Cream and all things nice at Wimbledon

I HAVE an admission of guilt. Not since the 2010 Fifa World Cup here in Mazansi, have I purchased a ticket for a sporting event.

- ZAAHIER ADAMS

It is one of the perks of being a sports correspondent - with some timeous application for media accreditation, I usually find my way through the turnstiles. I even had the privilege of watching the first-ever Major League Baseball (MLB) game held in Europe, when the New York Yankees faced off against the Boston Red Sox at London Stadium, thanks to media credentials in 2019.

And even when not accredited, there's usually a contact who ensures I don't need to part with my hard-earned cash to watch live sport. But here I was, back in London six years later, coinciding with the week of Wimbledon without either means.

Still, I was determined to get down to SW19, and so consigned myself to undertake an enduring symbol of British cultural identity: queuing.

Having heard all the tales of avid Wimbledon watchers pitching tents overnight, I attempted the next best thing by rising at 5.30am and heading out by 6am. A rookie error saw me opt for the red bus instead of the District Line tube from Ealing Broadway, which only required one change at Earl's Court. But nothing happens by accident.

En route, I engaged with a young Wimbledon steward who admitted she had “the best job for the next two weeks’, and a lovely British Asian couple also heading to the queue.