What a racquet: Strawberries, cream and all things nice at Wimbledon ... just be prepared to queue for it all

I have an admission of guilt. Not since the 2010 Fifa World Cup here in Mzansi, have I purchased a ticket for a sporting event.

It is one of the perks of being a sports correspondent — with some timeous application for media accreditation, I usually find my way through the turnstiles. I even had the privilege of watching the first-ever Major League Baseball (MLB) game held in Europe, when the New York Yankees faced off against the Boston Red Sox at London Stadium, thanks to media credentials in 2019.

And even when not accredited, there’s usually a contact who ensures I don’t need to part with my hard-earned cash to watch live sport. But here I was, back in London six years later, coinciding with the week of Wimbledon without either means. 

Still, I was determined to get down to SW19, and so consigned myself to undertake an enduring symbol of British cultural identity: queuing.

Having heard all the tales of avid Wimbledon watchers pitching tents overnight, I attempted the next best thing by rising at 5.30am and heading out by 6am. A rookie error saw me opt for the red bus instead of the District Line tube from Ealing Broadway, which only required one change at Earl’s Court. But nothing happens by accident.

En route, I engaged with a young Wimbledon steward who admitted she had “the best job for the next two weeks”, and a lovely British Asian couple also heading to the queue.

“The Queue”, as it's quite literally known, is something I’ve never experienced before. Everything was expertly organised from the moment I arrived at 7:15am. I was handed Ticket No F0752, which could have been anywhere between 2232 and 7872, but I remained in high spirits that I’d gain entry not too long after the official 10am start.

By then, I had become quite well acquainted with the Bhabras — husband Jag shared that he had spent time as a teen in Gqeberha, schooled with the sons of former Proteas wicketkeeper David Richardson, and that he was still an avid club cricketer for Windsor Cricket Club.

It was no coincidence that Jag authored the novel Talking with Strangers, while his X bio, “Instigator of awkward small talk,” certainly lived up to its billing.

We discussed everything from global politics to counting how many languages and nationalities we encountered in the queue — French, Polish, German, Afrikaans, Chinese, Japanese, Punjabi, Arabic, and yes, even American English.

To pass the time, we considered joining the couple next to us in a captivating Scrabble contest but were instead drawn to the dozens of mini-tennis matches being played all around the park.

The middle Saturday at Wimbledon is traditionally peak “celeb spotting” day. But there I was, outside the actual stadium, simply enjoying the art of people-watching with a couple I’d just met — not realising that hours had passed and we’d hardly moved an inch.

Eventually, when we were ushered forward in an orderly fashion, huge cheers broke out around the park from the thousands in the queue. However, just after noon, the heavens opened — breaking what had until then been one of the driest English summers in decades.

With no shelter, we packed up and aborted our mission.

The fact that I had travelled thousands of kilometres and queued for over five hours was not lost on me as I trudged towards Southfields Tube Station. I parted ways with the Bhabras, my disappointment slightly eased by the new friendship.

Just then, I received a message from a former colleague asking if I was still in the queue. I promptly replied that I had given up hope and was on my way back.

“Don’t leave just yet. I’ve left a ticket for you with your name on it,” came the reply.

My heart skipped a beat.

I was going to Wimbledon.

I scooted back, picked up the ticket, and entered the hallowed gates. I wasn’t concerned that it was just a “Grounds Pass” — I fully embraced the regality of the occasion in my suitably smart attire.

The aura of SW19 is indescribable. The layers of tradition, seamlessly coexisting with modern technology, create an experience like no other.

I went straight for the customary strawberries and cream — which had incurred its first price increase in 15 years, now £2.70 — and enjoyed it on “Henman Hill” with the masses, watching Novak Djokovic continue his quest to unseat the King of Wimbledon, Roger Federer.

The outside courts offer a unique experience, with spectators so close to the action they can hear the discussions between doubles partners.

A visit to the Wimbledon Museum capped off the day. A new exhibit celebrating the 50th anniversary of Arthur Ashe’s historic Centre Court triumph added a surreal poignancy.

My day at Wimbledon was complete. I didn’t even mind queuing again at Southfields Tube Station for the return to Ealing — for not only had I had the greatest day, but my 15-year record of not buying a sporting ticket remained gloriously intact.