For lifelong Wimbledon nut Risteárd Cooper, the chance to witness the peculiarly English traditions of the old tournament was impossible to refuse
AS I GAZED out the window of my stationary traffic-jammed vehicle in Dublin recently, with sheets of interminable rain pelting onto the windscreen, it occurred to me that, with weather like this, maybe we deserve a recession.
After my vibrating phone bounced along the dashboard I pressed the hands-free kit into action (honest, garda) and the sports editor of this newspaper said to me in a nice cheery voice - "So, would you like to go to Wimbledon?"
All of a sudden the rain seemed to ease, which is a tad ironic given it's Wimbledon we're talking about. Did I want to go? It was a bit like asking a cat does he like fish.
Wimbledon and I go back a long way, but having only ever appreciated the many and varied virtues of the tournament from the goggle-box, I was rubbing my rackets together in anticipation.
The memory of boyhood summers gawking at the box, transfixed by the World's Greatest Garden Party - as they like to call it - is as tangible as scoffing Wexford strawberries in the back of the Hillman Hunter, or flicking sand off my chips on Curracloe Beach. The whole family used to wrap itself around the 16-inch Ferguson without remote control for those two weeks. And most evenings I'd grab my Dunlop Maxply, slip on my sweat bands and turn into Björn Borg for my match with John McEnroe in the back garden.
In those days BBC's coverage was an integral part of setting the scene and of guiding the unenlightened through the unwritten laws of court etiquette. Dan "Ooh I say" Maskell's outraged reaction to the "shocking" and "unsportsmanlike" behaviour of McEnroe when he was in his pomp always had me rolling on the floor.
"Now he really has gone too far this time, he really has," Maskell would utter in his disapproving, whispered tones while "Mac" yelled "You are the pits of the world" at some miopic, cowering Etonesque linesman.
My first visit to the hallowed turf of London SW19 was a very posh affair.
You don't have to appreciate the delicacy of a drop shot or the depth of a volley to enjoy this little outing - with pretty much everything you could ask for laid on a silver salver by women in silver dresses, for some the tennis might be a vague distraction from the sumptuous indulgences.
You have to be mindful how frequently you bend your elbow here, as hospitality kicks off at 11am in order to accommodate play, which commences at 1 pm. It wouldn't do to find yourself a tad squiffy before even making it courtside, shouting abuse at the linesmen and chanting "The umpire is a wanker!" It just wouldn't be tennis. Especially not in an Irish accent.
Having more than satisfied the Ned Kelly, I exited the Gatsby Club and immediately felt the London sunshine warming my face as I strolled through the grounds of the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club. Taking in the impeccable grass courts, the massive corporate village, the museum, the endless stalls, cafes and crowds, I realised at first hand the sheer scale of the event.
Most grand sporting occasions take place over a few hours of one day, but this mammoth organisational operation 10 hours a day for 13 days, and even though about 450,000 spectators spin through these turnstiles during the fortnight, there is a discernably "jolly good" atmosphere among the throngs patiently queuing for champagne, strawberries and cream or Pimm's and lemonade (don't ask me).
There are official shops dotted all over the place, selling everything from Wimbledon towels to the best-selling items - the tennis ball key rings. But if it's a bargain you're after, a tube of used (by players) tennis balls will cost you £1. Not bad, eh?
This trip was about great tennis and, as I took my seat on No 1 court, I felt exactly like a lifelong Al Pacino fan who'd finally met his hero. "Smaller than you'd think on the telly," I thought, as I looked around the arena, but then maybe that was compared to the gigantic stride and octopus arms of Venus Williams, who was about to serve to a Spaniard called María José Martínez Sánchez - try to say that with a cold and a mouthful of strawberries.
This was bliss - here I was, bathed in sunshine, looking at one of the best women ever to lift a racket in one of sport's great cathedrals. The accuracy, athleticism and power of the eventual champion was extraordinary, especially for those lucky enough to be there.
Then it was time for a wander around the outside courts, a nice cold beer and a visit to "Henman Hill", as Andy Murray battled it out with Germany's Tommy Haas. As the screams got louder and Murray gyrated and clenched his skinny fist once too often, I returned to the delights of the Gatsby Club for afternoon tea.
Several scones and cucumber sandwiches later, I was back for one last look at the majestic lawns, linen suits and grunting Russians before heading to the hotel. Ah yes, a good day. It might have changed since the late 1970s - the rackets have got bigger and the serves have got harder, and the former outcast John McEnroe is now an essential ingredient of BBC's commentary team - but considering arguably the best men's final of all time was contested this year, it's hats off to Wimbledon, even if you're sniggering under them when you put them back on.
GO There
Risteárd Cooper was a guest of Keith Prowse travel (01-8783500, www.keithprowse.com), which offers various packages to Wimbledon, from a trip to the first day of play with a stay in three-star accommodation right up to the ladies' and men's finals and a stay in five-star splendour.
Risteárd Cooper's one-night Wimbledon package included return flights to Heathrow, Heathrow Express vouchers, a four-star hotel in central London, tickets for Court No 1, and service at the elegant and prestigious Gatsby Club, including a champagne cocktail reception.