Well, what a final that was. The ball went up then down then up again across the screen, like a game of Pong but on grass.
It was literally riveting, and I was glued to my screen for the full two hours, or however long it was. It felt like longer.
The tournament has been a great one. We all stuffed ourselves with Pimms and strawberries and cream, and white wine and vodka and whatever else the bar sold until we were thrown out. That's the joy of tennis, but it's the sport that always leaves you with a hangover.
The winner this year was unknown Scot Jock O'Vitch. I'd never heard of him, but I expect eating all that porridge has given him an arm that can hit a ball like a rugby player's foot.
Cider. That's another one. I like Tesco's own brand myself. It's quite tart but very cheap. You have to watch your wallet.
Where was Tim Henman? I think he got knocked out before the tournament even started. Still, at least he's back on his feet again. I heard that a couple of years ago he starred in his own series of gay porn films, called "Come on Tim", but maybe that was just a joke.
I'm sure he can win Wimbledon next year, if he remembers to turn up. Probably just had a few too many drinks and forgot he was competing. It happens to the best of us.
Geoff Racket reports.
