Pippa Middleton’s diary: What are you scared of, Boris?

Ah, good old Wimbledon: a fortnight of rhythmic ball thumping, ooh-ing at Federer’s forehand, aah-ing at Djoko the elastic athlete, and praying against common sense for good weather and British success. Some foreigners can be sniffy about Wimbledon’s particular charms — all that Union Jack patriotism, excitement over strawberries and cream and English eccentricity. ‘Grass is for cows,’ said the Argentinian Guillermo Vilas, famously, a line still repeated by some Latin players who can’t handle the low bounce and quick pace of the green stuff. Well, moo to them. Wimbers is tennis at its best, the grandest of all slams, which is why I like to go every year, at least twice.

Pimm’s has become so identified with the tennis ‘brand’ that it’s a cliché — but that doesn’t stop it from being absolutely delicious, essential drinking in fact. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy a Pimm’s or three when I’m watching a game. Only pints will do, frankly, since half the glass is ice anyway. (For tips on how to make ice, may I refer you to my book Celebrate?) I try to smuggle mine under my chair and sip it when the cameras aren’t on me. Oversized sunglasses help the disguise, and mean I can nod off unnoticed after one too many Pimm’s in the sun.

TYPICALLY I prefer watching the men to the women. I don’t hate my own sex or anything; I just can’t stomach the women players’ shrieking. Here I agree with your High Life columnist, Taki, who wrote so eloquently against the shrieking phenomenon in last week’s Spectator. There are male grunters, it should be said (Nadal, Agassi, Ferrer, Djokovic — though not, of course, the serene and beautiful Roger Federer), but they have a lower pitch so it’s not too offputting.