Wimbledon--the tournament, the movie

First, Mark Steyn classic: A Foreign Field, proof once again that, whatever Steyn's other splendid qualities, he is, in the end, screamingly funny. Two exerpts. First:

In 1877 the club introduced the first Gentlemen's Singles lawn tennis championship, won by an old Harrovian rackets player called Spencer Gore. He was very different from today's star champions: he wore long cotton trousers with vast acres of empty white advertising space that Adidas or Nike would die for. At that time, the British dominated the tennis scene, thanks to their gruelling training regime: on the day of the big match a chap would take the train up to Paddington, drop in at the Savoy for a haunch of venison and some spotted dick washed down with a couple of brandies, toddle down to SW19, change into the heavy underwear and a thick long-sleeved pullover, and dispatch Johnny Foreigner in three sets. Unfortunately, the Americans and Australians then introduced radical concepts like getting up early in the morning and practising.

Then this:

It's more than tennis; it's about the time-honoured rituals of British life - like the way the Duchess of Kent comes out to present the trophy and always stops for a word with the lone black ballboy. You don't get that at the French Open.

If you ain't laughing, you ain't living.

Also: Steyn's review of the Notting Hill-esque film Wimbledon. Steyn's verdict: close but not quite there.