Wimbledon - it's almost here again.

Wimbledon- it's almost here again.

Ah yes, the smell of freshly mown grass, the tinkle of Pimm's glasses with just a hint of ice and the unmistakable sight of strawberries and cream. It can only mean one thing and how Britain revels in its arrival just in time for the July joviality when the Wimbledon crowds converge on Centre Court in their excited multitudes. They'll spread their  camp beds outside the main entrances, Thermos flasks will be full to the brim with tea and coffee and, last but not least, there will be cackles and laughs in wild anticipation of something they must have been part of a hundred times over the years.

Without fail the tennis enthusiasts of Britain will dig out their tennis rackets and take up their yearly occupation of their local parks, filling the air with loud shrieks of joy when fearsome forehand returns whizz down the tramlines of immaculately kept courts. It is one of those wonderfully ritualistic times of the year when we all become very lively and emotionally involved because summer is here and we can all lose our winter blues and stifling melancholy.

But Wimbledon is one of the defining moment of the sporting and social calendar. It represents everything that Britain has held so close to their hearts. Wimbledon is well mannered, polite, warm, accommodating, friendly, all inclusive, elitist at times but truly professional in everything that comes so naturally to the tournament. It oozes courtesy, dignity, a very English sense of occasion and a full commitment to getting absolutely everything right for a fortnight in July.

Over the years we've all grown used to the tears and tantrums, the excitability of its ever so slightly spoilt players, the rich, nerve jangling excitement of those gripping five setters on either Centre Court or Courts One or Two. And then we witness the hysteria generated by those teenage girls who follow and worship their handsome tennis heroes. We are always ever so slightly taken back and perhaps alarmed at their persistent grunts, great, heaving serves and the moans, groans, yowls and yells that so frequently punctuate their game. At times it sounds like the most discordant orchestra tuning up for a concert that nobody really wants to attend.

But year after year, the Wimbledon fans will fall in behind with that permanently happy brigade who just love their Mexican waves, pouring through the turnstiles as if barely able to control their passion for tennis. Theirs is an addiction to a sport that ebbs and flows from one side of the net to other almost constantly. It is a sport that provides us with that hilarious scenario where heads turn almost automatically from side to side and winning shots are greeted with the most thunderous applause. It can only be Wimbledon because that's what Wimbledon is all about.

Some of us still long to turn back the tape recorder of our bristling memories. The players, of course, were sent from heaven via that crystalline period that was the 1970s. It had to be the 1970s because that was the era that produced some of the cheekiest and most charismatic tennis players that ever trod the Earth. They came from the United States of America and they were impossibly entertaining and totally unpredictable which made the spectacle even more watchable.

There was Jimmy Connors, a Wild West gunslinger who shot from the hip, a spiky and reckless tennis player who, quite literally, played with all the exuberance of youth even when all the odds were heavily stacked against him. Connors was fidgety, fretful, particular, self critical but always determined to polish off his opponent in half an hour or an hour if 30 minutes was not enough.

Connors was forever flicking his hair from his face, blowing on the tips of his fingers, examining his racket, twiddling his racket, staring intently at the player across the net and generally searching for the perfect ace, the perfect cross court backhand or that scintillating backhand volley or drop shot that simply left Wimbledon breathless.

It always seemed that Connors was almost permanently dissatisfied with his game, always growling like a grizzly bear, punching the palms of his hands when the easy shot went horribly astray. Connors was the model of intense concentration, swatting sweat on his forehand with a disdainful swipe and then charging the net for virile volleys that whistled past either John Mcenroe or Ilie Nastase like a whirlwind. He always did his fair share of huffing and puffing, sighing and sniggering, demanding much more of himself than was physically possible. But Connors was never one to be defeated or dominated, driving himself relentlessly, muttering, cursing himself, piercing the Wimbledon air with a loud shout of self reproach, never allowing games to slip away and always hungry for victory.

