Last night England were duly dumped out of the Euros by Italy, no real surprise there. What is surprising is that before every championship English football fans have a delightful ignorance, they believe that somehow, logic and all sense forgotten, that this year is our year, football is coming home. This blind faith is short lived and it is not long before everyone realises that the English football team, unfortunately, just doesn’t play as well as many others, especially the ones in the knockout stages. And so with their pride in shreds the English fans crawl home, taking a little compensation in the fact England are still the best team in the United Kingdom.
With the football hooligans passed out in their local, their sorrows well and truly drowned along with their livers, a new crowd emerges from the woodwork. This is no ordinary crowd, no common patriotic skinhead, this is the Wimbledon faithful. A whole class of their own, an opinionated, caesar salad eating, Ralph Lauren wearing bunch capable of making any man feel utterly insignificant.
Cardigans tied over shoulders, Pimms in hand this is simple the best of Britain. The start of Wimbledon means three things: sun, tight skirts and a whole lot of tennis, what’s not to like about that. By the end of the two weeks the nation is captivated with tennis, although serving is a pain in the behind, we all love a spot of tennis with the chums. Wimbledon helps to define Britain, it is a little bit of our history and a whole lot of our excitement. Us Brits love a good tournament to unite us, especially when the football team left many feeling rather melancholy. Any excuse to show the world how to host a tournament is gobbled up, politely of course, by our jovial Wimbledonians.
It is with pride that many tune in to the wonder that is Wimbledon, for two weeks Britain is again in the spotlight.