The Victorian Government spends around $100 million per year to host the Formula 1 Grand Prix, a sum they claim creates a net positive economic return to the state. Over 465,000 fan visits were recorded this year, although with many attending on more than one day the number of unique visitors would be less. That certainly creates a lot of economic activity. Whether it’s enough to cover the size of the investment is a matter of conjecture. There’s no doubt that a healthy share of the Victorian Government’s motivation is about Melbourne’s reputation and global brand more than economics, or at least casts a very wide net across how the economic value is assessed. You’d think that in spending all of that money the powers that be would want to put on a very good event indeed. After all, Melbourne does the tennis brilliantly. The quality and location of the tennis venues makes the whole event an extension to the life of the city. Getting in and out is simple and getting there is a short walk from the CBD, or free tram ride if you prefer.  Surely the Grand Prix would be at least as good. Sadly, it wasn’t.

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The whole Melbourne Grand Prix experience reminded me of when I started University back in 1983 and met Geoff, a new friend with whom to experience the trials and tribulations of moving away from home and into a new environment. I sit more towards the introvert side of the introvert-extrovert spectrum, not an out and out introvert, but more inclined that way. I’m drawn to people who sit somewhere towards the extrovert side, but again not fully so. Out and out extroverts I find hard work at best, outright annoying at worst. I liked Geoff because he sat right at the sweet spot. Bringing together a sharply intelligent mind with a healthy lack of inhibition, Geoff was always fun to be around.

The term started with Freshers Week, what in Australia is known as Orientation Week. Geoff and I were attending an event where all of the clubs and societies put up stalls around the main university hall to raise awareness and attract new members from the cohort of new arrivals. As we went around the hall we saw all of the normal sports clubs and interest groups, as well as some more obscure pursuits, like potholing and hot air ballooning. Observing that we were required to queue up at each of the stalls Geoff had an idea. 

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“We should set up the Bath University Queuing Club”, he suggested. “It’ll be great, we can go to Wimbledon, the Harrods sale…”  

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It was just a small example of Geoff’s humour but it’s one that’s stuck in my mind for forty years and is now permanently lodged there. I imagine he can’t even remember saying it. The reason I mention this inconsequential and only mildly amusing quip is that if the Bath University Queuing Club had been set up, they would have had a field day at the 2025 Melbourne Grand Prix.

My first day at the event was the Saturday, together with my best mate Ally from the UK and three other friends John, Chris and Adam. 

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“We should leave plenty of time to get in,” Ally told us, “it can take up to an hour to get through the gates at Silverstone."

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After taking the train into Southern Cross Station, our first queue of the day was for the free tram service provided to shuttle us to the event.

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“What’s going on?” I said as we were walking up Spencer Street penned in by crash barriers, before turning and walking all the way back to reach the tram. “There’s not much of a queue here at all, it's more of an extended tram stop experience.” It was an entry level queue at best.

Based on Ally’s experience at Silverstone we had expected to encounter our second queue of the day at the turnstile of Gate 1 when we reached the entrance to Albert Park but, to our surprise, it was just a simple swipe of the Apple wallet and we were in.

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“Well, that was painless,” I commented as we moved into a field containing a row of temporary merchandise stores selling over-priced baseball caps and shirts. At this point I was thinking that Melbourne must have organised the whole crowd control thing better than Silverstone and we were in for a queue free day. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

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“We’re in the Brabham Stand, it’s this way,” I said, spotting a sign and leading the way.  ‘For Brabham Stand use bridge’ was the instruction on the next sign. Brabham Stand, it turned out, was on the inside of the track and to prevent patrons having to play chicken running across the track between the cars, the organisers had provided a bridge. With the evident intention of creating a classic queuing experience, the organisers seriously undersized the capacity of the structure.

The queue aficionado's time had finally come. As we approached the bridge we could see one of those sheep pen-like areas perfected at Disney World, where a queue folds back and forth before accessing the main event. At first we thought we could walk straight into the sheep pens but our path was interrupted by an enthusiastic volunteer guide.

