Wonderful World Of Wimbledon / Editor / 27 June 2008 / Leave a comment

By Betfair's Ollie Bellwood - one of the "Wimbledon Four"

Betting and tennis are not comfortable bedfellows at the moment. The grilling Nikolai Davydenko got after his first round exit at SW19 this year was a perfect example of how aggressive the media and administrators in the world of tennis can become when the subject of betting is raised. So for the marketing team of the UK's biggest online betting company, a gargantuan event like the most prestigious tennis tournament in the world goes from being a PR buffet to something of a conundrum. But, as Billy Ocean once so famously warbled, when the going gets tough...

The question of how to make our presence felt at Wimbledon without ruffling (too many) feathers had our best brains scratching their heads. The solution required a plucky band of adventurers with mischief and resourcefulness in equal measure. If you thought guerrilla marketing means something like that Phil Collins Cadbury's advert, think again. The team was Betfair's Andy Lulham, Amy Trodd and Ollie Bellwood, with a guest appearance by the spectacularly named Annabel de Rougemont. Our mission (should we choose to accept it) was to hit Wimbledon's Centre Court and, using a combination of ridiculous Highland fancy dress and a selection of custom-made T-shirts, keep the crowd bang up-to-date with Betfair' best price for Andy Murray in his match against Fabrice 'The Magician' Santoro.

But all that is easier said than done because, even if you can afford to pay wedges of cash, Centre Court tickets don't grow on trees. So the first leg of our marathon involved a trip to an outdoor pursuits equipment shop and a quick visit to Southfield's finest food superstore for lashings of 'ginger' beer before we pitched camp in the infamous queue in Wimbledon Park.
I'd like to stop at this stage and give credit to some people who really outdid themselves. Firstly, the proprietor of said food store, who provided our team with an impromptu and complimentary delivery service. When he offered to drop two beautiful blonde girls at the campsite, he definitely didn't bank on the slightly less beautiful boys waiting just outside the door.
S
econd in the 'thank-you's is Andy Lulham. Not because he was the brains behind this venture (although he was) - nope, he wins his plaudits for something entirely different. Anyone who can get a tent and two sleeping bags and still have change from thirty quid deserves a pat on the back.

But the biggest cheer of the day has to go to the All England Lawn Tennis Club, organisers of the world's most civilised sporting event. When Mary from Lancashire turned to me at 8pm, just as the gentle games of touch rugby were drifting to a close, she said "It's just like Glastonbury". The fact that Mary from Lancashire not long ago celebrated her 60th birthday tells me she probably hadn't ever been to the legendary music festival because we certainly weren't indulging in mud-sliding and Class-A substances while listening to Iggy Pop. I merely nodded and offered her another strawberry.

The tremendous late June weather made life very easy for the crowds gathered in Wimbledon Park that night. All the better for us boys; I wouldn't like to have seen our £10 tent pitted against anything more testing than a light breeze. In fact, the weather was vital, as queuing was something we were about to become very accustomed to over the next few hours.

The early risers woke us from our slumber at an extremely rude 4.30am. Why on Earth people who have spent 50 years at work then decide that it's a good idea to get up so early in their well-earned retirement is beyond me. The most vociferous character will remain un-named, as I never learned his title, but he made sure we all knew his long-suffering son's name. Poor Lawrence was the subject of a running commentary, as his father barely trusted him to remember to breathe without a quick reminder - more of that later though.

At around 6am, almost everyone had packed up their tents. The spirit of the Blitz was still in full force as everyone pitched in (excuse the awful camping pun). Amy and Annabel could have done without the assistance of Mary's husband Len though. He snapped a vital component of their tent - a tent they had borrowed for the night from an 8 year old boy. There was little time to worry excessively about this though, as the efficiency of the Wimbledon queue machine rolled into action.

Anyone who's ever been to a football, rugby or cricket match will know that the average steward at a sporting event is a disappointing combination of ineptitude and pettiness. One thing most of them don't possess is an ounce of common sense (something Mary would be crying out for at Glastonbury probably). Let me tell you this, though. A Wimbledon steward is an entirely different animal. Exhibiting dazzling knowledge of the area, each of them is an encyclopaedia of tennis with a generous helping of the people skills that are a must when dealing with large crowds of people. They are the best parts of schoolteachers and emergency services and a hugely impressive outfit.

So let's talk queues. Over the course of the day, we queued for the following items: queue cards (10 hours), centre court wristbands (3 hours), centre court tickets (1 hour), fried chicken (don't ask - 30 mins), to get into the Murray Mount area (20 mins), Pimms (1 hour aggregate total), Hog Roast (10 mins), strawberries and cream (15 mins), actually getting into our seats on centre court (40 mins on aggregate), cashpoint (5 mins), sun cream (2 mins), and to buy used balls (2 mins). That is enough queuing for one man to take to the grave. The fact that the day was so enjoyable is a real testament to the organisation as well as the standard of the venue and the tennis.

