SIDELINE CUT:Wimbledon seems to exist in a time warp, the ball boys still wear that deep purple garb, the big score boards look the same and the players still wear the all whites, writes KEITH DUGGAN

IVAN LENDL at Wimbledon and The Stone Roses touring the land: it’s like 1989 all over again. The annual tennis bash at Wimbledon is nothing if not a barometer of national nostalgia and more than one casual observer over the past fortnight has observed that the place is not as sunny as it used to be.

In the mind’s eye, the Wimbledon eras of Navratilova and McEnroe are always glazed in golden English sunshine and the eternal end to end games between Becker and Lendl or Graf and Seles were also played out on brilliantly dry July afternoons. At least that is how it is remembered. Even for people who never watch Wimbledon, in this sodden part of the world, the steady thwack of tennis balls at Wimbledon has become one of the last reliable sounds of summer.

Wimbledon seems to exist in a time warp. Nothing changes. The umpires still sound as if they just found something unspeakable crawling in their salad. The ball boys still wear that deep purple garb and behave immaculately. Those big scoreboards look the same, the players still wear the all whites and best of all, the BBC still manage to make an Arthurian quest of the summer obsession with finding a British champion to bridge the indecently long gap since Fred Perry bestrode the Wimbledon tournament during the salad days of 1934, ’35 and ’36.

What a curious place Perry holds in English sporting culture: for years, his name was little more than a clothing label favoured by the bovver boys who stalked the terraces of football grounds. But he was also one of the most fascinating athletes the country ever produced and even though they unveiled a bust in his memory at Wimbledon in the 1980s, it is rarely mentioned that he took up American citizenship shortly after his successes, fought for the US airforce in the second World War and romanced several of Hollywood’s leading ladies, including Marlene Dietrich. He was the Beckham of his day – except better fun. But Perry always had a complicated relationship with his homeland: even his friend Dan Maskell – the voice of Wimbledon – admitted Perry was “not typically British.”

That is no matter: nowadays he has become the embodiment of everything that England has lost in terms of tennis. The idea that England – or indeed Great Britain, with its half-baked climate and the fact tennis is the sport of the privileged rather than the masses – should be producing Wimbledon champions is a wilful delusion the Englanders who flock to SW19 wilfully indulge.

True, tennis remains a fringe sport in the United States as well – it is no coincidence that McEnroe and Andre Agassi all grew up playing in the gentrified tennis clubs of John Cheever country. But through population alone, the Americans are always going to have a chance to dominate. And if not an American, then an Australian or a bewilderingly complete player like Novak Djokovic will emerge from the tennis academies of the old East to enjoy a period of domination.

The emergence of Tim Henman and Andy Murray as credible challengers for major titles has been a happy miracle in recent years and the pressure on both men to claim a big tournament win has followed them like a black dog.

In fact, a mere US Open or an Australian title may not be sufficient: what is the point of winning a trophy thousands of miles away in games that are played at ludicrous hours? No, for the ghost to be finally banished, a Briton must win on the hallowed Centre Court.

It has taken time for Andy Murray to be forgiven for being a spiky and slightly grumpy Scottish kid but because he has shown gumption and heart to match the talent, the home counties crowd has taken to him. And when he walked onto Centre Court yesterday afternoon, lanky and mop-haired, he was greeted as a knight.

Of course, the most important match of yesterday’s tennis had taken place in the first semi-final when Djokovic met Roger Federer. You only get to see athletes of Federer’s quality a few times in any life time. He is half-panther, half-tennis player. It isn’t so much what he does, it’s the white-chocolate smoothness with which he plays the game that has mesmerised everyone from McEnroe to the old lady who takes the bus over from Battersea to see him play in the early rounds because she can’t afford to be there when it reaches the serious stages.

Federer is 30 now and has coped with the ferocious strength and will which Rafael Nadal confronted him with and, more recently, with the unnerving self-belief and deliberation which has seen Djokovic rise to number one in the world.

Of their last five semi-final meetings, the Serb had won four and yesterday was their first meeting on grass. The momentum is behind the Serbian and most of the crowd who showed up yesterday probably figured that the younger man would triumph. And you could hear the rising excitement in the crowd when Federer tapped into the spellbinding game that saw him win six titles here.

He wasn’t quite as untouchable as in the years when he showed up here in a boating jacket and just oozed class and brilliance: he had to engage some of the veteran’s know-how to stay in control. But he rolled back the clock and that is what they love at Wimbledon.

It came down to nerve: Federer had the day under control and, after serving immaculately all afternoon, simply had to serve out the match at 5-3 in control.

And, as always, it was nail-biting. There was a brilliant moment, when Federer led by 15-0 that Djokovic, playing a risky drop-shot, saw the ball just about drop over the net for a lucky point.

The Serb raised his hand in apology but allowed himself a small, wicked grin and for a split second, you felt that maybe he was going to spook Federer into somehow losing a match he couldn’t lose. By the time Federer sealed the match, the Wimbledon crowd didn’t even bother to disguise their happiness. Maybe they thought Andy Murray would have a better chance of beating the Swiss than the metronomic Djokovic.

But they love their enduring heroes in this tournament. And in a way, it didn’t matter that Murray did manage to overcome Jo-Wilfried Tsonga yesterday afternoon.

Because if the shade of Fred Perry is knocking around the fabled court tomorrow afternoon, he would tell them that in Roger Federer, they are watching one for the ages.