Anyone for tennis at the end of April.

Anyone for tennis at the end of April.

So here we on the last day of April and we can already smell the strawberries and marvel at the effervescence of the middle class champagne fizzing and sparkling away in that familiar bucket. Shortly, the ivy clad walls will also be suitably festooned with all of England's prettiest flora, resplendent roses, vibrant violas no doubt, majestic magnolias and dainty dahlias just to complete the summer picture.

Every year the annual grunt and groan soundtrack that is Wimbledon fortnight will once again display its eye catching, alluring charms. The world of tennis will once again resound to its hugely gifted players, a scene of timeless sporting magnificence, splendid eccentricity and an endearing English gentility where the brash and temperamental collide with the funny and occasionally foolhardy.

On the night before the public are allowed to flood through the gates onto Centre Court, Number 1 and 2 court, the atmosphere will of course be one of lively anticipation. Sleeping tents will be ready and prepared, flasks will be heated in readiness for a long night of tea and coffee and someone will laugh at their sheer dedication to their cause, that ludicrous willingness to sleep out on the pavements of South West London rather than the more cosy comforts of their own bed.

Then on a late June afternoon when the sun may yet be at its most obliging and compliant, the crowds will file onto the courts in that most orderly fashion, giggling uncontrollably at the ball boys and girls and then chuckling at the umpire who every year climbs heroically up to that high chair. We'll undoubtedly cast our discerning eye on that well manicured grass which before the tournament looks flawlessly green and gets all patchy on the baseline by day two.

Some of us will feel like privileged guests at a royal garden party because essentially that's what Wimbledon reminds us of. It is English lawn tennis at its most traditional, formal, prim and proper, civilised and respectable. It is sport at its most serene, elegant and presentable. It is sport observing all of the courtesies of the summer season, the rigid protocol, the bowing and curtseying of the ladies when the singles trophy is held aloft, the men who have barely broken sweat in a gruelling five setter and that explosion of noise when the champions are regally celebrated.

Today though it was announced by the Lawn Tennis Association that as from next year the ticket allocation which determines who gets to sit in the most comfortable seats will be at the mercy of an online ballot where those who are particularly lucky will be first come first served. This time you won't need a post card or letter to hasten the whole process along but simply the right password and the right postcode. But that would be grossly unfair and besides Wimbledon is for the people regardless of where they come from or their home address.

We were also told that both the men and women will both be the happy recipients of something in the region of £2.35 million. It just seems the most criminally astronomical amount of money for a sport that always divides opinion on just how pampered tennis players are. They train incessantly of course they do. They get up at the crack of dawn to hammer down their high velocity first serves and frequent aces, swinging their arms joyfully at impossibly powerful forehand returns and then cursing themselves self reproachfully when their shots end up at Court 15.

But how the world has changed since the likes of Ken Rosewall and Rod Laver, Pancho Gonzales and Lew Hoad, Maria Bueno and Billy Jean King served up their rich repertoire of breathless cross court backhands and forehands with barely a thought of the imminent pay cheque for their exertions. Of course they played to win and earn their rightful pay but the telephone directory figures they can confidently expect to help themselves to somehow sends the most chilling of shudders down  our spine.

For the less fortunate and disadvantaged the millions swilling around the global sporting village still seems to rankle with those who can only dream of aspiring to such exalted heights. Still, when the likes of Roger Federer, Rafa Nadal and Novak Djokovic step onto the Centre Court it seems certain that they will not be asking for a rise from their boss nor are they likely to go on a strike if the boss refuses to accept such an unreasonable request.

Still we are on the verge of May and you can forget about dusting down your tennis rackets because Wimbledon is some way off and most of us are still emotionally exhausted after the nine month Premier League football marathon where the inevitable end of season feeling almost feels as if you have been here a hundred times. This could be a good time to think of a lovely gulp of Pimms. Oh, for the wondrous joys of Wimbledon!