From our table in the corporate hospitality marquee we had a fantastic view of the VIP toilets. This is pretty much what my life has amounted to: the urine-soaked end of the red carpet, nibbling perspiring canapes amid wafts of the intoxicating musk of celebrity excrement.

Waiting for a friend outside the Gents was a familiar figure - a former Wimbledon champion, still athletic in early middle age, still sporting his trademark single earring, although the chequered headband had been wisely abandoned. He was waiting a long time, too; whoever was in there was obviously doing something heavier and more ponderous than your average widdle. Eventually he emerged - black leather trousers, black shirt barely buttoned, black goatee, black glasses, blackened hair - and the two of them walked past us and on to whatever inner circle of celebrity heaven lay beyond the security guards at the far end of the tent.

"Ooh Look," said everyone at my table. "It's Pat Cash from Wimbledon '87"
"F*ckin' ell," said I, "It's Tony Iommi from Black Sabbath"

Meanwhile, in the royal box, Andrew Strauss was sitting next to Diana Ross. Imagine THAT conversation.