National Motoring Day.

 National Motoring Day.

So there you were this morning, starting up the engine of your car, thoroughly checking how much petrol you've got left in the tank, finding out whether your car is ready for an MOT and then realising that it needs a good run out to the country and seaside. The car has assumed an almost spiritual significance to us throughout the decades because without it, we'd probably wonder why it wasn't there. A car was essential for family excursions and working up in town if you could find adequate parking spaces. Nowadays we'd be lost without a car in a way that would have seemed hardly credible during Victorian times. 

Way back at the beginning of the 20th century, horse and carriages, landaus and cartouches would trot merrily around the streets of London, clattering away melodiously, blissfully unaware of the fact that this would be our only means of transport. At the turn of the 20th century, you'd have been regarded as slightly barmy and a figure of fun had you suggested that the complex mechanics of the family car would dominate our thoughts. Then there was the internal combustion engine followed by these vast jalopies. 

Nowadays everybody has got an Audi Volkswagen, a member of the Ford family, Toyota, Datsun, a Kia Sportage, Fiat and a nice little runner from the Vauxhall Astra clan. Then there's the legendary Robin Reliant, notorious for being perhaps unreliable and laughable at times. Mercedes was always my late and lovely dad's preferred choice of car because it was big, sleek, aerodynamic and well designed. 

Above all though today is National Motoring Day, a day for petrolheads, as some affectionately call them, the motor, four wheels, your status quo, your class statement, your social position in the great hierarchy. If you just happened to have two sports cars, a Rolls Royce, a Daimler and a Bentley, you were rolling in wealth and highly esteemed by those with a considerable amount by those in the know. It is a day for the new registration plate on your car, to flaunt our latest model to our friendly neighbours. 

And then there are those who have in their possession at least ten cars in their gravelled driveway, a couple of vintage cars from the 1930s and some stunning chrome work, spray painted to perfection. If you're a lord of the manor on some opulent country estate, then you're probably spoilt for choice. Then there are the F1 cars, the grand prix Red Bull and the cars that fly around the F1 circuit in both Europe and the rest of the world with a highly valued chassis and carburettor and can do at least 200 mph around winding and thrilling chicanes and hairpin bends. 

But way back then, cars were always luxury fashion statements only affordable to the hoi polloi or the affluent elite. They stood in car showrooms or outside, gleaming radiantly in the sunshine with neither a scratch nor blemish. So you approached your local car salesman with wide eyed anticipation, carefully examining its potential, inquiring about its age, road worthiness and how many miles it does to the gallon. Then the negotiations and discussions would follow before the said salesman told you quite honestly that it was impossibly expensive, criminally extortionate and not quite the car you were looking for. 

But wherever you look nowadays, that huge network of motorways, B roads, roundabouts, junctions, hard shoulders, busy main streets and meandering country lanes provide the familiar backdrop to our everyday lives. And then there were the chronic traffic jams that stretch back for ages. As a non motorist, you find yourself helpless with sympathy for the predicament that is the bottleneck,  that immobile procession of cars, lorries, vans and buses that simply look statuesque. They say patience is a virtue but it does look like an unenviable daily ritual and none that you would be tempted to engage with. 

Still, there are arrivals and destinations and once you've adjusted the Sat Nav or, possibly, the Atlas road map, you slow down to 20 mph and discover yellow grids. Driving on, you're confronted by a forest of those celebrated red and white cones with sandbags draped over the top of the cones. Cars are forever competing against each other in some bizarre race to find out who can go the fastest. They sprint down the M1 or the A1, topping almost 80 or 90 mph before slowing down from time to time just to make sure that they're heading in the right direction.

Then wide lanes of vehicles begin the whole process of darting and weaving from slow to fast, desperate to beat any obstacle that may look insurmountable. So my dad, on our way to Southend or Westcliff, would lean his elbow quite casually on a comfortable spot, flick away the ashes from his faithful cigarette and proceed almost naturally closer to the coast. It may have taken him goodness knows how long but this was just a temporary hindrance and besides there was no point in complaining. 

The fact is motoring has undergone a major revolution and evolution throughout the decades. Of course it has because we might have taken cars and motoring for granted. It does make travelling from A to B so much easier and far more pleasant particularly if you have to be on time or just in a hurry. Cars are extended members of our family, the massive saloon car or the Land Rover more suitable for safaris or treacherous journeys where mud can often be a pain in the neck if you're at the end of your wits. 

Then there are the well air conditioned coaches that take you out into the middle of England, the Lake District or the Cotswolds, historic castles on the hill and museums for all. There are the vans occupied by rock musicians with all the necessary equipment. And we mustn't forget the unmistakable Eddie Stobart lorries loaded with all manner of  paraphernalia such as sofas, chairs, tables, rocking chairs and every imaginable piece of domestic furniture. 

