Rather than accept your portion of the despair and humiliation inflicted on the national psyche by England's exit from the World Cup, you might want to tune into Wimbledon. True, it's not football, but there are a few good reasons to feign interest before the semi-finals this year. And here they are.
First off: the girls. Obviously. If there is a sexier outfit in world sport than the thigh-length, wind-teased tennis dress, we don’t wanna know about it. Throw in sweat, grunts and general upper-body movement and you’ve got a combination all other sports (except beach volleyball) can only dream of.
Simona Halep [above], Maria Kirilenko [below] – and of course, Maria Sharapova - are all competing for the Anna Kournikova Memorial Hot Tennis Girl Award. Bar possibly the latter, they are all unlikely to make it to final stages where you’ll probably witness the ‘impressive’ Williams sisters flexing their muscles through their sixty-fifth consecutive final. The early perv catches the worm at Wimbledon.
Secondly there remains the outside possibility that you will catch Roger Federer being humbled as he almost was last week by world no.65 Alejandro Falla. Thierry Henry and Tiger Woods have both fallen foul of the Gillette Advert Curse and it’s only a matter of time before the third in that holy trinity of smug shaving bastards comes a-cropper. You wouldn’t want to miss the sight of Rog crying into his neatly folded, all-white, embossed victory suit now would you?
Lastly, there is a special atmosphere to the BBC’s Wimbledon coverage that is guaranteed never to be ruined by the farting drone of a vuvuzela. The hush of the crowd between the polite sprinkles of applause… the lingering filler shots of a yawning London skyline… Sue Barker’s perpetual state of demented happiness – it all adds up to the viewing equivalent of nicking your mum’s Valium.
And best of all? They use this crazy black magic called 'camera technology' to determine whether or not the balls have crossed - or not crossed - the lines, making the game more or less fair. In other words, anti-football bliss.