I read a letter in a newspaper this week complaining bitterly about the tennis at Wimbledon hijacking the broadcast schedule for two whole weeks.

Whereas for many, me included, the two weeks of Wimbledon are a sporting highlight of the year (I even get a tournament programme online and fill it in over the fortnight), for some it is clearly not as joyous a feature of the best months of summer.

To them I can only say that there are many hours of programming that I find similarly unappealing, but accept that among the seemingly endless choices of viewing available these days there may be some, even many, that I cordially dislike or find plain boring.

I revel in the fact that the BBC still has broadcasting rights for this quintessentially British summer sport, which I have enjoyed watching every year since 1954 when Jaroslav Drobny beat Ken Rosewall (the best player never to win Wimbledon) in the Final.

I remember too being a groomsman at the wedding of some actor friends on finals day in the late 1970’s when as soon as the speeches were completed many of the guests slid as unobtrusively as possible off upstairs to the happy couples bridal suite, forsaking champagne and chit chat for an epic tussle between McEnroe and Borg.

This year I have been comparatively free to indulge my summer treat and for the first time I have really been aware of the almost army-like precision of the ball boys and line judges.

They have clearly been trained meticulously to the point where I have noticed that roboticism is creeping in.

I suspect that, like at certain music concerts and film sets, technicians and staff are forbidden to meet the gaze of the stars who are treated not just as divas but almost like Medusas.

The drilling of ball retrieval and delivery is meticulous and impressive, but it seems also that they are under strict instruction to gaze impassively ahead when the rallies are on, rather than give in to their natural desire to watch the game.

And the players rarely give any sign of being aware that they are even there. I would be no good in that situation.

I would constantly be winking at them or trying to make them laugh. But then I suspect that even my demon serve would never have got me nearer to Wimbledon than Putney municipal courts.