But today is National Motoring Day folks. A vast majority of the global population drive cars for both pleasure and of course work if you happen to live within sight of your office or warehouse. You remember your dad's almost lifelong passion and sigh lovingly and reflectively. How my wonderful dad would wash his grey Ford Cortina as if sluicing bathroom tap water on his face.

So if you've woken up to the morning to the sound of your purring car in your garage, your day will be complete.Then you'll turn on the ignition, look behind you, gradually reversing out into the road, smiling with enormous satisfaction. You'll test the brake, manoeuvring gracefully into the road or street before moving into first gear effortlessly. You may put your foot on the accelerator just to show off to your neighbours again.

Wherever you're going today, whether it be the local supermarket, garden centre or cherished visits to aunties, uncles or cousins, cars are ready and waiting for you. They are remarkable testaments to longevity, sometimes still going after years and years and a mechanical masterpiece into the bargain. They have lived with you throughout your adolescence and never let you down. On second thoughts they may have broken down annoyingly and required the services of the AA. But be sure this is National Motoring Day. So fear not. Your motor is in impeccable condition, so it's time to hit the road.    

Keep on rocking Jeff Lynne's ELO.

 Keep on rocking Jeff's Lynne's ELO.

It's only a couple of weeks ago that Jeff Lynne's announced his withdrawal from his last ever concert at Hyde Park. He did so because he knew he was fighting a losing battle with a broken, damaged hand that would never be fit enough to perform with a guitar that became his essential livelihood and therefore Lynne's ELO wouldn't be able to perform before their  thousands and millions of loyal fans. 

It was with immense regret that Jeff Lynne had to cancel what he promised would be his swansong, his final bow on a major stage, a group of men who had established that warmest of rapport with all those who'd followed his band all over the world and enjoyed the most fervent hero worship. For the aficionados who had suspected the worst before the concert last week, this may have been an even more bitter blow. But sadly this was not to be and, of course, we all send the speediest of recoveries to this remarkably modest singer, musician, innovator, pioneer, prolific lyricist and song writer of the highest quality. 

For well over five decades now the Electric Light Orchestra have wowed their audiences with songs of the most avant garde originality, startlingly poetic lyrics and the kind of imaginative instrumentation that few of us had ever seen or heard. They have travelled the world, broken down all of pop's occasionally one dimensional barriers and then given us both visually stunning graphics and futuristic science fiction optics. Their stage performances and dazzling stadium appearances will continue to linger in the memory for ever. 

After a happy childhood growing up in Birmingham, Jeff Lynne was always single minded, fiercely driven and motivated. He knew he wanted to be famous, a celebrity rock guitarist with a freshly conceived and executed approach to the pop music industry. From his earliest days with Roy Wood's the Move, Lynne tells the story of how, waking up one morning, he told his mum quite emphatically that he never again wanted to be subjected to the toil and drudgery of a job in his local factory.

He was now proud to declare that he was now a musician with hundreds and thousands of pounds in his pocket and would never have to observe the tedious nine to five routine of mundane work again. So his mum agreed and that was that. A star was born and some of us were convinced that works of art were about to be portrayed quite magically and simply. Of course there were the dark days of traumatic setbacks when the dream had to go on the back burner but eventually by the end of the 1970s, the ELO became one of the most distinctive and recognisable bands throughout the world.

And then overnight we were suddenly aware of some of pop music's broadest of canvases, the most astonishing revelation ever seen at any concert venue. The Electric Light Orchestra were a brilliant profusion of double basses, huge cellos, a massive ensemble of colourful violins and keyboards whose acoustics  provided an extraordinary accompaniment to Jeff's lively vocals. All around Lynne were a thousand sounds, dynamics and, increasingly prominent space ships of the most kaleidoscope range.

So the ELO had arrived with a vengeance, a stupendously ambitious musical project in every sense of the word. We must have felt enormously privileged to be associated with such ground breaking music. There were the masterful albums and singles, a gold and platinum plated global record phenomenon without any equal. And yet there was Lynne, a thickly bearded, denim jacketed, guitar man with so many key chord changes that at times it was all very fantastically bewildering.

When Mr Blue Sky was first played on every radio station throughout the world, we knew we were listening to something quite remarkable, a rock and opera masterpiece that took the commercial mainstream pop world by storm. Nobody believed you could possibly produce a single that encompassed everything that was so inventive and unique that it would blow away all the contenders.

 Mr Blue Sky took rock music by the scruff of the neck and revolutionised both the structure and content of any 45 vinyl single that had been released up until that point. It followed the developments of the British weather and an aching yearning for a permanent summer sun even when the greyness of winter had hung over him for so much longer. To a conventional hard rock theme throughout, Lynne created fairground effects, dramatic violins of the most classical kind, a stimulating backdrop of yet more hard rocking guitars and double basses carried across the stage with bizarre and mesmerising effect. 

And then there was Turned To Stone, Sweet Talkin' Woman, Telephone Line, the brilliant and much underrated The Diary of Horace Wimp, Livin' Thing, All Over the World, the magnificent Rock Aria and Roll Over Beethoven. There was something both sublime and exquisite about ELO, a visionary quality that saw much further into the future than had ever been thought possible. 

