It's a tough decision to make, although with Spin Doctors President (and occasional Deputy Minister of Justice) Johnny de Lange making the same sort of noises that Sir Alex is making about Ronaldo going to Madrid, I might not have a say in the matter. But after Saturday's performance in Andy Jury's bachelor's cricket carnival in Richmond on Saturday afternoon, the counties are queuing up for what, quite frankly, could be the Kolpak deal of the year. Kevin Pietersen might be able to switch hit, but can he reverse-sweep Mark Van Beuningen one-handed while not spilling a drop from a very full pint of Stella? Methinks not.

Still, that's for agents to decide; for now, I'm on a much-needed break from the daily grind of playing golf back home, and am meandering up to Liverpool and Manchester to play golf there instead, before landing in the rural enclave of Ripon in North Yorkshire, which Lucas Radebe assures me is a delightful part of the world. Which means I'm missing out (quite happily) on the event that's saturated the newspapers I've seen since landing in South Africa's second-largest city: Wimbledon.

Mike Dabrowski, the Comrades-conquering Mighty Dodo (10:50, a fine effort; compatriot Scott Picken, also running for charity, made a flat ten, but that was Cornish pasties rather than hours, unfortunately), had tickets for me for the tennis next week, secured illegally and at great expense, no doubt. And if I didn't have an extremely important tee-time in Belfast that clashed, I'd have taken him up on them, for a day or two as SW19 sits high up on my sporting target list. Next year, perhaps...

... but not this year, which means missing out on what looks like being a fascinating Wimbledon. The massacre in Paris is still fresh in the memory, and as Federer capitulated to a brutally merciless Nadal, there was already suggestion that the Spaniard would surely head to London as a genuine grass-court contender. Watching him come through a strong (and grass-specialist) field at the Stella Artois reinforced that view vividly; Federer's win at the Gerry Weber barely made the radar.

So that's the central conceit to this year's championship, then: can the world number one's imperious hold on Wimbledon continue, or will the raw strength and aggression of Nadal carry over from clay? The signs at Stella Artois make for ominous reading; going into the tournament today, you'd probably be happier in the Nadal camp than you would in Federer's.

You'd be happiest of all, though, in the Andy Murray camp — or you would if you followed a strict diet of English media in the build-up to Wimbledon. "Murray seeded 12", screamed out The Times last week, as the annual dose of unrequited British home support gathered steam; with Henman Hill now Murray Mound, local support is as excitable as ever. I've read half a dozen fervently patriotic features on British players I've never heard of (most with suspiciously exotic names), all trumpeted as brave outsiders, and all set to fall gloriously in round one, or possibly (to a blur of front pages) round two.

That will leave Murray to wave an increasingly battered flag as the tennis unfolds, cheered on by disciples formerly devoted to Henman; the rest of us will pay more attention to Ana Ivanovic, Maria Sharapova, and an intriguing battle in the men's draw. Federer will doubtless have another of Richie Benaud's old blazers on show; Nadal in turn will shrug off the extra in an Avril Lavigne music video look, and replace it with something more conventional. Don't expect such respect for the current king of Wimbledon, though; there's revolution in the air in London this week.

  • Contact Dan at dan@metropolis.co.za

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