Andy Richardson: Watch out Murray, you've got competition

It’s sufficient to acquire the UK’s most expensive one-bedroom property, a cheeky little pied-à-terre in Mayfair. It would even cover the cost of installing energy-saving street lights in the whole of Sandwell. In short, £1.8 million is a heck of a lot of money.

The figure is the amount that the women’s and men’s champions will each take away from the All England Club this weekend after a fortnight’s work on grass.

Anyone for tennis? I should coco. At those rates, I’m ditching my Bic pen and spiral-bound notepad for an Adidas racket and a pair of Head trainers. Step aside, Djokovic. I’m on my way.

The manicured lawns of SW19 are a long way from the Tarmac roads of Tipton, but that’s where I first picked up a racket. It was safe to play in the street back in the 1970s. The neighbours were friendly and the chances of being run over by a slow-moving Austin Allegro were about the same as mine are of winning Wimbledon 2015.

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Each June and July, we’d take to Wake Green Road to play a street tournament. We’d only be allowed to serve underarm, the ‘net’ would be the black line across the street where workmen had dug a trench to fit a gas-pipe before paving over it again with Tarmac. The back of the court was marked by black lines while the sides were framed by the gutter. We’d step off court as the Allegros and Ford Cortinas drove past.

Allegros weren’t the only obstructions to our match. An obese golden retriever dog, called Shandy, who belonged to a couple called Ann and Stan Saunders, used to enjoy our summer games. It would wander into the road, sit on the ‘net’ and watch the ball fly over its head.

Occasionally, the Austin Allegros would arrive on court at the same time as Shandy – and there was only ever one winner. Shandy would plonk her overweight frame in the middle of the road and the guy who drove the Allegro would have to stop. He’d get out of his car and usher her out of the road with a doggie treat – thereby exacerbating her obesity crisis. Shandy’s ruse worked every time. The Allegro was no match for her.

There was, of course, nothing behind our street court. And so when we got all McEnroe-versus-Borg competitive, our tennis balls would fly to the end of the road after a particularly hard and irretrievable smash. We’d sprint after them, careful to avoid any strategically placed golden retrievers lying on the ‘net’.

My brother was better at tennis than me, though I put that down to age rather than ability. Each summer, he’d head off to hard courts and return with the smile of a winner.

On one particularly hot day, he headed off to the courts. He took the necessary precautions for his three-hour session, covering himself in what he assumed was suntan lotion.

We anticipated his return, two minutes before he rang the doorbell. The room had suddenly started to glow red, as though a London bus had pulled up outside and reflected its colour on to us. The red thing – my brother – walked through the door. He was glowing as though he’d eaten still-burning coal. He was incandescent and his skin was blistered. It had the colour and texture of a chip pulled straight from the fryer.

He’d applied the wrong lotion to his skin and quite literally cooked it. During his afternoon five-setter, he’d been basting like a turkey. And when he walked through the door, his skin was crispy and golden like a KFC. I almost took a bite. Nom nom.

Some years later, I made it to Wimbledon. Though I was in the crowd, rather than on Court 18. If there’d been a car park competition, I’d have stood a chance. But out there on the mean courts of Church Road, I’d have stood no chance.

On a People’s Sunday, in the era of Greg Rusedski, I queued with my M&S picnic from silly o’clock in the morning for my £10 ticket. And then I baked in the scorching temperatures with all the other mad dogs and Englishmen.

Men in military uniform dotted the aisles, keeping order among the proletariat who’d managed to sneak into a game without having to sell a kidney.

Auntie Beeb will be beaming this weekend’s action into our living room. And I’m glad about that. It’ll mean no crispy fried shoulders, no Ford Cortinas and no dogs called Shandy holding up play.

I might even raise a glass of strawberries and cream to the winner. Woof!