Rejoice, rejoice! Summer's here, it's lashing down, Wimbledon is under way - and there isn't a cat in hell's chance of a Brit winning.
For the first time in years, there is absolutely no chance that a racket-swinger born or nurtured on these shores will triumph at the All England Club.
In truth, we've known for years, decades even, that the chances of a domestic victory were slim. But still we clung to the hope and cheered for those giants of the British game - "Gentleman" John Lloyd, Buster Mottram and the Canadian one who became a Brit and everyone was sniffy about it until we realised he was the best of a bad bunch.
We knew these players wouldn't win, but consoled ourselves that they were in with a shout as long as the possibility remained that their opponent might succumb to the trots and default the game.
Andy Murray's decision to pull out of Wimbledon because of a poorly wrist means the sun will never rise on this year's false dawn. It's all over bar the empty shouts of "Come on Tim!", the nation finally being resigned to the fact that Henman is well past his best - and a "best," that is, that was never good enough in the first place.
What a clucking relief to know there will be no "Henmania" and no "Braveheart" headlines either for a plucky, but defeated, Murray. And so there will be no need for the annual post mortem into the pitiful state of the British game because there will be no body. It's difficult to have a crime without a victim.
But what about the women's game? Well, let's not go there. Put it this way: newspapers like running vox pops; this involves sending Tamsin, the girl on work experience, out on to the high street to quiz punters about the big issue of the day. If we staged a vox pop today no one would be able to name a current female British tennis player - and I'll eat my old plimsoles if I'm wrong.
Now that there is no sense of pretence, no need for a patriotic or emotional investment in Wimbledon, perhaps we can face up to the truth: Wimbledon doesn't matter. It is a cultural irrelevance.
Yes, there's the history, the Fred Perry mythology, Cliff Richard and Sue Barker's tan. But let us remember tennis in this country is, and always has been, the preserve of toffs. It's never been a true people's game. Take a look at the odd balls in the crowd at Wimbledon. If they aren't posh, they're potty.
There may well be under-investment in tennis at the grassroots, which is how the middle-class hand-wringers refer to those "other" places known as the inner cities and the rougher suburbs. However, this only partly explains our perceived failure to produce a Wimbledon champion.
The other far more important factor is that most people couldn't give a hoot. We prefer pursuits at which we excel and which engage our souls. Like rock music.
Britain is the envy of the world when it comes to rock and pop, our pervasive influence being disproportionately greater than our population size. How timely then that the Glastonbury festival should bow out in style with The Who on the eve of Grimbledon.
It is difficult to think of a more quintessentially English scene: one the greatest rock acts ever belting out their hits with a disciplined ferocity in the midst of a downpour, sweat, rain and mud coating a throbbing hulk of humanity. To cap it all, Roger Daltry wailed into the night as he supped from a mug of tea.
And ask yourself this: if you were on your death-bed, would you rather watch Tim Henman dolly a backhand, or witness the iron fist of Pete Townshend ripping apart Won't Get Fooled Again? I know who's talking about my generation - and my country.