WITH the World Cup upon us and Wimbledon around the corner, this year's crying season is well and truly on the way. I'm not talking about the fans' inevitable disappointment as we crash out of Russia after three matches, having gloriously lost to Belgium, Tunisia and Panama en route; nor the equal inevitability of our home-grown tennis players failing to lift any of the big trophies on Centre Court (or even getting to play on Centre Court, for that matter).

No, it'll be the players themselves, weeping and wailing all over the place, tears flowing as they try to come to terms with the fact that their personal "journeys" have ended too soon.

Paul Gascoigne set the bar with his weeping fit in the 1990 World Cup, opening the floodgates for public tears and emoting all over the place when things don't go quite to plan in the sporting arena. In the near 30 years since, generations of cry babies and tantrum throwers have been positively encouraged by their adoring fans, stiff upper lips having been well and truly ditched along the way, more's the pity.

As if the women tennis players' grunts and screams weren't bad enough to contend with - a horrible practice which should be banned - we viewers are forced to endure players of both sexes blubbing their way through post-match interviews, win or lose; along with being subjected to the increasingly irritating practice of players massively over-reacting to any point lost (cue foul-mouthed exhortations to themselves to get a grip) or won (punching the air and yelling "YES, COME ON!!), then either hurling themselves to the ground upon winning the match - even if it's a first round one - or huddling under a towel dejectedly eating a banana if they lose. Honestly, all this public emoting all over the place is exhausting.

On Sunday evening I watched a Countryfile special, which was part of a series about the Queen's love of nature.

As a piece of broadcasting it was a study in sycophancy, as the presenters waxed lyrical about Her Majesty's dedication to farming. You'd think she personally spent her time tilling the fields, building flood defences and pulling recalcitrant calves out of the back ends of her prize heifers, to listen to them.

But it was the tears of the Royal Pigeon Keeper which were the most cringe-inducing part of this programme.

Describing how one of the Queen's favourite birds won a race was simply too much for the poor chap - his voice choking, tears welling up, and that all too familiar flapping a hand at the camera and asking them to stop filming nonsense which is now de rigeur among self-indulgent television interviewees.

This from a bloke in his 60s talking about a glorified flying rat finding its way home.

Back in the real world, there's precious little scope for bawling one's head off when things go well or badly at work, although I'm tempted to suggest we at The Mail all start high-fiving each other and shouting "YES!! COME ON!! each time a page gets sent to the printer - and lying spread-eagled on the floor when the edition's finished before thanking our parents for their incredible support.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm emotionally wrung out from writing this column. It's been a journey. The tears are welling up - so I'm off to hide my face under a towel and eat a banana.