After years covering sport across the UK, acting sports editor Tim Ashton is enjoying his first Wimbledon Championships.

When the sweaty hordes of the mass sporting press descend on any global event, you can guarantee two things.

First, there shall be coffee - or some grit-laden cup of mud masquerading as coffee.

Second, there shall be opinions - and those opinions shall be right, forsaking all others, by pain of death.

The press room resembles a library where books have been replaced with laptops and TV screens, and those that hold loftier status than the Wimbledon Guardian have their own private desk.

We look out on to the concourse that runs up to Murray Mound, and the regular tennis fans peer in the window at us as if we’re badly made models in an under-funded museum - they seem to think we are a font of tennis knowledge, which of course, we are.

Press conferences in the darkened main interview room are odd affairs - the main protagonist is wheeled in and out quickly, and between times they may utter a few non-committal answers to the questions put to them.

Then the journalists return to their laptops, blinking in the bright lights of the press room, to create some sort of literary magic.

For us at the Guardian, it is all about bringing to you a flavour of the greatest tennis event in the world, that just happens to be on your doorstep.

The fact we can do that is a privilege - and we are extraordinarily lucky, and that is one opinion I believe cannot be disputed.