There are so many things to love about Wimbledon. The Royal Box isn't one of them.by Geoff Dyer / June 28, 2012 / Leave a comment
I hadn’t been to Wimbledon for thirty years. It had become one of many events on this overcrowded island of ours that was simply impossible to get to. Minus the time difference it might as well have taken place in Melbourne. It had come to exist solely—and quite satisfactorily—on TV.
And then yesterday I made my triumphant return. Have you been. No? Oh, then you’re missing out. It’s fantastic—probably the single best thing England has to offer. What I hadn’t realised, after all those years of watching it on TV, is that Wimbledon is a festival—without the litter and the scruffs. Even if you’ve got tickets for one of the show courts you still spend quite a bit of time doing that festival thing: wandering around aimlessly and enjoyably. You’re conscious, of course, of the headline acts on the main stage, of where and when they’re playing, but you catch all sorts of other performers you never intended seeing for the simple reason that you’d never heard of them. Great matches can erupt anywhere, in any round, on any court.