By Karan Thapar

“What’s so special about Wimbledon?” Aru had just walked into my office and caught me watching a repeat of last night’s match. I thought his question was a dig but his curiosity was genuine.

However, when I started to explain I realised how difficult it is to describe Wimbledon. No doubt tennis is international and television has made it truly global. And, of course, more people watch this game than any other sport on the box. But Wimbledon is far more than the All England Lawn Tennis Championship.

Wimbledon is summer and sunshine – though, ironically, it often rains and the games are washed out – it’s champagne and pimms, strawberries and cream, privilege and passion. It’s also – as only the British can manage – both patrician and populist. The Duke of Kent is as much a fixture as the ball boys. Venerable tradition sits comfortably beside McEnroe-style tantrums. Curtseys are as common as Anna Kournikova’s short skirts. Wimbledon, after all, is a slice of Britain – eccentricity, exaggerated propriety, snobbery, yobbishness and an unabashed delight in the good things of life.

But how was I to explain all of this to Aru? As I tried his eyes started to glaze over. At first he seemed intrigued. Then perplexed. Finally, simply bored. Though we in India are crazy about cricket we haven’t developed similar traditions or conventions. For us the game itself is all-important. In Britain tennis is a metaphor for a style of life. Wimbledon is its apogee.

So I gave up and chose instead to tell Aru about my first visit to the grass courts of SW17. Nisha, my banker wife, had clients at Coca Cola who had arranged a marquee just off Centre Court. We were one of thirty guests invited on opening day. I decided to look sporty. I wore a rather natty double-breast blazer with a paisely cravat and a pair of linen slacks. I thought I looked fetching.

Now it didn’t take long to discover that unless you really care for the game, it’s far more fun quaffing strawberries and cream and downing champagne than sitting in the royal box straining to see the other side which, believe me, is pretty far away. So whilst the others watched I guzzled. And if you deign to see the lesser players then you can wander through the higher number courts carrying your champagne with you. By the way, Court One is for the big names but as the number increases the quality of player declines.

I ended up at Court 15, slightly woozy but intent on watching an Ecuadorian beauty demolish a Kraut vixen. A handful of supporters made it seem like a battle of the continents. The German would grunt, groan and smash the ball. The Latin American was all touch, drop-shot and delicacy.

Suddenly a man resembling a retired colonel – puce, bow-tied, tweed-suited – walked up and oyed me. Confident I wasn’t the object of his attention I ignored him. But he continued. With each attempt his voice took on an edge and his manner seemed less charming. Finally he could no longer contain himself and burst out.

“Waiter” he bellowed. I turned around wondering who he was addressing only to discover it was me.

“Yes you”, the ‘colonel’ confirmed. “What happened to the champagne and strawberries we ordered? It’s been over half an hour.”

“Sorry” I said needlessly. “I’m not the waiter.”

“Aren’t you?”, the ‘colonel’ responded, by no means apologetically. “The other bloke was dressed just like you. I thought it was the company uniform.”

On the tube home I repeated the story to Nisha. I expected sympathy but she threw her head back and hooted with laughter.

“Do you know why he said that?”, she asked as if she knew.

“Why?” I replied, perplexed she should but also offended she was explaining away my little incident.

“Because you’re over dressed. Only waiters care so much for their appearance. Real gentlemen wouldn’t give a fig. Remember that the next time you go to Wimbledon.”

I was dumbfounded. Fortunately Aru seemed to miss the point as well. In his view the better dressed a man, the better the man is likely to be. Clothes, he believes, make a difference.

“Ah” he clucked. “So Wimbledon’s a shabby sort of place.”

“No, not quiet.”

“Then the British haven’t got good taste.”

“No, not that either”.

“In that case” he concluded, the penny finally dropping, “there was something wrong with your clothes!”

Now tell me, could I have disagreed?