So it was that we expressed our natural disappointment about the cancellation of last week's ELO concert.  Lynne said that he was heartbroken and devastated at standing down from appearing in front of a Hyde Park audience who had last seen him in the same place 11 years ago. But we understood and extended the warm hand of compassion to a man who had elevated the rock music genre to an entirely new level. Thankyou Jeff Lynne, for those delightful voyages of discovery, Out of the Blue and those wonderful space crafts. Get better quickly and be sure that you'll always have our appreciation and understanding. Take a bow, rock legend. 

Childhood summer days

 Childhood and summer days

So here we are on the threshold of the great school summer holiday period for millions of allegedly bored and irritable children who always find ways of occupying their time quite constructively but then decide that there's nothing to do. We know this to be not the case since of course there are loads of activities they can engage with and participate in. It may be the time of the year when every mum up and down the country privately dreads. But then again they must be ready and prepared for the great onslaught of youthful complaints and disgruntled kids wishing, quite ironically, that the six week summer break would last for ever. 

For as long as you can remember now, children love to get up to mischief when mum and dad aren't watching, sneaking into private property, climbing trees, trespassing on forbidden territory and generally creating mayhem. Now though of course they don't have to worry about what felt at the time like comfortable familiarity. You spent all day on your bikes, cycling frantically through dense forests, woodlands, back roads and main streets, doing wheelies as they were called if memory serves you correctly, then running across verdant parklands, chasing each other constantly and then pausing for breath. 

There were those of course who loved nothing better than to nag mum persistently and, quite possibly annoyingly for ice creams, money for the summertime pageant of movies and cinemas and so much more. Then we'd get back on our bicycle, pedal at some phenomenal speed before stocking up on innumerable bottles of Tizer, endless helpings of burgers and chips before embarking on another exotic expedition. Eventually we'd end up at our local Lido or outdoor swimming pool and by now we were totally exhausted. 

But almost 50 years ago, some of us were privileged to witness the hottest summer in England since records began. At the moment, Britain is basking in the kind of glorious summer heatwave we all love to embrace but in 1976, we felt as though we'd literally hit the jackpot. Before 1976, your wonderful parents had already given you a revealing insight into the newly emergent tourist industry and Spain. You could hardly believe the Mediterranean charms of Majorca, Benidorm, the Costa Del Sol and Costa Brava. It was the epitome of cool, seductive and quite the most exciting childhood adventure of them all. 

Now though in 1976 we didn't need to go to Spain for fiestas and siestas, sombreros and donkeys in shopping bags. There was no necessity whatsover for flamenco dancers, intrepid bullfighters with swaying capes, sangria by the bucketload. In Britain we had it all. There were blue skies every day and after an early May spell of breath taking warmth and heat, it just kept going and going. Throughout the whole of June and into July, we must have thought the warm fronts and isobars were destined to stay for an eternity. 

Throughout the land, parks and gardens began to resemble brown haystacks on English farming land, once green grass now burnt and parched by the relentlessly beautiful sun. Our family garden certainly looked like a concrete bowl with only straw rather than the grass we'd become accustomed to. But you didn't particularly mind because, in a way, you hadn't really experienced this climate before but we had because as children, subconsciously perhaps, we do remember a time when the sun always shone. Nothing mattered though because we spent all day at Valentines Park lido jumping into a light blue coloured swimming pool for weeks and months on end, oblivious to the tempestuous wars and politics in our peripheral vision. 

We would jump, dive bomb, slide, scream and shout, dive athletically once again just to impress our friends. We would then just spend hour upon hour, absorbing the healthy and invigorating atmosphere around us. And then we'd notice that we were in water that was positively freezing and that if you didn't know any better, you'd have sworn you were floating in huge blocks of ice from the kitchen freezer. Those days of simple, innocent pleasure and fun packed hours, weeks and months would simply fly past and in no time at all we were back at school, the academic toil and drudgery of swotting for exams still in front of us. 

But from the end of July to the whole of August time seemed to go on interminably and so blissfully. By  the end of the 1976 scorcher in Britain, we were still bathing in the reflected glow of hose pipe bans, people lining up in suburban streets with buckets and water now rationed. We still had huge gatherings of storm flies next to our kitchen boiler that were constantly sprayed with white powder by your beautiful, much missed and loved mum. We still watched Wimbledon tennis in our garden, exploring thick clumps of green leaves in what can only be described as some dreamland of bushes.

Then in both 1977 and 1978, although your adolescence and teenage years were lonely and introspective ones, you could still relate to the outside world. You watched your mum lovingly pruning our immaculate rose beds, secateurs merrily clicking away and then you discovered that the outside world wasn't quite as intimidating as you might have thought it would be. There were still the cinemas to visit, cafes to drink and eat at, scenery to admire and somehow a sense of liberation we'd never felt at school.  

