Am I inviting a volley of discordant comments if I say that I don't give two tightly strung racquets whether Andy Murray lifts that famous trophy or not?
So, string me up from centre court's new retractable, multi-million pound roof and see if I care.
I shouldn't feel like this, I really shouldn't.
It's just that there used to be a time when this great tournament seemed exciting - and not just for the magnificent tennis played up on its beautifully manicured lawns but because of the personalities who entered the hallowed sanctity of SW19 in their pristine Dunlop Green Flash pumps and their sensible, predominantly white outfits of pressed shorts and collared tee-shirts.
This was a time when the definition of a logo was the discreetly-embroided, pouncing panther of the Slazenger brand or the equally subtle Fred Perry laurel wreath.
Now, players (especially the top ones) are slathered in more advertising material than you can chuck an acid yellow tennis ball at (and yes, while we're at it, what was wrong with good old white ones?)
For me, the romance of the tournament has been served up long ago and is now just a distant memory along with the likes of the athletic iceberg that was Bjorn Borg, the svelte Swede who remained as cool as an English cucumber no matter how high the temperatures soared on centre court.
And who could forget the clown-like – but well meaning – antics of Jimmy Connors and his partner in crime, Ile Nastase or the Argentinian archangel that was Guillermo Vilas?
Maybe it's wrong to lament the passing of these great and worthy champions because in recent times, their shoes (now far fancier than Green Flash) have been filled by equally talented players – perhaps more accomplished contenders.
If I am being honest, it's the women's tennis that puts me off my Robinson's Barley Water. It's all baseline bashing of the ball, with two hands to the backhand. Since when was that allowed? Not in my days of Saturday morning tennis coaching.
And when did it become acceptable to grunt like a cow in labour? It's just not ladylike.
Remember the graceful Evonne Goolagong as she pirouetted daintily around the court? Remember Virginia Wade demure in A-line tennis dresses, teamed with a selection of pastel-coloured cardigans for cooler days?
Now it's all figure-hugging Lycra, spray tans and even jewellery. Surely chunky, chavvy chains are just going to be a health and safety hazard waiting to happen?
The court-side seats now have more padding, there are contingency plans if it rains. Wimbledon has apparently moved with the times. It's just that they are not a patch on the old ones.
virginia.mason@halifaxcourier.co.uk