Then there was the inimitable John Mcenroe, his American counterpart and a man after Connors heart. Mcenroe's father was a lawyer and if at any moment he felt his son had lost complete control he would just sneer with private disgrace. Mcenroe was Wimbledon's favourite bad boy, the child who never really grew up, who always threw his toys out of his pram and never apologised for being a naughty, for being rebellious, for flouting the laws, of telling the world exactly what he thought of it.

John Mcenroe will forever be remembered for abusing his racket  and yelling furiously at the umpires with the most impassioned rant that SW19 had ever heard. We'd all heard about his insulting manner, that all consuming arrogance, the stubborn non- conformity, the stroppy outbursts, the outrageous comments, the moody sulks by the baseline, the irritation, the petty petulance, the angry outbursts, the mid set explosions and the general chaos of emotions that accompanied his every shot.

There was never any hint of the tormented soul about Mcenroe because essentially he was just agitated about everybody but himself. Life, for him, seemed to be a deliberate conspiracy against him, out to get him, ganging up on him and then cornering him like a criminal on the run. His fury and anger were the fury and anger of a man at war with himself, a voice that reminded you of a guided missile flying through the air, a deadly bullet that travelled across land and sea and caused irreparable damage.

And yet under the loose bandana on his head, a swirl of hair and a volcanic temper, was a lovable rogue, a rebel and maverick perhaps but just focussed on victory and victory with an effortless ease which would never be the case but you couldn't help but admire him for trying. Of course his behaviour was, to the outside world. totally deplorable and reprehensible but this was the man and nobody would ever change him, mould him, reform or tell him what to do because if they ever tried, then the consequences would probably end up in his father's court of law. When Mcenroe won those big Wimbledon showdowns against either Bjorn Borg or Jimmy Connors, they were state occasions with a delicious spice, seasoning and just a hint of salt and pepper.

Then there was Bjorn Borg, who, in my generation, was, more or less unbeatable. He won five successive Wimbledons, scarcely broke any sweat at all and never ever looked remotely bothered by anybody at all. In fact if somebody had told him that a burglar had tried to break into his home before  a match or all of his worldly possessions had been stolen he would probably have taken it in his stride and just shrugged his shoulders. On second thoughts he may have been furious but then nothing seemed to faze, ruffle or disturb the cool as a cucumber Swede.

The Borg approach to tennis was the ultimate demonstration of coolness and composure, of remarkable calmness in a crisis, of admirable touch, temperament, technique and timing. That probably sounds too good to be true but how often can you incorporate the letter T in one paragraph without declaring the man a genius which begins with a G. Perhaps if Borg had been an author he'd have been regarded as a man of letters. Sorry folks my jokes are getting worse by the day. Borg's game had that lovely thread of classicism that very few of his colleagues came anywhere close to touching.

And last but not least there was the Romanian cheeky chappie Ilie Nastase, a player of such exceptional wit and humour that perhaps Nastase missed out on his comic vocation. At his peak Nastase was just spectacularly brilliant, a man with a genuine love of the game, lunging at shots that he was never entitled to get and then drilling his forehand winners down the line with the minimum of effort. Nastase was the class clown, always pushing the patience of authority, the boundaries, and then plonking a policeman's helmet on his head because he just wanted to be noticed. Then there were the jokes with the crowd, a relationship that endured for what seemed ages. Here was a man who loved tomfoolery, loved to perform, who always needed approval and always believed that tennis should never be taken seriously.

So there you are. We're just days away from Britain's best loved of all sporting pageants. Wimbledon is that fantastic fortnight at the beginning of July when the whole nation queues patiently for the best seat on Centre Court and then goes stir crazy if Andy Murray tries to win the men singles title for what would now be a hat-trick of victories at SW19. It could be said that maybe our expectations have now become absurdly excessive and we could get slightly blase about British victories. But no this is a very special time for British tennis so let's just milk it. Pass me the Pimms please.