With only £350 changing hands for my Leyton Orient family season ticket (that’s them paying me), I’m delighted that Thierry Henry has decided to sign for Martin Ling’s red-and-white army.

Yes, I know Barcelona made an offer as well, but this was a ‘no brainer’. Thierry’s career and jet-set lifestyle will now be going places. One-bed flats around the Bakers Arms can be rented for around £70 a week and he’s got the Waltham Forest council Oasis swimming pool round the corner, not to mention the 55 bus route from Leyton right into the West End (yes, I admit, there can be a bit of traffic around the Upper Clapton roundabout).

And what about Sven going to Manchester City? Anyone who thinks he is going for the reported £2m salary and suggesting that money motivates the gregarious Swede is ‘having a larf’. Your Sportingo gossip-monger can exclusively reveal the real reason why the man with a permanent Eriksson couldn’t turn down the Eastlands job – when training is over, he can invite one of his many female admirers to the boardroom for a bit of training and if anyone comes up the stairs, they can nip into the trophy cabinet where there is plenty of room.

It’s that time of the year again, strawberries and cream, new balls please, aggressive forehands and women bending over ready to receive. No, I’ve finished with Sven, I’m talking about the Wimbledon fortnight. This year Henman Hill is giving way to Henman over the Hill, but despite the doom and gloom surrounding the sport in this country, I expect a Brit to lift the men’s singles trophy (cut to half-interested, reserve-list member of the Royal Family handing the trophy over to Roger Federer).

The Tour de France starts off in, er, London early July. I’m looking forward to Floyd Landis and Oscar Pereira getting into a ruck with a cab driver as they fight over the right to use a bus lane. "This is my f***ing lane, now go off and eat some frogs legs and leave us alone. All you bloody French are good for is smutty films and holding up the white flag. My old dad had that Edith Piaf in the back of his cab. I don’t care if you are not French . . ."

To Royal Ascot on Ladies Day, (honest, I have finished with Sven). Another outpost of our sporting empire has been taken over by restless natives, this time in the form of Aussie horses who have the cheek to run faster than ours. Being the culture vulture for which I am so well known, I was looking forward to the promised meeting with the cultural attaché from the Australian embassy, only to be told afterwards that his schedule had changed - he was running in the Queen Mary Stakes.