So farewell the treasured on-court rant at that pesky line-judge who has called a highly-strung player’s Sunday-best forehand out when (according to the irate contender) the world and his dog could see it had hit the line.

As a tennis commentator and proud member of the All England Club, I feel a little bereft that from next year, Wimbledon will scrap line judges in favour of the AI system Live Electronic Line Calling. And on all 18 courts and even at the Qualifying event.

Yes, I know we must move with the times and conform to the men’s ATP tour which wants the new system introduced across the board.

Yes, I know Live ELC will guarantee that every ball is called with near-perfect accuracy, tracking its path and position to within 3 millimetres. But how sad to lose that army of doughty officials in their Ralph Lauren navy blazers and cream-coloured bags, trudging on and off court at hourly intervals for £150 a day, a tiny fraction of what even the first round losers take home.

My line judge friends are dedicated part-timers, gladly taking leave from their jobs as civil servants, teachers, bus drivers, most of them far more knowledgeable about tennis than those whose lines they judge. Despite betting on which well-upholstered centre line judge will be the first to be winged by a wayward serve, we’ll miss them when they’re gone.
Something of the romance and the danger will be lost too, when there are no grounds for an entertaining hissy fit over a perceived bad call.

Several big-name players, notably John McEnroe and the maverick Australian Nick Kyrgios evidently used the rising indignation they worked up over contested calls like a head of steam, propelling them to greater heights of rage-fuelled brilliance as well as intimidating the opposition.

Playing the gentlemanly Tom Gullikson at Wimbledon 1982, McEnroe perpetrated his most iconic meltdown screaming “You cannot be serious!” when his supposed “ace” was called long, before memorably castigating officials as “the pits of the world.”

No surprise that he came through in straight sets against his demoralised opponent and a fortnight later took his first Wimbledon singles crown.

His shenanigans certainly added spice to his matches, providing generations of wags with an irresistible catchphrase and packing the stands with punters desperate to witness high decibel conflict: Mac versus Officialdom.

I was commentating on a McEnroe match in the 80s when an unfortunate official became the subject of a tirade so foul-mouthed that my producer turned down the court microphone and told me to describe events.

I racked my brains for a careful euphemism to protect the sensibilities of the genteel radio audience: “And McEnroe is continuing to question the line judge’s parentage with increasing intensity…”

Not everyone in the Wimbledon crowd is a passionate tennis nut, hooked on the immaculate backhand or commanding smash.

Many come for an iconic English experience: high drama amid the Pimm’s and purple and white petunias.
Who could forget the “Opera Rant” of the theatrical Italian Fabio Fognini in 2013, flinging himself to the ground, head in hands and screaming “No, no, no!” after his shot was called out. If this had been an audition for RADA, he’d have won a scholarship.

The commentator’s job will become distinctly greyer and more workaday when Live ELC defuses such histrionics before they even start.