All hail the summer of sport!
It was a bit of a frenetic weekend for me - a bit like when you're having your tea of a Friday night and telling your lass how nice it is to have nowt on of a weekend and she says....
"'No chance. Me mother's coming round Saturday morning, you've got to put up that lining paper under the front windows in the bedroom, then we're repainting the whole thing - I can't decide between Crushed Mango and Nightchunder Nectarine - we're babysitting for our Darren then on Sunday it's our Nicole's 35th and we're all going ice skating 'cos she loves that...."
Sometimes I swear my sofa pines for me. Only this weekend was packed sports-wise. I watched the Lions and their stirring comeback. A quintessential British (and Irish) performance of pluck, resolution and failure.
I watched Pakistan topple Sri Lanka, mainly due to one Shahid Afridi, who was clearly the star of the tournament. Twenty20 seems to suit the bloke down to the ground - 4 overs max to bowl and 15 or so to bat, that's just about as long as he can concentrate. What a player, though.
Tony Thompson in the Blue Bell reckons he's a bit of a classicist when it comes to cricket and the amount of times he yelled 'Awful flippin' shot!' as Afridi or Akmal or whoever tonked another into the upper tiers was hilarious. I reckon if Tony and Boycott opened a Twenty20 they'd be back off at innings closed with a solid 38 for nowt on the board and big smiles on their faces.
Weren't the lasses good? Well done lasses! That Brunt girl was like a female Freddie Flintoff. Try as we might, we couldn't quite get round the fact that some of our team were right decent-looking 'n' all.
Some blokes in the Bell were coming out with all sorts of innuendos about stroking through the covers and suchlike, but I rose above it and insisted we should not leer at or patronise the women - no we should congratulate them on catching that hard ball and twirling them rather heavy bats and managing to hit the ball quite far - and still managing to look so very pretty.
Now some of you may be aware that Formula 1 is not my cup of tea (in fact I'd rather drink engine oil) but the big story of the weekend was the ongoing tiff within the sport. Crikey! Is this the end of Formula 1? Not that I really give a double diffuser any road.
I know the Beeb are covering F1 now - and doing a damn fine job, too. I mean Crofty on 5 Live almost has me believing the sport is important. But as far as I'm concerned, it's still a competition that is won by technicians - a sort of grandiose Robot Wars - and it really doesn't matter that much who's driving the damn thing.
Witness the turnaround in fortunes of Button and Hamilton. Clearly they can both drive, but one's in a thoroughbred while the other's coaxing a mule around the track.
Until they can properly get circuits and cars that can overtake each other, they need to liven up the pit lane action (and not just by decorating the place with glammed up dolly-birds who think that a push-up bikini top and a fake-tan is a good way to earn a living).
I mean get the drivers to change their own tyres and fill their own cars with petrol. Be great to watch Sebastian Vettel angrily eyeing up the pillock behind the perspex who won't release the petrol for pump 15. Make 'em pick up a Ginster's pasty and one of them massive bags of Quavers as well and eat them without getting crumbs everywhere for the next five laps and you've got a true test of driving skill.
In Bethpage, the Yanks again proved that they can't cope with a bit of bad weather. Why the players weren't allowed to pick up the ball and clean it and put it back I don't know. Seems to me it's fair for all and as far as I know that's Teesside golf rules anyway, torrential rain or not.
The crowd were denied the fairytale ending that a Mickelson or a Duval win would've brought, but congratulations to Danny Glover, or whatever his name was.
And then of course there's Wimbledon. My missus loves Wimbers. Sighs and thighs, she calls it.
I hated tennis from the moment some toffee-nosed ra-ra mama lobbed me and Griff off a tennis court at the age of 10 for wearing school shoes on their precious surface. That and the swearing I suppose.
Still, last year's final clean knocked the chips off me shoulders. I can't remember a better sporting contest. Ever. And 2009 could be the year that the wait is over.
Yes, it's taken an age but maybe this time someone will stand up, step forward, and be counted.
And when that umpire finally tells Sharapova or any number of wailing ridiculous banshees to put a flaming sock in it 'cos every time you hit the ball you sound like lame auditionees for a ropey movie of dubious content, then we can all rest happy.
I had this gripe about the shimmering Sharapova last year and of course some of you insisted that you enjoyed the Maria moan. Well enough is enough. It's tantamount to cheating in my book. I can't imagine blocking out that sound if I was up the other end. Pack it in, pet.
Meanwhile the big question is can Murray win it? Nadal's withdrawal looks like it's made it easier but I think it'll be harder now. Everyone reckons he's a cert for the final - that's a lot of pressure.
I think he'll go before then. He'll win it one day. Just not this year. In the meantime, we've got Federer to enjoy. Smooth, elegant, sporting and - take note here you screeching harpies - silent.