What could go wrong?
It happened like this. Dan got very excited halfway through Andy Murray's Wimbledon semi final match, when it started to look like he might win. "If he makes the final, we should camp in The Queue the night before, and watch the match from Henman Hill!" he declared. It seemed like a fun idea - it combined all the aforementioned "thing that I like" and I've never been one to miss the chance to be able to say "I was there..." about a big event. The first British Wimbledon finalist in over 70 years was one such event, and if he actually won it then well... that would be really exciting.
We packed up the camping equipment on Friday night, bought crucial supplies (crisps, cookies, beer) and as soon as I finished work on Saturday we jumped on the train to Wimbledon. It was a train of contrasts - us, in our hoodies and carrying a tent, sat next to girls dressed up to the nines on their way out for a big one, carrying clutch bags and tottering on huge heels.
We arrived at Wimbledon train station and jumped on the bus to the grounds (it was empty, everyone was very sensibly going the opposite way to us, as play had finished for the day) and headed to Car Park 10 - home of The Queue (so famous it has capital letters) and also home to us for the night. We were shown to our spot by a very efficient (translation: self important) queue marshal, and pitched the tent. It looked smaller than I remembered, and the air bed only just fit, but we brushed our worries aside and tucked into the pizza we'd had delivered to the gate (very grumpy delivery many, I think he actually hated me), drank the beers we'd bought and chatted to our neighbours. It did absolutely chuck it down with rain for about 20 minutes, but all in all I felt ok... I'm British, I can camp in the rain!
I haven't mentioned the most exciting part yet... I got interviewed by the BBC! Oh yes, I am now an actual television star and have appeared on BBC news at least twice (according to my friends Kath and Gary - I haven't actually seen the clip myself as it is proving elusive online) as well as in the background of numerous interviews with the annoying group of Irish lads a few places ahead of us in The Queue who were like journo catnip and got all the airtime (I'm not bitter, honest).
The next morning, after a damp, squashed night in what is surely the worlds smallest tent (2 man my a***) we admitted defeat and got up at 5.20am (yes, that's twenty past fie in the morning, disbelievers), purchased an extortionately priced bacon sarnie each and packed up the camping gear (translation: threw the stupid, minuscule, leaky tent in the bin in a fit of tantrum). By now, the day queuers had started to arrive, as had the television cameras, but despite my quite frankly fantastic Union Jack tights, I wasn't asked for another interview and had to settle for people watching as our fellow campers reveled themselves in all of their patriotic glory. Union Jack dresses, hats, brollies and flags were everywhere, as well as one lone Roger Federer fan, who'd camped for two nights to be right at the front and was decked head to toe in RF merchadise and carrying a personalised umbrella, covered in pictures of herself with Federer, and his wife. We named her "Roger Brolly" and used her as a handy focal point for how fast the queue was moving.
Basically, it was not moving fast. It didn't move at all between 8am and 10am in fact, and as the heavens opened and my feet throbbed, I had my first "what am I doing?!" moment. By this point however, we'd made good friends with our queue mates - Harry and Caz in front, and Chi and Cat behind - and the banter kept us all going as they opened the gates and we slowly but surely inched towards the front.
A tale of 2 queuers... Dan on a high, me in a strop.
By 10.45 we were in, and joined the crowd of people doing that weird jumpy "I'm not running, honest" fast walk to Henman Hill (I refuse to call it Murray Mound - it sounds rude, and anyway - it's Henman Hill!!) to find a good spot to set down our blankets and wait for the match to start.
It was a great party-like atmosphere - jovial, friendly and high spirited, and when the sun came out and started to dry our soaking clothes, it felt worth the hours spent soggy and tired, and the sore feet, cramped legs and terrible "tent hair" endured. When Murray won the first set, I dared to believe he could go all the way...
As the third set - and Federer's comeback - was underway, the heavens opened and brought me back down from my high. "Soaked through" doesn't do justice to the state of me, but nonetheless we stuck it out to the end and choked back tears as Murray gave his emotional post match interview (what stiff upper lip?!) and cheered with everyone else - a great match, 2 true sportsmen and a fantastic experience, despite it all.
So - I Was There. The Wimbledon Queue is a real unique experience that sums up British spirit and eccentrically perfectly. Despite the rain, I'm glad I went - the carnival environment and big occasion atmosphere made it all well worth it... and did I mention I got interviewed on BBC News?!*
I Was There!
*I haven't actually seen the clip :( If anyone has it to share, I would love you forever! It's basically me - glasses and a purple hat - talking about how we must be mad, and predicting Murray will lose. Ooops.
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