Two hours and 17 minutes after arriving at Wimbledon, I realise I hate tennis. Hate it? I loathe it. All ‘40-love’ jargon and thwack thwack of a ball. It’s football without the pack mentality. Badminton with better PR.
‘Why are you even here then?’ asks an Argentinian tennis agent when I say this by the players’ lounge. ‘This is the oldest tournament in the world! It’s the best!’ He’s right. He’s an international expert so of course he’s right. Even if all his singles players were knocked out by day three.
But, of course, that’s exactly why I’m here. Because no one – or very few at least – really come to SW19 for the tennis. They come to drink Pimm’s in the sun; to fan themselves on Henman Hill; to join queue after queue after queue.
Ah, the queues. The endless queues. Like socialism, they never quite go away. There’s The Queue, of course (one sleep-deprived spectator tells me they waited for eight hours to get in). But then there are all the others – to see Venus Williams on Court 14, to try the IBM ‘AI fan experience’ (whatever, exactly that is), to buy Stella Artois from its own-branded bar. Worst of all is the shop, selling every conceivable piece of merchandise from fresh cut grass diffusers to Babolat sports bags. ‘What’s the most expensive thing here?’ I whisper to one of the shop assistants from – you guessed it – a queue. She points to an enormous plushy strawberry with a cartoon grimace: ‘I’m pretty sure that’s like £500.’ Has anyone bought one? ‘God, no.’ Can she get one for free if she works here? ‘No! I just look at them instead.’
