Tennis is the ballet of racquet sports ... Andy Murray and Sylvie Guillem. Photograph: Tom Jenkins/Rex Features
I've always been slightly bemused as to why the "Wimbledon crowd" was said to be having trouble warming to Andy Murray. All this dour, sour-faced Scot stuff didn't seem to make much sense; we've got one of those as prime minister (though it is not clear that is a happy parallel, come to think of it) and there are plenty of serious-visaged Scots in sport. And long may they flourish, say I. But it all fell into place when I actually went to Wimbledon on Friday.
The thing is, Wimbledon is basically Glyndebourne with tennis balls. Give the Wimbledon (or at least Centre Court) spectators black tie and cocktail dresses and they would essentially be indistinguishable from an audience for Eugene Onegin or The Coronation of Poppea. Suddenly it became perfectly clear why Tim Henman had always found it easier to attract their love: he's one of them.
Not that I didn't have a brilliant time, you understand - lucky, lucky me to have watched three matches on Centre Court (of which more anon). But I must say I was absolutely flabbergasted at how a major sporting event manages to maintain such incredibly impeccable levels of gentility. Like Glyndebourne, every possible flat surface is covered with pots brimming over with flowering plants; every wall is fountaining with hanging baskets; arches frill with clambering roses. Polite middle-class young people sell you tasteful memorabilia (ditto Glyndebourne); and the Honorary Stewards at Wimbledon, who look like splendidly posh retired army officers, could easily do a job swap with their patrician counterparts in East Sussex.
Like Glyndebourne, happily, the quality of what was on stage, (sorry, court) was terrific, though. Although Wimbledon has its operatic moments (were Ancic and Ferrer grunting at each other in minor thirds on Friday?) the obvious parallel is, of course, dance. Tennis, never let it be forgotten, is the ballet of racquet sports. Federer vs Gicquel reminded me that the Swiss champion has a near equivalent in Carlos Acosta, the star of the Royal Ballet. Both seem to defy the laws of physics in their speed and grace and sheer beauty of movement: what was particularly striking about seeing Federer live was his apparent languidity - when one's common sense tells one that in fact he is moving with extraordinary speed.
What about Andy Murray? Well, he's tall, thin, a bit grumpy and moves with an astounding elasticity. He is, quite clearly, the miraculously brilliant (and often petulant) French prima ballerina who loves to say "non": Sylvie Guillem.
