Wimbledon. Famed far and wide as the tournament to play. Played on grass, it sorts out the sheep from the ducks when it comes to playing the deft stroke instead of the slugger's wallop. It has an especially English  feel about it ; strawberries and cream (imported from Portugal);  the train service that uses buses every weekend and not just at Wimbledon time; the fans sleeping outside for days so they can get on telly to talk about having no tickets and Tim Henman; the Friday night drunken hordes practising for Pop Idol and Big Brother. All these quintessentially English moments of grace.

I haven't mentioned tennis because it's not something you can depend on. Wimbledon also means rain on a scale that would warm the heart of a lonesome frog. Apres Moi La Deluge could easily be supplanted by Before Le Wimbledon Les P***ins Of Rain , such is the nature of the Wimbledon El Nino. Over the last week most of the tennis seen on telly consists of recordings of earlier years. Accentuating the positive, this is a good thing. For a start the tennis of old is far better.

More important is the 'no grunt' factor. No orgasmic 'uurgh!' as Irina Schlapantikkela bludgeons a forehand smash like a cannonball. I have always wondered if the grunting is entirely in keeping with the sporting ethos of Wimbledon. After all, the ladies, girls, women are addressed as Miss or Missus (in the case of Billy Jean King), so whither the 'aargh!' and 'urgh!' that permeates the air on a regular basis?

'Tennis is played on clay, synthetic turf and grass. Why not mud? In cultural terms it is wise to recall Wimbledon was once a swamp'


Of course, all these matters are of lesser importance than the big question: Where is the tennis? This is not something in need of a quick fix. Cover the playing area? No. Wimbledon is SW19, not the car park at B & Q. House prices up The Hill would drop with such gravitas that Bono and Bob Geldof would have to do a benefit gig. Change the traditional scheduled time of the tournament? Again this is not on, coming so soon after Roland Garros and with the showjumping just around the corner.

You see the potential log-jam? To tennis lovers the game is sanctified. To advertisers and shareholders, business is business. To solve this conundrum, what is required is thinking with what used to be called originality (before the BBC changed it to originalness). So here are a few ideas for consideration.

Tennis is played on clay, synthetic turf and grass. Why not mud? In cultural terms it is wise to recall Wimbledon was once a swamp. Where do think the SW in SW19 comes from? Think of the environmental awareness aspect, too. While the stars slide and slurp tout suite, we could have voice-overs from refugees in Burkino Faso. Nelson Mandela wouldn't miss a gig like this for all the tea in Cuba. There is no shortage of sha*ged-out pop stars mad to promote their latest comeback album. Scotland Yard could send their experts to brief us all on the imminent threat of international tourism (they can't spell, anyway) and the Mr Bean lookalike new foreign secretary could give us a few impromtu karaoke faves. It's a win-win situation.

But of course, it still doesn't solve the grunting problem. I have always suspected it's all part of a promo to launch a new soap opera, Tennis Players' Husbands, so maybe the ending of grunting might be somewhat disingenuous. For the best solution, we should look to none other than Mr FIFA himself, Sepp Blatter. Though much maligned as a fat moneybags with no knowlege of sport, the same Sepp is miles ahead of the pack when it comes to restructuring. His latest notion is to prohibit the playing of games above the altitude of 3,000 metres. This is no specious idea. It is based on health issues and money. Such an edict removes several South American countries and rising lights like Bhutan, while giving prominence to the underprivileged sporting entities like Easter Island and Monte Carlo.

Tennis would do well to learn from this. It would do even better to do business like FIFA, or better again with FIFA. In short; trade problems and share solutions. Move Wimbledon to La Paz. The lumpen masses on Henman Hill wouldn't know the difference, or care either, as long as they get on telly to gibber about Paris Hilton and having no tickets. The jewelery-rattlers in the stands are always up for an eco-friendly jaunt to fuel-up for dinner party reparte. And La Paz is a sure-bet tsunami-free zone. No sharks in the Andes, mate. Most of all, it puts grunting in a more viewer-friendly context. No more self-indulgent 'uurgh!' and 'aargh!' No, instead of grunting we would hear gasping (for breath of course), but the programmers can throw in a few anti-smoking plugs.

Even the bad times can be good. Should any match be beset by guerrilla attack or swarms of killer bees, instead of Sir Cliff Richard singing we could have JP McEnroe doing some Hendrix. By all accounts, Johnboy does with a guitar what he did with a racquet and Hendrix was no stranger to chalk-dust. It's time to get closure and move on. And in Bolivia, you can be sure Andes Murray would nail the championship.