I have some sense of what watching the men's tournament at Wimbledon will be like this next fortnight, because I recently tried watching the men at the French Open.

You arrive at a match well-intentioned. Two brilliant players appear, each of whom has lived off steamed broccoli and sacrificed his life to tennis since the age of two. They begin blamming away, harder and better than any legends of the past. And minutes into their four-hour extravaganza your thoughts drift to lunch, always the day's signature event in Paris. You know the match is irrelevant, because either Roger Federer or Rafael Nadal wins every grand-slam tournament anyway.