At the local picture house there would be the record breaking, blockbusting Saturday Night Fever, a film so immensely enjoyable and feelgood that we must have thought we'd never ever see a film like it again. It was stunningly produced and directed, wonderfully choreographed and just delightful fun. It starred the then unknown John Travolta, that smart teddy boy dressed teenager who wows the girls with his flash dance moves, terpsichorean fleet of feet and then frequents every nightclub and disco with his extrovert bolshiness and flamboyant demeanour. Saturday Night Fever epitomised the American disco at its headiest and giddiest high.

The following year Travolta returns to the silver screen with some good, old fashioned high school rivalry and fierce competition. In Grease, Travolta swaggers into high school, cocky, arrogant, leather clad, conceited and full of rebellious intent. But then he meets and falls in love with the sweet, winsome, cute and innocent Olivia Newton John. The now sadly late Olivia Newton John falls in love with Travolta aka Danny and then goes through the familiar routine of flirtation and adoration and then wrapping his loving arms around his sweetheart at a movie drive in against a cartoon backdrop. 

So there was the summer of your childhood or maybe it was completely different and of course it probably was. You were never really aware of what the future held for you because none of us are. Chilhoods were voyages of discovery, rites of passage, inevitable adolescence, learning how to cope with the world at large and addressing the gauche awkwardness of teenage years. But if you're on your school summer holiday, you'd be well advised to just go with the flow, enjoying the summertime festivities and remaining upbeat, healthy and happy. And never forget your mum and dad.

 

England beat India in the third test at Lords by 22 runs

 England beat India in the third test at Lords by 22 runs. 

In the ancestral home of English cricket, England marched forward across the matchless meadows and fields of its illustrious history and Lords sighed with a perfect summertime reverence. Throughout the centuries and decades, the England cricket team have always regarded Lords as their spiritual home. It is the place they come back to reminisce on the valour and gallantry of the Compton brothers Denis and Leslie, who, during and after England's grimmest years of wartime, brought so much happiness and pleasure to those who sit in the seats with their yellow and red ties enraptured by cricket's art and beauty. 

The members of the Lords most knowledgeable of cricket observers know their cricket inside out. They've seen Botham at his most breathtaking, Dexter at his most dexterous, Cowdrey at his most organisational, Boycott at his most patient and methodical, Hutton, spreading goodwill and oozing regal batsmanship at its most destructive and now the present day England team. At times English cricket has been too spoilt for words. 

Last night we were reminded of English class, English grit and determination, English stubbornness and sheer strength of character. At no point was this Test match against India ever likely to be a meeting of lifelong friends and long standing, mutual respect for each other. This one was spiky, vengeful, angry, antagonistic and no holds barred. It was, at times, ugly, spiteful, malicious at times and then just plain unpleasant when the stakes were at their highest. There was no love lost between England and India in the third test at Lords.

There was angry finger wagging, deep seated animosity and almost utter contempt for each other. And yet this was not an Ashes contest between Australia and England so you had to remember what you were watching here. This was a novelty moment in Test cricket. England and India were on a war footing at Lords and that didn't really begin to make any sense. Still, this was what we got in this feisty, confrontational almost bloodthirsty Test match. Well, not quite perhaps but it certainly felt like it. 

By the time leg spinner Shoaib Bashir had twirled down a delivery and just left Mohammed Siraj all tangled up and forlorn, you knew this was the end for India. But then you noticed that the ball had beaten Siraj all ends up but he had still played the shot. And then there was the agonising sight of the ball dropping onto the ground, creeping unobtrusively towards the wickets and bails which simply fell like a deck of cards. Suraj was out and England had won the third test at Lords by 22 runs. It seemed like the ultimate act of cruelty. 

Lords may never have seen anything like this since the good Dr WG Grace dug his intellectual bat into the ground for the  national side, a pillar of stern reliability and English devil may care doughtiness. Somewhere perhaps Grace may have been out there, judging and severely reprimanding today's craftsmen and draughtsmen. He may well have been looking down on the likes of the wonderful Ben Stokes, the thoughtful and analytical captain Joe Root who hit the most majestic of centuries. Root's 104 runs tore India's bowling attack to pieces and then the superbly maturing Harry Brook announced his stately presence 

During England's first innings, the skipper Joe Root built up his unforgettable century in a way that his fellow Yorkshire and England batsman Sir Geoff Boycott must have been impressed by. Surely Boycott would have had words of wisdom and flattery for Root who is slowly carving out his legendary status. Once again, Root punched his ferocious cover and straight drives down the wicket before blasting the ball into the Lords pavilion with fours and sixes that shone like diamonds. This was Root at his most commanding, powerful and influential, breathing leadership qualities in a way that Boycott would surely have appreciated. 

