The class divide on Centre Court

An England v Brazil quarter-final is today due to unfold for the second time in a fortnight, this time on Centre Court at Wimbledon, where fourth seed Tim Henman, from Oxfordshire, plays the unseeded Andre Sa, from Belo Horizonte, probably for the dubious pleasure of playing the world number one, Australia's Lleyton Hewitt, in Friday's semi-final.

On Monday Henman needed smelling salts to overcome both an upset tummy and Michel Kratochvil, a former ice hockey player from Switzerland. In the previous round he needed a dodgy umpiring decision to break the resistance of the South African Wayne Ferreira. Someone up there seems to be smiling upon him, although it's hardly ever his parents, Jane and Tony Henman, whose feelings might very well be in turmoil as they follow their son's somewhat stuttering progress, yet whose expressions register the gamut of emotions only, as Dorothy Parker once said of Katharine Hepburn, from A to B.

It is commonly thought that even if Henman prevails today, he will need more than smelling salts to beat Hewitt, who appears to be in the form of his young life. Chloroform could be the answer, if someone can get their hands on Hewitt's towel.

Whatever, if Henman does somehow make it to Sunday's final, and then contrives to win, it will be interesting to watch both his response and that of his parents. In 1987, the Australian Pat Cash memorably clambered over the heads of the Centre Court crowd to hug his father, crying, give or take an expletive: "We did it!" Last year's victory for the wild card Goran Ivanisevic, who put out Henman at the semi-final stage, was similarly emotional. There were copious tears, both from Ivanisevic and his proud old dad.

Now, it is nice to imagine Mr and Mrs Henman senior, in the event of their lad finally winning Wimbledon, enjoying a long celebratory clinch before punching the air and ululating with delight. But I think all we can realistically expect is that Mr H, after brief consideration of All-England Club etiquette, followed by the conclusion that there are times when it can reasonably be cast to the four winds, might loosen his tie-knot.

I hasten to add that this is not a criticism. Being English and approximately middle-class, although not from Oxfordshire, I too have been known to button up my feelings. I draw attention to the matter of emotional restraint only because of the increasingly stark contrast between Jane and Tony Henman, and indeed Lucy Henman, Tim's lovely but reserved wife, on the one hand, and the so-called Henmaniacs on the other, the brigade who paint their faces red and white, wear silly hats featuring tennis balls, T-shirts proclaiming their undying devotion, and sing out: "Timmy, Timmy, Timmy, oi, oi, oi!"

In the end, it's largely about class. The classless society about which John Major fantasised is never more illusory than at times of patriotic fervour, which is supposed to unite, but in fact divides. In our gentrified north London street, everyone rooted for England in the World Cup, there was even the odd St George's cross in the odd window, but only one house was festooned with flags, and that house was already known to be a gentrification-free zone. Honest patriotism comes less easily to ciabatta-chewing liberals, more's the pity. Indeed, we are no less inhibited, when it comes to loud public declarations of partisanship, wearing hearts on sleeves etc, than Home Counties solicitors and their families.

Which brings me back to the Henmans. It is wonderfully paradoxical, and peculiarly English, that while Henmania has manifestly helped the fourth seed – he said as much on Monday, attributing his laboured five-set victory to the "phenomenal" crowd support – it also represents trends, such as silly hats on Centre Court, that are surely anathema to Henman's family, which is immersed in tennis conservatism.

There are clear parallels here with the royal family. While the Queen has obviously enjoyed the feverish demonstrations of royalism this jubilee summer, her smile has looked decidedly tight at times. Wouldn't yours, if you were a crusty upper-class septuagenarian told that a guy called Ozzy Osbourne, famed for biting heads off live animals, was going to be strutting his stuff, whatever that means, in your back garden?

Henmania is to the Henmans, I fancy, what the pop concert at Buckingham Palace was to the Queen and Prince Philip; great for public relations, maybe even a help in getting their boy the title he so desires, and therefore a phenomenon to be tolerated, but ultimately a little bit vulgar, a little bit embarrassing, not quite the done thing.

b.viner@independent.co.uk