Dom Joly: Plucky Tim, unlucky Jonny and the Ashes. That's it: I'm out of here, losers

Summer has finally arrived and I remember why I moved to the country in the first place. Well, I certainly remember the reason that I give to anyone who enquires down here. The actual reason, the unpleasant incident in Snappy Snaps, is best left alone. Firstly, they were not my photos. Secondly, even if they were, there is nothing weird about the subject matter. They were artistic, not that you'd expect a supergrass of a student working behind the counter at Snappy Snaps to know about that. Not that they were mine anyway, but it's the principle.

Anyway, the sun is currently beating down on my finely toned naked body as I lie prostrate on my stupidly enormous trampoline. I'm waiting for one of the all-too-frequent groups of ramblers that wander down the footpath that runs past our back wall. The moment any of these retired geography teachers even look our way I'm going to blast them with my paint-ball gun. As they run for their lives covered in yellow paint I wonder whether they'll have any idea that they've just been targeted by a naked, minor celebrity sniper? I bet they won't. That's one of the joys of the countryside that they always rant on about; it's constantly surprising.

Along with the annual week of sun come the other summer clichés. I had the misfortune to go to the same school as the clearly-destined-to-be-a-rambler-when-he-retires-at-35 tennis pipsqueak Tim Henman. Every summer I ride the roller-coaster of inevitable disappointment that is Timmy's annual Wimbledon adventure. I don't know why I bother. I went to school with members of Radiohead but I don't find myself queuing up outside Records R Us at midnight to sample the delights of their new experimental jazz album. In the good old days when all English tennis players were really crap we just watched Americans play and secretly loved the fact that McEnroe pissed off our parents. Now we have to hang on to the slender thread of a hope that every other tennis player in the world develops sleeping sickness so that Tim can win. We own Wimbledon, it's British, so let's get on with it and disqualify everyone else and make sure he does so that he can be assured of a place as team captain on A Question of Sport and we can all go outside for the rest of the summer.

Sadly, we won't, because then there's the cricket. Once again my hopes are being subliminally raised that we will beat the Aussies and grab the Ashes. Once again I will sit inside for five days to watch what my rational mind knows will be a crippling defeat. With cricket I'm a bit like the guy who wanders into a casino and wins big time on his first night. It never happens again but he spends the rest of his life chasing that first high. My first test match was the famous Headingley one where Botham became a god and we beat the bastards despite having to follow on. It will never happen again but the dream is there.

To cap it all, I now also have to get up at dawn because New Zealand is so backward that it has a different time system from us. To watch the rugby tests involves somehow getting up early and yet avoiding helping with the kids. If I manage that miracle, I can settle down to 80 minutes of wondering in which way Jonny Wilkinson will be gravely injured and carried off, never to be seen again for two years.

I hate the summer. I love winter when it's all football, which I couldn't give a damn about. In winter I can go outside where it's cold and windy and miserable and dark and I want to go back because I'm scared but there's only football on, and then the drinking starts and I get the camera out ... I need to move abroad. In France le soleil brille toujours, I can watch international pétanque, and they understand my artistic temperament. That's it, I'm off. I'm not joking. Watch this space. Bonne chance, Poulehomme.