Arguably the most talked about topic among tennis fans during the two weeks of Wimbledon is not about who the GOAT is, or whether Swiatek will ever master the grass, or who the surprise package will be this year - but what is the point of the queue. Aidan Williams makes the case for the British tennis tradition.
The Wimbledon queue has its own spirit and having been to the famous tournament for 11 years now, one thing is clear: a day in the queue is a very different experience to having a ticket through the ballot.
So what better way to underline that than by a diary of exactly how the day panned out? Partly written while in the queue, partly written the day after, this is the diary of a Wimbledon queue enthusiast.
2.45am
II’ve had just under four hours of sleep, but thank whatever deity I'm awake. My alarms were at 3am and this is a nicer way to wake up.
I scroll Reddit and Twitter for 10 minutes before downing a cold cup of tea, getting changed, and brushing my teeth. I’m ready to leave and smoke a cigarette while waiting for my friend to finish getting ready so we can leave. By 3.20am we’re ready to go. Energy-wise this is the easiest part of the trip as the nerves about the queue number kick in.
3.20am
…I'm sorry if that was a twist.
We make the walk from Putney where my friend lives. It’s a privilege queue-wise and one we take advantage of. We avoid the talk of queue numbers and enjoy the stroll. It's a nice walk. I love this part of London even away from the tennis.
It's just about the time whereby the only people awake are heading to Wimbledon, which is peaceful, well, aside from that one cat that was strolling around not far from Southfields.
3.50am
We've achieved our aim we happily say to each other, but more on that later. Our queue number should safely secure a seat on Court Two, our queue numbers are around 1240 which is a relief. I start writing this piece while my friend uses the loo, as at this stage everyone is just adjusting to the early time and isn't too talkative. Speaking of which my friend has been gone a while.
I sort of want to use a flare to find him, but I also don't want to get kicked out. I guess my friend will just have to die. I want this ticket.
4.23am
My friend is not dead, though he will soon be asleep on the grass.
Twiddling my thumbs, a familiar desire is coming over me. See, I’ve done the queue at least six times. Once with my friend and a few times with my mum. It struck me how there is one British stereotype I love: people from the north talk far more than folks from the south.
I grew up in the south but with a very Lancastrian mother, so I put the desire to chat down to my northern side.
I just want to talk to everyone, I don’t even care what about, I just want to find some strangers and have a quirky conversation. Last year we met some brilliant Aussies and spent about three hours locked in conversation. It's honestly the best part of the queue. Everyone feels slightly mad, but it all ends the same way: people ignoring social conventions and talking to strangers like they’ve been friends their whole lives.
4.31am
Ducks! A group of ducks have formed in the corner of the queue, which happens to be close to a pond, and they look ready to charge. Send help.
4.44am
Update, they were geese. They still seem ready for a fight. Jokes aside, if anyone's ever wondered what the worst time of the queue experience is, it's this. You and the people you're with are probably taking it in turns to nap and no one has gone insane enough yet to talk to strangers. The tiredness is firmly in play yet there's no outside source of energy: no excitement with everything still a long way away, very little conversation and if you're being smart one of you is napping.
Alas, I’m back to writing this.
5.20am
So I spoke about the worst aspect of the queue, so life threw me a bone and showed me the best aspect.
Yes, I’ve met my queue strangers.
As I write this I’ve just spent about 20 minutes in conversation with Leo and Leo, a Venezuelan father-son duo, both seemed like lovely people and it's the best part of the queue. I’m weirdly excited to see my friend wake up from his nap so I can announce the good news.
5.45am
The background is doing the work here, it’s utterly flooded with people compared to when we arrived.
I’m trying to nap. I’ve overheard one of the groundsmen say the queue will move at seven, but from what I can remember it was more like six last time round. They’ve also done the call to wake everyone up some time ago.
I settle for a cigarette, primarily just to give myself an excuse to go for a jog over to somewhere I won’t be frowned upon for doing so.
In hindsight, this entry is the first hint I got that the queue might not be the same this year.