Then there was the admirable supporting cast of Zak Crawley, Ollie Pope, Jofra Archer returning to the England team after a seemingly interminable four year absence and Chris Woakes. Here was an English cricket team desperately trying to prove themselves as a team to be feared and never forgotten. Archer was bowling at his fastest and most business like. The Archer eyes were flaring, the number on the back of his shirt rather like an identifiable warning to all comers. And so it was Archer who created havoc whenever he hurtled into bowl like the proverbial steam engine. 

And yet this was a real roller coaster, classically well balanced, nail biter of a Test match. By now India and England were in each other's faces, boiling over with genuine resentment and indignation. This was personal now and England had to do it for not only themselves but the whole of Lords. Lords has now come to expect English victory as a divine right, compulsory and essential, nothing less than routine. So it proved. 

Yesterday evening after England had beaten, the Indian playmakers Rishabh Pant and Ravinda Jadeja looked almost helpless but dogged to the end. Jadeja had scored a commendable 72 and Pant had kept him valuable company with 74 runs. But although the last overs of this Test match had faded into the most beautiful evening sunset, you could still see the evidence of needle, angst, a thousand grudges. England had beaten India but the Lords pavilion was still shivering and seething. Cricket though had won the day.      

It's all hotting up at Wimbledon.

 It's all hotting up at Wimbledon

We are now at the business end of Wimbledon, the matches that count and the important final stages where heroes are born and reborn and champions are acclaimed. A couple of days ago, one Novak Djokovic created yet more records and secured even more monumental achievements. It is hard to think of a time when Djokovic hasn't reached the peak of his game, the zenith of his powers. At 38 now, the Serbian is still a towering giant in world tennis, a mighty influence around tennis's global community, an extraordinary talent still capable of surpassing himself and defying age. 

We thought we'd seen it all when the Swedish maestro Bjorn Borg thought he'd taken up sitting tenancy rights at SW19, a man who seemed to live at Wimbledon and almost take up permanent occupancy as the best player in the world. Borg was nerveless, temperamentally perfect and just unbeatable. But now Novak Djokovic will meet Jannick Sinner in the men's singles semi final with Mount Olympus in sight and the widespread admiration of both his contemporaries and the fans who have so faithfully followed him. 

On Wednesday, Flavio Cobolli of Italy literally surrendered to the Djokovic power game, his all court game flourishing beautifully, the whole gamut of the Serbian's innate gifts working to perfection. Cobolli briefly flickered and then succeeded during his quarter final with the dominant Serbian. He threw himself almost desperately at the ball when Djokovic was simply dragging the Italian to both sides of the tramlines before thrashing the ball remorselessly past Cobolli with frightening ferocity and destructive returns of serve that flew past Cobolli like a missile.

These last few days we have been reminded pleasantly of Djokovic brilliance, his versatility and variation, the wickedness of his forehands and backhands, the subtleties and delicacies and much more. The Serbian has now taken tennis into entirely new realms, a different dimension, demonstrating a flawless mastery occasionally bordering on arrogance but then we recognise him for who he really is. At one point  he threatened to take over at Wimbledon, monopolising the green if now brown baselines as if he were born to be a champion. 

During Covid 19, the Serbian almost lost his devoted fanbase and a worldwide audience who thought he'd betrayed them, let them down, somebody who had now become a major source of disappointment. Djokovic refused point blank to take the Covid 19 vaccine because he thought he was just immortal, immune to disease, untouchable, the best thing since sliced bread. There is still something of the cold blooded assassin about him that sends frightening convulsions down the spine of his opponents and he can still dig into his classy back catalogue of shots that somehow defy gravity at times. 

But with legs askance on the baseline before his first serve, Djokovic is like a coiled spring, a leopard hiding in the jungle, prowling and growling in the tangled undergrowth. He still spends most of his epic matches forever blowing on his fingers, fidgeting and twiddling his racket, crouching like a panther ready to pounce, set on the savanna, eyes wide open and clear of thought and deed. 

And then the Serbian did what he does best, clumping and clobbering wristy cross court winners with his devastating forehands, slicing his backhands with endless variety and then executing seemingly impossible drop shots that almost floated serenely down the centre of the court. Now the former seven time Wimbledon champion was on fire, flipping and caressing the ball with an almost affectionate tenderness. 

After a brief period of Cobolli's resistance, Djokovic wrapped up the game with a semi final place against Sinner. It was 7-6, 7-2, 7-5 and 6-4 and without breaking sweat at times. Up in the celebrity boxes, Djokovic's wife and children watched in horror towards the end of this classic, as the great Serbian, by now hurling himself around the back of the court valiantly, slipped awkwardly on the grass, collapsed dramatically, and remained motionless for a disturbing minute or so. We thought the former Wimbledon champion would never recover from what looked like a nasty fall but thankfully no damage had been done.  

Djokovic won through to his semi final meeting with Italian Jannick Sinner and all was well. You found yourself thinking that time and age may not be on Djokovic's side but the amazing reflexes were still there and the light undimmed. Sometimes the greats never lose that twinkle in their eyes, the insatiable hunger and drive, the relentless will to win that continues to leave us spellbound. We may hope that the man from Serbia still has some petrol left in the tank because legends never disappoint. 

