The Venn diagram of those who believe they can wrangle a pop-up tent back into its bag consists of mavericks and fools.
Head to Wimbledon Park at 5am on any given morning throughout the Championships and you will find dozens in the overlap, hopelessly wrestling with the ungainly structures. These are the Wimbledon queuers, and I’ve been among them seven times.
I first queued as a teenager in 2005, and arrived at around 2am wildly unprepared. My parents occupied the tent, but my two sisters and I, too excited to sleep, remained in the open air on camping chairs, cocooned in our sleeping bags and learning Queue etiquette (from a helpful 31-page booklet provided by the stewards) beneath the streetlights.
You were not allowed to leave the Queue for longer than 30 minutes without forfeiting your place, we learned — and numbered Queue cards, denoting your exact spot, could be checked at any time.
By 5am, the cheerful young night stewards were replaced by an older contingent, known as Honorary Stewards. Resplendent in blazers and boaters, they took great delight in waking the crowds.
As the slow process of concertinaing the queue began, I witnessed them physically move a tent over to the other side of the road. Its occupants had not packed up quickly enough.
Then as we were shepherded through SW19, picking up bacon sandwiches and freebies along the way, spirits were high. Eventually we came upon the turnstiles and airport-esque security, and with that were into the grounds.
My memories of the tennis back then are blurry, but I was hooked. I would be coming back to the Queue.
Spectating at the most prestigious tennis tournament in the world feels something like a game of monopoly: largely reliant on money or chance.
Some are offered tickets through their employers or are able to access hospitality packages. Others get lucky in the official ballot and can buy, at normal prices, two seats for a specific court and day.
Unsuccessful ballot applicants fight furious games of fastest-finger-first, when rejected tickets are dropped online with little to no forewarning.
Guaranteed admission is reserved for the very wealthy. Centre Court debenture tickets come only in pairs and cost £80,000 a pop (rising to £116,000 from 2026); in exchange, you are granted premium seats every day of the Championships for five years.
These are the people who saunter in at midday, set up residence in exclusive restaurants and pick their way to and from play as it suits. They are, it would appear, living the dream.
But they, along with ballot winners, are missing out. Because in my view, there’s only one way to truly experience the Championships: by joining the venerable Wimbledon Queue.
Each day, fans trickle into a field and are designated a spot in which to set up. Most who camp overnight are after the coveted 1500 Show Court tickets reserved solely for queuers (500 each for Centre, Court One and Two). It’s every supporter for themself — but racing is subtle: there’s a level of decorum appropriate to the tournament they’re coming to see.
By nightfall, the Queue will have surpassed this number; anyone joining later will have to settle for ground passes. On a fair weather day they are not hard done by: for £30 they will have access to courts three through 18, where most of the tournament’s matches are played, as well as the big screens on Henman Hill, where the atmosphere rivals any live match.
Wherever they end up, these queuers will already have had their fun. They will have befriended their neighbours, swapped Championship stories and congratulated each other on a picnic well done. They will have played ball games, visited the ice cream van, and discussed the upcoming matches they hope to see.
All of this to say, the Wimbledon Queue is a festival mixed with a garden party — and those in the know visit for this tradition as much as any other.
In the years since the first time I queued as a teenager in 2005, some aspects of the experience have changed.
The Queue is now contained to the park, rather than spilling through the streets and the newspaper sellers no longer wander up and down at dawn, peddling free macs, suncream or Wimbledon radios to those who invest in that day’s news.
Perhaps most sadly of all, the Queue Guide is no longer distributed upon arrival, and in 2025 is a mere five pages viewable online. However, there is always fun to be had.
One evening, when an unruly teenager burst into our tent, my first reaction was alarm. But after learning he was on the run from the wrath of the night stewards, presumably for the crime of talking too loudly after ‘lights out’, it became an adventure. I’d never harboured a fugitive before.
Another year, the lack of sleep was easily offset by an encounter with tennis royalty.
Those who waltz through the gates, tickets at the ready, can’t possibly comprehend the excitement of happening upon Tim Henman and Judy Murray — not in the hospitality lounge, but on court, offering to rally with you and your hen party as you await entrance to the grounds.
Even amid the pouring rain, when someone has forgotten to charge the golf buggy used to transport disabled queuers like me further up the line, there is a sense of camaraderie felt on few other occasions.
Tennis has a reputation for being an elitist sport. But for £30 and an adventurous spirit, you can experience moments money can’t buy — even if you never do learn how to collapse a pop-up tent.
Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk.
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