Wimbledon's Royal Box has become naff

Spectator

a day ago

As Wimbledon reaches its climax this weekend, those of us neither interested in tennis, nor in taking a fortnight off work for solid perving purposes, are delighted it will soon be over. I couldn't care less about the tennis, but the comings and goings in the slightly obscene-sounding 'Royal Box' are impossible to escape from.
The comings and goings in the slightly obscene-sounding 'Royal Box' are impossible to escape from
This year has provided a bumper bonanza: Rebel Wilson, Cate Blanchett, Celia Imrie, Rory Kinnear, Nick Jonas, Bear Grylls, Hugh Grant, Olivia Rodrigo, Priyanka Chopra, Gary Lineker, John Cena, Dave Grohl, Dominic Cooper, Judd Apatow, Leslie Mann, Russell Crowe, David Beckham, Eddie Redmayne, Ronan Keating and Tom Daley have all shown up. As for 'Royalty', Fergie has made an appearance. You can't win 'em all; some déclassé types are bound to be there.
As a meritocrat, I should be pleased that self-made types are now making it into this hallowed hutch. Why then does it give me the utter ick?
The Royal Box, which seats around 80 people, is intended for the ruling family and guests variously described by media as 'distinguished' and 'illustrious' to watch the action on Centre Court. You can't buy your way in; you need to be invited by the Chair of the All England Club Deborah Jevans, a former junior Wimbledon champion.
Should you be amongst the anointed – actors, musicians and athletes usually make the cut – food, drink and 'goodie bags' may also come your way, as well as the homage of the toilers on the courts. Gushed Emma Raducanu: 'Occasionally [I look at the Royal Box], so I'm very aware of who's watching. I saw David Beckham was there watching Carlos [Alcaraz]. So that was pretty cool. But last year, I think David Attenborough was there, which was also pretty amazing.'
You can't really blame the thespian crew for strutting their stuff in the Royal Box. Princes and showgirls have long mixed and matched, and acting has now been so colonised by the posh that it's entirely plausible that the likes of Redmayne – at Eton, naturally – were at school with minor members of the ruling dynasty. But there is something rather pathetic about musicians being there; one might shrug off Keating, Jonas and Rodrigo as candy floss. But one does wonder what poor Kurt Cobain would make of his erstwhile bandmate, the obviously rocker-identified Dave Grohl, OD-ing on strawberries, cream and syncopated sycophancy.
I suppose I'm showing my age (66) by thinking that there's something risible about popular musicians wanting to hobnob with royals; music, too, has been taken over by public schoolboys and girls including the likes of Lily Allen (Bedales). But I guess it's the feeling that these celebs could be anywhere so long as it's 'exclusive' that makes them seem so insecure and insubstantial. How many of them are even tennis fans?
It's a long way from the unashamed glee displayed in photographs of Noel Gallagher when he first started being asked into the directors' box of his beloved Manchester City. (A cab driver once told me that his daughter had been a hostess there on one such occasion, and reported NG as easily the most courteous celebrity she had ever encountered.) The Oasis star was also spotted standing on the terraces with Manchester City fans at an away game against West Ham last year, having seemingly shunned the posh seats. There's something very attractive about discrimination on a basis other than: 'Ooo, will I be only with other famous people, 'cos I'm so special?'
Tennis is a strange beast. For a long time Wimbledon especially was archaic; when Billie Jean King won three titles there in 1967, she received a £45 gift voucher. Until relatively recently, married women who won Wimbledon were listed under their married names, hence Evonne Goolagong, after she married a Mr Crawley, being 'Mrs R. Crawley.' In 2009, the titles 'Miss' and 'Mrs' were removed from the scoreboards, and the female players referred to simply by their surname, as the men always had been. Until 2003, players would have to curtsey or bow (one almost wishes this rule was still in place, in order to see how the more Woke of the young players would deal with the gender-binary choice) to the Royal Box when entering or leaving Centre Court; since then it's 'only' to the monarch or their spouse.
Some of the players couldn't get enough of the previous set-up; Tim Henman snarked to the Performance People podcast: 'There was one element that I used to absolutely love and it doesn't exist anymore and I think it's a little bit of a shame, but my opponents really disliked it. When we walked onto Centre Court, you came through the door, you turn left, you then turn right to walk down the side of the court and when you got perpendicular to the service line, we turned around and bowed to the Royal Box. And the overseas players and players that hadn't really played much on Centre Court, they were petrified of getting that wrong, so they were completely distracted. They weren't worried about the match, they were like, 'I've got to get into Centre Court, I've got to bow correctly' – and so for me, I always felt like that was worth a break of serve because they were just terrified of getting that wrong. It was probably three love or four one in the first set – I definitely enjoyed that element.'
Now the Box is stuck between two hard stools. When it was rigidly royal, it was fun for republicans like me to point and snigger at. If today's Box was full of people who'd performed acts of heroism or contributed consistently to the community – like the majority on the monarch's honours list – it would have merit. But, as it is, it's become just another holding-pen for assorted has-beens and hangers-on to be spotted by the paps. They look like they are there to be seen, not to watch.
At the risk of being a forelock-tugger, that's why it's always so pleasant to see the Princess of Wales arrive at Wimbledon; not only is she an actual fan, but she seems so genuinely pleased and surprised by the crowds reaction to her – unlike the narcissistic numpties there to have their picture taken. As I said, I'm no fan of tennis and I'm not really fussed about how Wimbledon conducts itself. But the Royal Box in its current incarnation – even without the presence of Fergie and the blackamoor-brooch-wearer, Princess Michael – is a trashy eyesore which would be missed by no one.