Meanwhile on Centre Court last night, Wimbledon witnessed yet more fun and games. In fact, there was a time during the mixed doubles Final when sport was elevated to another level. It was a spellbinding and mesmerising tennis spectacular. There was a genuine air of astonishment about SW19, two sets of mixed doubles determined to leave the crowd on the highest of highs. Our jaws were dropping with obvious incredulity and wonderment, a match to grace the pages of Wimbledon's illustrious history books. 

At the end, the Dutch and Czech combination of Sem Verbeek and Katerina Simanova won the mixed doubles Final, beating the Brazilian Luis Stefani and Joe Salisbury of Britain with the kind of tennis that many of us will still recall on a dark December night. There was one particularly delightful chip and charge sustained rally, a blizzard of volleyed exchanges at the net that was utterly unforgettable. There were the electrifying reflexes that seemed to go on forever. The ball looked as if a magnet had got hold of it and just kept on going. 

And yet for all the noteworthy and honourable intentions of Stefani and Salisbury, the game was going according to plan for Verbeek and Simanova. There was a steely resolve and something that was magically impulsive about the Dutch and Czech pair, a dazzling mobility and agility which almost wore down the British and Brazilian challenge. There were shots that belonged in an art installation, returns of serve that swung wildly from one end to the other with joyous frequency. 

But it was Verbeek and Simonava who clinched the Wimbledon mixed doubles trophy and another Thursday at Wimbledon had reached a fitting conclusion. It could yet be either Sinner or the stunningly talented Spaniard Carlos Alcaraz whose breakthrough as a world class player may yet be complete on Sunday afternoon with another Wimbledon men singles trophy. And then it could be yet another record breaking afternoon for a gentleman named Novak Djokovic with yet another men singles trophy under his belt. Summertime at Wimbledon will always be as sweet as its traditional strawberries and cream. We await the gallery of the great and good. Anybody for yet more tennis.  

Wimbledon at its weekend best

 Wimbledon at its weekend best.

It was yesterday at Wimbledon and SW19 was at its tea time smartest, Wimbledon in all of  its most handsome regalia and finery. The All England Lawn Tennis Club always likes to wear its most appropriate Sunday best, dinner jacket, shirt and club tie clean as a whistle and as fashionably elegant as has always been the case. It always observes centuries of royal etiquette and the most polite protocol. 

Yesterday evening, one of our last British hopes Cameron Norrie emerged exhausted but exhilarated after one of the most cliff hanging, gripping and most spectacular of five set battles with Nicolas Jarry. His Chilean opponent looked so shocked and upset after losing that, for a moment, you felt sure that he would throw his toys out of the proverbial pram and descend into childish petulance. It would not be pleasant or edifying viewing and, privately, Jarry must have known he'd become the pantomime villain such were the boos and opprobrium raining down on his ears at the end of this pulsating match. 

Jarry was at war with the world because he just couldn't come to terms with Norrie's complete and accomplished all round game, a fusion of the sublime and often miraculous. It's so good to see another British tennis prospect for the future, learning the ropes of the game and quietly progressing through this year's Wimbledon. Realistically, Norrie won't be at Wimbledon next Sunday afternoon, lifting the Wimbledon men singles trophy but you have to hand it to him. He'll be busting every gut, stretching every sinew and charging at return of serves with all the might he can possibly muster. 

Throughout the afternoon, Norrie had gone to toe to toe with Jarry losing a set and then throwing his racket at everything the Chilean had to offer. His whipped forehands were swung purposefully wide of Jarry and were frequently impossible to return. Then he slung his racket with almost wild abandon as if his life depended on this one match. There were the cultured and deceitful, sliced forehands and backhands from ridiculous positions on Centre Court, those beautifully executed drop shots that had Jarry gasping for oxygen and there was an extraordinary stamina and athleticism about Norrie that Jarry couldn't live with. 

Then Norrie released his artillery; there were drilled shots with just the right amount of power and weight of shot. The new British kid on the block had the Wimbledon crowd in raptures of delight. Norrie kept shifting his opponent from one end of the court to the other, dinking the ball over the net craftily with a delicious shrewdness and hitting the ball so firmly at Jarry that the Chilean had no answer to the Brit's questions. 

At the end, Norrie beat Jarry 6-3, 7-6, 6-7, 6-7, 6-3 after breaking twice in tie breaks. This was a throwback to the days when the likes of Andy Murray and even Roger Taylor would hurl their bodies whole heartedly at every shot imaginable, lunging at the ball and darting around the baselines with wholesome courage and bravado. Norrie isn't quite there yet but he isn't that far from being the finished article. The way Norrie dug in and summoned physical resources that even he must have thought he'd never find, was a testament to both his stamina and longevity. And so a furious and incensed Nicolas Jarry stormed off Centre Court as if somebody had taken his marbles away and told him to go to bed immediately. It had been a gross miscarriage of justice and Jarry was going to sulk and sneer. 

