Wimbledon, in particular, has always got right on my thruppennies. Because of the crowd mainly, the Union Jack Waving, laugh-at-anything Henman Hill lot – though I’m sure I’m not alone there. I mean come on, who doesn’t hate them?
I almost never went to church, abandoned Sunday school at the earliest opportunity (School? On a Sunday?) and joined that uber-Presbyterian symbol of God bothering rectitude, The Boys Brigade, solely for the purposes of playing in the Saturday morning football team.
The Church of Scotland meant hee-haw to me, but the part of my life that was definitely spiritual, certainly in terms of its blind faith and obedient devotion, was a categorical and apparently non-negotiable affiliation to Glasgow Rangers FC.
Contrary to popular belief, it’s not all sun, sea and surf, either. The image of the typical Aussie bloke, riding the waves off Bondi, covered in zinc cream, sporting tight swimming trunks known, for fairly obvious reasons, as budgie smugglers, does ring true a lot of the time.
But the reality is, in winter, which we’re in the middle of right now, it’s cold and actually snows.
Her name, according to the tag pegged to her overalls told us shoppers that her name was - I kid you not - Ebony.
Now, I’m not sure what the her parents were thinking of – and I didn’t really know Ebony well enough to ask her, but it just shows how, through no fault of our own, you can end up with a name that clearly doesn’t suit you.
I realise it doesn't sound like a barrel of fun – and at the time it wasn't, always - but the sheer buzz of being stuck in an exotic clime, knowing next to nothing about the geography, culture or language, was one of the main reasons I strapped on the backpack and got my hitchhiking thumb out in the first place.