enjoy getting your living room tan.