Into deepest Warwickshire on Monday to join the muck and nettles brigade at the farmers' annual love-in, the Royal Show. Drove my battered mini into the meadow which doubled as a car park, and felt entirely out of place alongside the Range Rovers, Beamers and Jags which had transported our poor sons of the soil to the rural bash. Mind you, I soon cheered up when I spotted a French Farmers' Association official opting for the British beef rather than a crab salad at a lunch for the great and good. Good on you, Monsieur. Let's hope your food minister, Jean Glavany, doesn't find out ­ otherwise you might be ringing Nick Brown in a bid to find a new career on this side of the Channel. Of course, the great thing about the Royal, according to the press releases, is that it brings together town and country in one place for a massive eat-in. Which is probably why I saw a former cabinet minister taking a crafty drag on a Woodbine behind one of the tractor exhibits, the wife of a well known farming peer dumping her tights and shoes to walk barefoot through the mud, and three senior bods from this magazine craftily buying Farmers Weekly cagoules to protect themselves from the elements as they trekked through the mud to the car park. I had a more civilised engagement on Friday on The Centre Court at SW19. In the Pimms fuelled spectators' area, that is. The tennis was enthralling, but the corporate sponsors seemed to have missed their best placement opportunity. Perhaps they should have joined forces with Wimbledon's other claim to fame, two men dressed up as Orinoco and Uncle Bulgaria and drawing more than their fair share of attention. {{COUNTERPOINT }}