There are some crimes of a scale that immediate retribution is demanded. One could resort to libel law but, in this instance, only public execution will satisfy.

I refer, of course, to the article by Stephen Pollard which appeared on this page a week ago. In that “piece”, he assailed tennis as “boring”, “middle-class” and “suburban”. What is worse, far worse, in reference to Tim Henman he gleefully mocked the name “Tim” and implied it was appropriate and typical of the pathetic sport in which he participated. And he did so in the knowledge that I was writing on the same page on the same day. Scumbag.

In fairness, Mr Pollard, who writes again in the Thunderer column today, is not the first person to associate the name Tim with being effete, feeble and risible. The perception is almost universal. The men responsible (step forward) are Ronnie Corbett and Harry Enfield. Mr Corbett for his portrayal of the character Timothy in that lamentable “sitcom” of yesteryear, Sorry, and Mr Enfield for inventing the posh plonker “Tim Nice-but-Dim” more recently.

Nor is the expression of a certain lack of confidence in Mr Henman that unusual. It has become a national habit. I find myself doing it. Eight days ago the esteemed Editor of this august newspaper expressed to me the view that Mr Henman would win at Wimbledon this year. My instinctive reaction was to inform him that (a) he was “bonkers” (not the ideal approach when dealing with your employer) and to ask (b) would he like a bet on it? I suspect that the only reason I am still in this job is that if the Editor fired me now he might not be able to collect his winnings.

Anyway, I am tired of all this abuse of both my Christian name and tennis. The case for the defence, no, prosecution, starts here. I must admit that I have had trouble with Tim over the years, or more precisely with the “othy” bit that follows it. I had no choice but to soldier on because my parents cruelly failed to award me a middle name — my father plainly thought that you might have to pay more for a birth certificate if they had to type any extra words on to it.

This has, to be honest, always been a source of resentment. Not least because it meant that when you put the initial and the surname together you got THAMES — a pretty wet outcome, as you can imagine. I toyed as a teenager with acquiring for myself a middle name by deed poll, something which would reflect my many American interests, such as “Jefferson”, “Lincoln” or “Bart”. Nothing came of it, unfortunately.

But, say what you like about Tim, it is at least easy to spell. The only item that competes for simplicity is the “A.A.” in A.A. Milne. Which is far more than can be said for Stephen, or is it Steven, or Stephan?

This cross-dressing with letters of a monicker has always caused problems. Christians are taught that their first martyr was St Stephen. This is nonsense. He wasn’t stoned to death for his faith but because the locals grew tired, understandably, of having to ask him how to spell his name. They would have been content if he had been called Tim instead.

As for the words that Stephen/Steven hurled at tennis, outrageous. Tennis is not dull but wonderful, a unique combination of athleticism and poise. At its best, it is high-speed ballet with a small yellow ball.

To the claim that it is bourgeois, I provide you with three words, Lleyton Hewitt (RIP). All right, you might return serve, we all know that a middle-class Australian is a contradiction in terms. Take that, I hit back, smacking the ball perfectly down the line, but what about the other tennis greats of the past 20 years — Borg, Conners, Evert, Graf, McEnroe, Navratilova and Sampras, not really the small print of Burke’s Peerage, are they?

Mr Pollard freely admitted that he was a supporter of Tottenham Hotspur (a confession itself worthy of an appearance on Jerry Springer). What he did not own up to, but through personal research I have ascertained, is that his true sporting passion is horseracing.

Think about what that pastime entails. It means trips to places such as Ascot, Cheltenham, Epsom and Goodwood. Hardly Tower Hamlets or the Gorbals. Wimbledon, by contrast, has elected a Labour MP. His is the “sport of kings” not the “sport of the proletariat”.

As a spectator event, on the course, horseracing is tedious. You cannot see anything unless you push up to the front, taking the risk that your head might be taken out by a flying clod of earth or manure. It is also cruel. When, I ask, did you last hear about a tennis player being shot dead because he or she went lame?

It is, in fact, the second most yawn-inducing spectator sport in the world. The overall winner of that accolade being Grand Prix motor racing. It is so direly mind-numbing that it prompted the best one-liner I have heard from a politician.

The MP concerned was David Blunkett. At the Labour Party conference of 2000, The Times hosted a dinner for the then Education Secretary. The first people to arrive at the restaurant were Peter Riddell, myself, Mr Blunkett and his dog (the only one sober by 11pm).

Sensing that smalltalk was appropriate, Peter brought up the Bernie Ecclestone affair which had resurfaced in the newspapers. I appreciate that you or I might not deem Labour Party funding to be “smalltalk” but our chief political commentator has a different outlook of these matters. Mr Riddell eventually finished his fine rhetorical flourish with “and Formula One is such a boring sport”. To which Mr Blunkett deftly noted: “More boring still if you’re blind.”

So, it is time to stand up for Tims and tennis against the likes of Steven Bollard, or whatever he is called. Henman is the man who can do it. For crying out, well, quietly, Tim, for all of your fellow Tims, please, please, even pretty please, this week, this time, do not blow it.

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