But let's not forget we were there to work. After arriving inside the venue (the first 14 hours of queuing were outside), we made a beeline for Murray Mount, where the more populist tennis fans seem to congregate. Our remit of getting our t-shirts on as many media outlets as possible turned out to be somewhat easier than expected. Not long after sitting down, a tidy little queue of photographers and journalists had formed at our table. How nice that people were queuing for us for a change, I thought.

Before we started patting ourselves on the back too much, we remembered that the more difficult part of our little foray was yet to come. Live odds on Centre Court - the most secure venue in sport and with an antipathy for betting that surpasses any other.
We took our seats shortly before the opening match. Even though young Brit Naomi Cavaday did her best to keep the crowd concentrating on the tennis with a tremendous first set against defending champion Venus Williams, it remained difficult to keep a low profile. The Scottish wigs and kilts prompted chuckles, while the ante-post Murray price of 1.09 spelt out on the t-shirts provoked nothing more than brief bemusement. It seems Betfair's gospel has yet to reach the housewives of Dorking just yet!

Cavaday's brave fight faded after she lost the first set tie-break and Rafael Nadal barely broke a sweat in dispatching his opponent, Beck. He should stick to the quirky alternative rock music, I joked to Mary from Lancashire, who was sitting in the row in front of us, but her blank expression confirmed my early suspicions - Mary from Lancashire has never been to Glastonbury.

Andy Murray strode out onto Centre Court at around 5.15pm with a real sense of purpose, while Fabrice "The Magician" Santoro had his usual mischievous, elfish smirk. We jumped to our feet with our hands in the air and cheered like we had just seen England score the winning goal in the Euro 2008 final. In fact, we cheered a little too vehemently and immediately attracted the attention of one of Wimbledon's Centre Court stewards. The stewards, much like the Centre Court ball boys and girls, are the elite - the best of the best. We weren't about to pull the wool over this chap's eyes, so we toned it down and bided our time.

At every possible moment we stood up, clapped and cheered, sticking our chests out like weird Highland peacocks. Then Murray broke the Frenchman. [1.09] became [1.06] and that could only mean one thing - a shirt change! As the last digit of the human odds-o-meter, it was up to me to make the change. Since a handstand was out of the question, I popped to the loo and replaced my "9" shirt with a "6". I stood behind Lawrence's dad in the queue. At least I thought he was in the queue; but when a cubicle became available, he ushered me in. Shortly afterwards came the conversation that may or may not have made me wet myself laughing (difficult to tell when you're in the loo already). Lawrence's dad speaks very loudly, and didn't feel it necessary to temper that tendency, even in the public toilets. "How are you getting on in there Lawrence?" A sheepish Lawrence replied barely audibly,"OK, nearly done". Lawrence's dad boomed out again, "Well don't forget to wipe properly." There must surely be some kind of law against it, poor kid.

Back on court all was going well, Murray took the first set without too much fuss and it was on serve in the second. Having had a bright spark in the loo, I had put all digits on in ascending order up to and including "6", but I did now resembled a Lithuanian body-builder. This did not help the situation with the Top Gun of stewards, who had now placed himself in a seat on our row to keep an eye on us.

After a wobble Murray took the second set and he went from [1.06] to [1.03]. I disrobed to the tune of 6, 5 and 4. The steward got up and left. With the relief of his exit we got braver and started to make a little more noise. But his departure was bad news. A moment later there was a tap on my left shoulder and, to my horror, it was a member of the local constabulary. He escorted me to the area outside the arena and made it very clear they wouldn't stand for any nonsense or disruption of any kind.

A little rattled, but relieved that we still retained our liberty, we decided to make a sharp exit and left with Murray at 4-4 in the third set and totally dominating. The icing on the cake was that our leaving meant the live BBC cameras were on us as we got up from our seats and made our way to the exit. "Back Andy" was beamed around the world - a tremendous way to end a highly successful sortie.

So we did it. With the help of Mary from Lancashire, Lawrence and his dad, and the outrageously efficient Wimbledon stewards, the "Wimbledon Four" spread the Betfair gospel to all and sundry on every medium going.

Here's our checklist of media appearances. Radio 1's lunchtime bulletin, Radio 5 live with Clare Balding, BBC Scotland television, BBC 6 o'clock and 10 o'clock national news, page three of the Evening Standard, page 5 of the London Lite, the homepage of BBC Sport and the Daily Mail online - oh, and the Glasgow Evening Times. A stunning return by anyone's standards; we got more coverage than Lindsay Lohan that day!

As a last word I'd like to give one more big thanks, and it has to go to Britain's tennis fans who seem, on the whole, to be totally lacking in any va-va-voom whatsoever. That means morons dressed as Highland games competitors can sell themselves to any broadcaster going. Cheers to the housewives of Middle England, from Godalming to Esher and back!

Tags: Andy Murray, Andy Roddick, Lleyton Hewitt, Rafael Nadal, Roger Federer, Wimbledon betting