Meanwhile earlier on, Wimbledon witnessed one of the most heartbreakingly one sided of all matches. In hindsight, Pedro Martine should simply have turned over in the morning and gone right back to sleep. He needn't have bothered and his contest with the Italian Jannick Sinner turned into a freak show. Martine was clearly in trouble with his shoulder and that much had become readily apparent. The Spaniard, as became increasingly evident, could hardly hold a racket let alone hit a tennis ball. 

From the first set onwards, Martine laboured and toiled, his first serves reminiscent of a club player at a local municipal park. At one point, it looked as if the Spaniard was simply wishing that he could do anything but play at Wimbledon. He served at barely 70mph and his first serve was just a meek apology for what should have been a lethal missile that simply exploded on Corrie's baseline and past him in a flash. 

And so we continued to watch Jannick Sinner in no more than first gear because if he'd put his foot down on the accelerator, the match may have been over much sooner than it should have been. Sinner was a model of arrogance and princely authority, timing his shots with impeccable technique, forehands, slices, dreamy backhand returns, lightning fast reflexes and the occasional moment of improvisation when the ball was returned through his legs. Sinner had seen that his opponent was hampered with injury but just did what was required of him in such extenuating circumstances.

The moody looking Italian was now cruising past his Spanish opponent as if he were simply a helpless rag doll, driving all of his shots with menace and then lethal potency down the centre of the court. Sinner was here, there and everywhere, obviously in command and just waiting for the right moment to blast Martine into the obscurity of tennis history. Nobody remembers the losers at Wimbledon and Martine was no exception to the rule.  One day his day will come or maybe it won't but yesterday Sinner was at his most domineering and authoritative. 

When a medical break had been called to help in Martine's recovery from an extremely painful shoulder, the writing was on the wall. But of course that's a tiresome cliche but somehow a fitting reminder of sporting vulnerability and that must be even harder to bear. So it was Sinner romped home emphatically in the fifth deciding set 6-3. But your heart had to go out to Sinner's defeated warrior, still holding his shoulder and rubbing it vigorously.

There are times when sport just isn't fair, when everything goes wrong on the day but at Wimbledon, this was not the Sunday a certain Spanish gentleman must have been bargaining on. You know what's it like. You get up in the morning, stretching and yawning before your legs, arms, feet and the rest of the body aren't in a particularly co-operative mood. For Pedro Martine, Wimbledon will have to wait for another year. Somehow Martine had earned nothing but our deepest sympathy.    

Wimbledon and summertime tennis

 Wimbledon and summertime tennis.

Now that summer is here and the current heatwave seems to be the precursor to so many hot, balmy and gorgeous days in both London and the rest of the world, it would be foolish to dismiss the tennis at Wimbledon as just another rehearsal for the inevitable. We know where we are when it comes to that richly rewarding fortnight at London SW19. The retractable roofs are opened, the ivy on the outside of all the main courts gets a lovely coat of warm sunshine and there are murmurings of excitement in the air. 

Sadly, all of the British players have now departed Wimbledon and are no longer part of the traditional festivities of this yearly carnival of high quality tennis. For most of us course, Wimbledon evokes all of the celebrated themes, narratives and tropes. It is sport that is regularly accompanied by expensive punnets of strawberries and cream, huge jugs of Pimms to be drunk at your leisurely pace and, last but not least, the players themselves, those rounded characters with their own distinctive mannerisms and idiosyncrasies. We may or not approve of some of their antics at times but we always behave with perfect restraint and civility. 

For decades and decades, Wimbledon has been the permanent home of tennis's finest practitioners, those lovable eccentrics, the outrageous extroverts, those with witty one liners and light hearted badinage. It is the one tournament that can guarantee both laughter and hilarity, sighs of astonishment, blissful rallies that seem to go on forever and an audience who are always appreciative. But Wimbledon never lets us down because if it did, we'd probably be watching the Test cricket, the start of the women's Euro football tournament or perhaps a hearty game of crown green bowls.

Some of us will never forget the peerless genius of Swedish tennis monarch Bjorn Borg who seemed to have taken out a mortgage on Wimbledon so long was he a men's singles winner. Borg was the model of professionalism, an admirable role model to children and those who aspired to play like him but never quite made it. His groundstrokes were like exhibits in an art gallery, he had poise and panache in every shot while always remaining the epitome of cool, composure and smooth imperturbability.

Almost 50 years ago, Borg was in a class of his own, every limb and muscle finely tuned, a nerveless and stylish performer who just happened to win Wimbledon for five consecutive years. Nothing ever bothered or fazed the Swedish maestro and there was a sense that he was completely detached from his immediate surroundings. He would gently blow on his racket as if testing its stability, twiddling his racket for what seemed an age and then launched into his explosive all round game that sent all of Mcenroe's opponents into the giddiest of trances.

