So why don?t the men grunt? If ever a man deserved a shriek of expended energy, it was surely the opponent of Roger Federer as the two-time Wimbledon champion sallied into the sunlight on the Centre Court to defend his title. But Paul-Henri Mathieu, of France, was entirely dumb on his way to a non-shock defeat. In the silence of combat, you could almost hear Juliet?s cowbell tinkling away on her Swiss Alp.

Mathieu, ranked 58th, has not earned his first cow. Federer received Juliet, his bovine gift from a grateful nation, after winning his first Wimbledon two years ago. It was a lovely idea. Uniquely Swiss and likely to stay that way. No Brit is going down the cow route. One, because, since 1936, the winning of Wimbledon has been done by other nations. And two, because inevitably the picture of victor and his Friesian friend would appear on the cover of Private Eye with the caption: ?Meet the wife. Don?t laugh?.

Mathieu, on the other hand, had earned the right to step on court with the best player in the world and, in fits and starts, he looked competitive. Not seriously competitive but able to delay his fate for long enough to inflict heat stroke on one of the ball boys. The poor lad lay prostrate for a few moments before being led away to sympathetic British applause.

The result was 6-4, 6-2, 6-4 to the champion, whose most devious serve reminds you of a Brazilian taking an out-swinging free-kick. The 23-year-old Frenchman, the same age as his rival but about ? 20 million poorer, spent much of the match metaphorically picking the ball out of the back of his own net.

The trouble with Federer for his opponents is the speed with which he sets himself up for a shot. By the time he is striking the ball, with all the mischievous and mysterious spin he applies, he is as perfectly balanced as a statue by Michelangelo.

Mathieu was not wretched. He won points. When he did, he blew on his fingers like a party girl trying to dry her nail varnish quickly. But every time he felt he might be creeping towards serious consideration, Federer would send a top-spin return on a mission to plummet over the net like a lemming going off Beachy Head.

It is at times like this that you are forcibly reminded that Federer is half South African (his mother?s side). Like Kevin Pietersen, the cricketer who is suddenly and wonderfully English, he completely dominated the match ball. They both hit sixes in different ways? Federer?s just stay in the stadium.