5.55am
The wind has picked up a fair bit, we’re all a bit cold. I ask my friend to keep in touch if the queue moves and I, alongside older Leo, set out for a cup of tea. At this stage people are still coming in and honestly I just feel bad for them... and a touch smug.
I settle into another queue, yes that’s right, I’ve taken a break from a queue for one thing, to go queue for another. I’m awake enough now for that to make me laugh. Older Leo opts for Churros, while I’m in the queue for a bacon bap.
I get talking to two friendly American students, who I have to explain the concept of a bap to and I laugh as I struggle. I feel a bit bad as I forget to not react with shock as they say their queue number, which is in the 3000s.
I get seriously ripped off here: £24 for two baps and two cups of tea. I end up keeping the mug, which can be returned for a £1 discount, to get the most out of my investment.
Half an hour later, I have tea, bacon and I return to the queue... for the tennis.
7.10am
The queue has started to move! It’s a nice jolt of excitement, but we quickly find ourselves right outside a BBC Breakfast segment being filmed. I hide by sitting down as, despite doing improvised comedy as a hobby, I feel a bit shy being the background guy when I’m not supposed to do anything.
BBC Breakfast presenter Mike Bushell has more energy than the literal entire queue combined.
I like the presenters, but watching the behind-the-scenes stuff, followed by the explosion of energy whenever the cameras are on, just makes it feel like theatre. They go from tired human beings to something very uncanny valley-ish. I briefly consider putting myself in the background, then mime reading a book before smoking a cartoon-ishly large cigar, but I return to hiding. I'm grateful when we move on and a friend at home later messages us to say they saw one of us on the TV.
8.20am
This is the biggest explosion of relief. The moment the mental sun breaks and wide smiles break across mine and my friend's faces, betraying the nerves we'd been hiding from each other for the last five hours.
Stewards come round and offer us wristbands, which confirm you're early enough in the queue to get a show court and which secure your ability to buy a seat on a court as opposed to a grounds pass. We opt for court two due to the line up and we're a whole lot happier than we were an hour ago.
About 20 minutes later, this weary writer makes a solemn look back… Had he taken this photo about half a second later I’d be visibly laughing, he took a picture in the exact same place last year and it caught me off guard. My right hand has the court two wristband visible.
9.25am
The past hour moved incredibly quickly and differently compared to normal and that time is from the very end of this post. The queue started moving surprisingly rapidly, as we left the initial queuing area my friend nipped to the loo, by the time he’d caught back up I’d passed the next set of toilets. Normally the queue separates into lines depending on what ticket you’re buying, but even then the physical location of this felt much earlier.
The tent where you make the financial exchange to obtain the ticket comes into view and again it feels too early, but I can’t say why. The one highlight is another group of friendly, but very confident American guys with a good sense of humour. I laugh, we talk a bit, but then we arrive at the tent and purchase our tickets, but not before a steward says: “You look tired” I reply cheerily with “Thanks! I’m dead inside!”
I meant to make a joke more about tiredness, I consider apologising but then we get ushered into buying our tickets and move out of the tent, at which point I get confused. There’s a load of stands, places to sit down. It isn’t the tournament, it’s, what I later discover is called, the Queue Village.
The queue village, it’s utterly fantastic
Me and my friend get as many freebies as we can before sitting down for 20 minutes. It’s quirky and glorious, I’m a huge fan of this addition. It caught me off guard but was a nice morale boost.
John in the queue in 2023
10:15am
We’re at the end of the queue going from the Queue Village into the grounds. We get up to security and have the first frosty encounter. One of the stewards tells us to move into another queue, as they’re not getting enough people scanned, yet two women see us as queue jumping and get angry to a point I’m honestly baffled. We explain we were told to move into this queue but they’re still angry. I make a joke which gets a laugh from one of them and defuses a bit of the tension, but thankfully we’re called forward to have our bags checked.
We’re there, we’ve succeeded. The sights of Wimbledon envelop us as we aimlessly walk around the grounds.
The queue brings out the best of Wimbledon, I always find a surrealist sense of humour comes out as you’re almost always fighting off extreme tiredness. I’d say we won the fight, as we left the grounds at about 21:20.
Vene vidi vici, the queue.
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