What I love - and hate - about Wimbledon

Britain’s tennis centrepiece, the Lawn Tennis Championships at Wimbledon are surely more British than any other annual sporting occasion. The Ashes, Open Golf, Grand National, Derby have all been lost but, like the ravens at the Tower of London, all is well in the land provided Wimbledon remains the preserve of the BBC. With Brexit and the looming gloomy prospect of Boris as PM, such traditions should be treasured while they last.

There’s so much I love about Wimbledon and yet also plenty which drives me distraction. Oddly they can be the same things. It’s so insufferably middle-class, stuffed full of twin-sets, sun-hats, braying City boys and foreign students, having presumably descended from the shires upon this leafy borough in their shiny Range Rovers and Gran Tourers. There are the celebs keen to show off their sporting credentials (Gerard Butler a tennis fan? Who knew?), Sue Barker’s toe-curlingly gushing interviews, incessant strawberry statistics and the only public appearances of the Duke and Duchess of Kent. But all this is what sets the championships apart from the rest, what makes Wimbledon unique.

Bête-noires abound. The obsession with previous champions really rankles with me, as does the media’s fascination with rain delays. Of course London is bound to suffer the odd shower in thirteen days but they should try shifting the event lock, stock and racket to Cardiff! Just as long as Cliff Richard stays at home.

Sometimes I get the impression that the audience would happily dispense with the early rounds, all the doubles, junior and wheelchair events, close the outside courts and simply throw the top four seeds (replacing Simona Halep with Martina Navratilova) into the semis. I couldn’t disagree more. It’s the first week which I enjoy the most, when you are allowed sight of players whose names may be familiar but their faces are not. The likes of Federer and Djokovic will have their times in the spotlight later on, but here it’s the opportunity for a British number three to take a set off a top-tenner, or a 28^th seed from Kazakhstan or Ecuador to defeat a Williams sister or Murray on Court No.1 live on BBC1. That’s what I want to witness. 

Back in 1995 I had my maiden and so far only first-hand experience of the purple-and-green pleasure palace on the fourth day of the Championships. I say ‘day’ but, after queuing from Southfields Tube station for more than three hours in withering heat, it was actually evening by the time I finally tottered through the turnstiles. On the plus side, I benefited from the cheaper prices because the ground ticket was only £6 after 5pm. Every cloud….

Being the 29^th June there was still plenty of daylight hours remaining in which to watch a great deal of tennis. Away from the showcourt glitz and glamour, I immersed myself in the maelstrom of Fred Perry shirts and clinking glasses, discovering the row of marquees, a veritable corridor of decadence, dispensing champagne, Pimms and strawberries which even then worked out at 50p a bite. Initially I found it hard to equate those long-limbed athletes whacking the ball across the net on Courts 14 to 17 with actual competitors slugging it out for places in the third round. While I did pause to watch segments of matches on courts 3 and 4, featuring the likes of Jonas Bjorkman, Lindsay Davenport (blimey, she was tall!) and Larisa Neiland, the most memorable element was simply flitting from court to court. Filing along the green-walled corridors like mice in a maze it was important to keep an eye out for yer actual players doing the same thing: there goes Pat Cash in ‘civvies’ and Andrea Temesvari striding to – or was it from? – her defeat by Shaun Stafford. Apparently since my visit, a subterranean warren of tunnels has been opened so that staff and pros no longer need to rub shoulders with mere punters which, while understandable from a practical angle, I feel is a shame.

The biggest names proved elusive, although I did manage a few frustratingly clipped glimpses through several rows of spectators of eventual doubles champs Novotna and Sanchez-Vicario in action. Tired but happy, I eventually trudged along the South Concourse towards the Church Road exit before noting it was possible to enter the hallowed confines of Centre Court itself. Play had long since been completed but I was able to game down on the most famous grass of all, even if the soundtrack was not well-mannered applause or Dan Maskell’s commentary but the drone of a lawnmower.

I believe that Wimbledon has since become more considerate of its less wealthy visitors, the ones who aren’t debenture holders, corporate sponsors or minor royalty. In the mid-Nineties, there were no big screens, and Henman Hill (or is it now officially Murray Mound?) was just a scrawny slope near a car park. Court One has risen from its 1995 foundations and Centre has a retractable roof. Some things do change after all. It’s hardly a Mecca for the masses but then can you say the same about Melbourne, Monte Carlo or Flushing Meadow?

So for all its all-pervading whiff of privilege, Wimbledon remains a beacon of the summer. I’ve never been driven to revisit the All England Club but am delighted to have made that single pilgrimage to SW19 half a lifetime ago. For all the tournament’s idiosyncrasies and frustrating faults, I am safe in the knowledge that for the foreseeable future, the BBC is as inclusive as anybody and I shall continue to revel in the live broadcasts and highlights. Maybe not as frequently as I once did in the days of McEnroe, King or Becker but the fortnight will always represent the zenith of midsummer, whatever the weather and whoever feels obliged to kiss a cup of plate come the final weekend. Cue the jaunty military orchestra!