Wimbledon

A out and out chunderfest. It felt like we had the dry heaves by the end.

The premise is ropey to start with, but the writers don't seem to want their audience to suspend disbelief for more than 30 seconds at a time. It leads you to suspect that Working Title must possess one of those Orwellian kaleidoscope scriptwriting machines in their basement such is the shameless formulaic pilfering from Notting Hill, Bridget Jones et al.

No chance of this inspiring any future British champions - Bettany's Peter Colt is an amalgamation of almost all the stereotypes that have held the game back in this country for so long. The rest of his family are the kind of attenuated toffs that this production team specialises in.

Colt has a knack for getting to the Dorchester in his kit car by heading east through Admiralty Arch and to Brighton via the M4 and Dover. He can somehow combine a winning run in SW15 with a dirty seaside weekend, and several wine-fuelled dinners and parties.

There are hardly any insider insights for genuine fans.

Utterly Dreadful. But in say twenty years may make interesting Christmas viewing simply for the nostalgic tour of London cerca 2004 it has incidentally put together.