In a world charged with uncertainty and precariousness, at least there is one thing we in Britain can rely on: our summer of sport. Crammed into the next couple of months will be some of the finest sporting endeavours available; an eight-week procession of delight, a glorious heritage of constancy. And something to cheer up even the most despondent.
Let’s start with the thing we really do do better than anywhere else. While Test cricket in the rest of the world is played in front of two men, a couple of dogs and a bunch of reluctant primary school children bussed in at the last minute to give the stadium a vague sense of occupancy, in England it is the place to be.
The Tests against India this summer sold out months ago, the stands will be rammed with the partisan. In fact, it is probably easier for the Prime Minister to land a seat at a Taylor Swift gig than get a ticket for the final Test at the Oval for what promises to be the vibrant, noisy, exuberant showdown of the summer.
We may have invented the game – along with cricket, rugby, football and the rest – but the great thing about the tennis at Wimbledon is that it has never stood still; never rested on its laurels. Unquestionably the finest tournament in the world, this is one that is also constantly developing, improving, advancing.
As the facilities bloom, as the grass gets ever greener and the umpires’ uniforms ever sleeker, the only thing it does not deliver is a succession of home champions. But that just shows the generosity and openness of the British sporting summer: We put on the finest events and let the rest of the world scoot away with the prizes.
The Tests against India – it is not so obvious when the opponents are Pakistan – will give vivid demonstration to the less-celebrated British summer sport of relentless boozing. Everywhere, from the Pimm’s at Henley, through the champagne at Ascot to the giant snakes of empty pint pots passed above the heads of spectators in the stands at Headingly, will be clear evidence that British sport these days is largely financed by the bar profits.
Yes, it rains occasionally in the summer in Britain. Which enables sports enthusiasts, even as they zip up their kagouls and complain about the bloke in front’s umbrella obscuring their view, to utter the words that soundtrack every July and August in Britain: “Such a shame about the weather.” Frankly, it is not the sort of language you would hear in Australia.
A weekend of unfettered Rory McIlroy worship on his home turf at the Royal Portrush Golf Course on Northern Ireland’s spectacular north coast: What could be more romantic? Watching the local hero as he boldly snatches defeat from the jaws of victory will have added poignancy in a setting that is simply not available in the US, France, Germany or anywhere else.
Especially with a pint of Guinness to hand. Even better, if it gets too emotional watching Bryson DeChambeau snaffle the prize from the hands of our boy, the unique glories of the Giant’s Causeway are not much more than a decent three-iron drive down the road.
Ascot, in its topper and tailed finery, insists on a dress code so obtuse it makes an Ikea flatpack instruction manual look straightforward. Yet somehow in these days when for most occasions getting dressed up involves wearing a pair of socks with your sliders, Ascot’s intricate requirements – from security staff with tape measures checking that the shoulder straps on ladies’ tops adhere to the minimum one-inch width, to the fact that even on the hottest days tail-coats cannot be removed until the royal party has arrived – make the event all the more eccentrically compelling. Plus the setting is glorious.
The authorities at the All England Club wisely capped the cost of their strawberries a couple of years back to put an end to the tales of berry inflation that invariably previewed Wimbledon fortnight. Besides, even at £2 a mouthful, there is nothing more delicious than a punnet smothered in cream between sets.
Indeed the fare on offer during the British summer of sport gives lie to the old saw that this country is somehow a culinary backwater. Have any sneering French chefs ever actually tried the stir fry from the Thai takeaway van at Silverstone? Even the sandwiches in the hampers in the cheap seats at Lord’s will be from Waitrose. So much more hearty than an Aussie BBQ or Saffie braai.
Lewis Hamilton has raced every circuit in the world, but he knows which is the best. That is why he usually wins at Silverstone. Back in the red colours of Ferrari this July, his return will be saluted from the Northamptonshire stands by the noise that really makes this event sing: The guttural roar of 150,000 petrol heads.
What an occasion this is, where speed is celebrated at every turn. Except on the A43 after the event, when every lay-by is occupied by a speed cop with a radar gun waiting to clock any race-goer attempting to unleash their inner Lewis on the drive home.
In the brief moment when the footballers take a break from their 10-month slog, a thousand flowers bloom. Not least the Croquet Open Championships in Budleigh, the Henley Royal Regatta and a whole host of caber-tossing at Highland Gatherings throughout August.
Though, sadly, you have missed the World Poohsticks Championships that took place at Sandford-on-Thames on May 25. Still, even with such glories to distract you, for those addicted to the football, there is the increasingly popular British summer sporting pastime of checking your phone every five minutes to see if your club has actually made a decent signing.
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2025-06-13T14:16:22Z