Years before your childhood heroes were the graceful Ken Rosewall and Rod Laver, before the 1970s dawned and we discovered genius and greatness on either Centre Court and Courts One and Two. There was the gloriously humorous and capricious Ilie Nastase, a Romanian who brought comedy and cabaret to Wimbledon. Nastase was forever joking with the Wimbledon watchers, grabbing policemen's hats and wearing them unashamedly. But Nastase was the perfect exhibitionist, a man possessed of immense talent and versatility. He had the miraculous forehand and backhand returns, the delicious drop shot and all round, cross court shots from improbable angles. 

And then there was both John Mcenroe and Jimmy Connors, two of America's greatest of showmen. Mcenroe succeeded emphatically in winding up both umpires, and line judges, antagonising everybody with some of the most bizarre reactions to controversial calls and despairing of the whole world. Mcenroe was permanently at war with  himself, cursing himself, shouting at himself, slamming his racket into the ground before threatening a Third World War. Mcenroe always believed that there was an evil conspiracy against him and nobody liked him. 

Similarly rude, offensive, foul mouthed and, for the purist, utterly vulgar was Jimmy Connors. Connors, rather like his fellow countrymen Mcenroe, always looked on the verge of a major conflict or skirmish with those in the umpire's chair. Hair fringe trailing from his forehead like a straw from a haystack, and always obscuring his view, Connors became known as the Wild West gunslinger but he played some of the most breathtaking tennis most of us had ever seen.

Roll forward to the present day and Wimbledon still has that timeless fascination about it, tennis at its grandest and purest, tennis that leaves us speechless and spellbound and tennis that goes beyond the call of duty at times. The old days may have left us with wooden tennis rackets and matches that seems to last a lifetime and performances that may never be matched. We can still remember epic five setters that were played in fading light, a backdrop of darkness dropping down over Centre Court like a blanket poised to fall off a washing line. 

Sadly our heroic Brits Jack Draper and Dan Evans were knocked out of this year's Wimbledon who forgot perhaps they were among the most elevated company. Draper was yesterday beaten fair and square by number four seed Marin Cilic. There can be no shame in Draper's dismissal from one of the most celebrated Grand Slam tournaments in the world since Cilic was undoubtedly the superior of the two, technically skilled and almost unstoppable. There was a moment when Draper was definitely back in the match when he pinched a set from Cilic but, despite some valiant resistance and gallant returns to the Cilic booming, thudding racket, this was never likely to be Draper's day.

For Cilic this was the perfect opportunity to present his full repertoire of slices, heavy with top spin chip and charges to the net and a wide variety of cross court angled backhands and foreheads. The Croatian may be an outside bet for the Wimbledon men's singles trophy and there were several reasons for believing this to be a real possibility. Serbian Novak Djokovic, for so many years, a dominant force at Wimbledon, must have been acutely aware that he now has a genuine contender for the crown Djokovic wore with such distinction. 

And so it was that Marian Cilic overwhelmed Jack Draper with both the ruthless power and clinical ferocity of the Cilic all round game. There was something very cruel and almost barbaric about Cilic, punishing and punitive from both sides of the court. Cilic mixed up the cocktail with endless variations, deceptive angles and savage aces that sped past his British opponent like a greyhound in full flight. Draper had no answer to the Cilic first serve that rocketed down the centre of the court like a bullet from a gun. 

We are now at the end of the first week and the current Wimbledon champion Carlos Alcaraz, a bundle of dynamite and seemingly a champion for the future, is waiting in the wings again. Of course Alacaraz will invite obvious comparisons with Rafael Nadal, his swarthy Spanish fellow countryman. Like Nadal, Alcaraz punches his whipped forehand returns with a merciless authority. He then variously flicks and rolls his wrists with a cunning sleight of hand that does remind you of a card sharp in a gambling casino. Alcaraz has much of the air of a Spanish toreador, thumping the ball forcefully and brutally and never taking any prisoners.  

Wimbledon now approaches its decisive second week and for the women Emma Raducanu, Britain's only genuine hope to challenge the top seeds, is limbering up and gearing herself up for everything that may be thrown at her. It is almost 50 years since Virginia Wade, complete in a mauve cardigan, curtsied politely for royalty, becoming Britain's last women's singles champion. The women's game has always been appropriately recognised at Wimbledon and it only feels like yesterday since Billy Jean King sent reactionary waves through the ladies locker rooms at SW19.

But Wimbledon is here to stick around for another week and come next Sunday the fanatical and patient crowds will gather at Centre Court. They will stroll delightedly around the baskets of flowers hanging decoratively from the tops of roofs and souvenir shops. They will wipe the sweat away from their forehead, the direct result of a  heatwave which many of us will be enormously grateful for. Then of course the heat may be too much for some but tennis at Wimbledon is so essentially British and typically English. And that must never be forgotten.