“Back of the queue for the bridge is that way,” he said, waving us down a footpath alongside which we saw the length of the queue, slowly moving back towards us. It was one of those situations that queue enthusiasts love where it actually gets longer in front of your very eyes as you try to reach the back. Finally joining the queue, we shuffled our way back towards the sheep pens and our eventual destination, the undersized bridge. Queue experts, it should be noted, regard the slow shuffle as being the optimum speed at which to enjoy the experience. This particular queue turned out to be more interesting and innovative than we ever could have imagined. Tantalisingly, the 100m path section took us right back to the sheep pens but just as we thought we were going to enter them a whole new section of queue revealed itself to us.

“Where are we going now?” I asked anyone who might be listening, before being answered by another enthusiastic young volunteer. 

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“This way, please,” he pointed to a tree about 50m away. This unexpected detour caused the queue to elongate and a most unseemly fast walk broke out. Across the park we headed, taking a hairpin turn around a tree and a chicane around some bins before heading back in the direction of the bridge. Finally we entered the sheep pens for our last few turns before climbing the steps of the bridge and traversing the track as the Formula 3 cars roared beneath our feet.

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“You remember my mate Geoff from Uni?” I asked Ally. He did, Geoff not being the sort of person easily forgotten. “He would have loved that,” I said, going on to explain the whole Bath University queuing club idea.

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After such an exhilarating queuing experience the waits at the burger stall and to gain access to the Brabham stand were quite an anti-climax. Even the toilets disappointed, which after our experience at Silverstone was quite a surprise. We watched the motor racing whilst occasionally topping up the sunscreen, at the end of which Lando Norris had nabbed pole position. Over the two years since our debut Formula 1 experience Max Verstappen had become human and no longer won every race, which made the spectacle more interesting.

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I thought that the best of the queuing was over for the day, but I was wrong. Of course we first had to negotiate the cross track bridge in the opposite direction. In this orientation the volunteers were absent and the whole thing was a bit of a free for all. Most unsatisfying. But the mother of all queues was still ahead. Less innovative than the bridge queue, what this one lacked in subtlety it more than made up for in sheer volume of people. Gate 1 exit had been cunningly designed so that the road into and out of the track area crossed the point at which tens of thousands of people were trying to leave on foot. At the sound of a whistle, a team of burly traffic controllers dropped a rope to allow the crowd to progress across the road before almost immediately starting the process of holding back the tide again. This felt like a serious obstruction until I realised that the queue just reformed again on the other side of the road, at which point it was about 100 people wide. Some experts would deny this counts as a queue at all, more just a crowd trying to get somewhere. The throng bifurcated before the road between those aiming for the tram stop and those leaving to take their chances, according to the signage, with “rideshare, taxis and busses”. My observation that the Victorian spelling for the plural of bus included more s’s than I had expected wasn’t too well received by those around me. Either they were Victorian, and offended by the aspersions I had cast on their brethren, or were not actually queue fans at all and were simply fed up motor racing fans discovering it was taking them an hour just to exit the venue.

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On race day we did the whole thing again but with the added ingredients of wind, rain and cold. This time it was Caroline, Lou, Tracy, Ally and I attending. With the venue being completely unprepared for rain, and no sign of cover to shelter under, the whole day was spent wet and cold. 

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“What were we thinking coming so early?” I asked the others at about 1.30pm. We’d been spending our time alternating between walking around in the rain and sitting in our grandstand seats in the rain. “We could have just got here for the start of the race.”

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“We’re going home,” announced Caroline and Lou, about an hour before the race was due to start. Not being Formula 1 enthusiasts they had only come along for the carnival atmosphere of the event, any sign of which had long been washed away. Sitting in a cold, windswept seat for hours on end had not been part of the plan.

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“What do you want to do?” I asked Tracy, “I don’t mind if you go. I’m going to stick it out with Ally.” I wasn’t about to abandon my best mate who’d travelled around the world for the specific purpose of seeing the race.

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“We’re here now, might as well see it through,” was her conclusion.

We tried not to think about how much we’d paid for the tickets.

As the race commenced I put in an earpiece to listen to the Sky race commentary.

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“They say you get four seasons in one day in Melbourne, and today they’ve all been horrible,” the commentator announced, summing things up perfectly. 

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The upside of what was otherwise a pretty miserable experience was that the rain caused a lot of the cars to crash which, let's be honest, is what all motor racing fans love to see. Oh, and Lando beat Max, which was also good. As the race ended the sun briefly burst through the clouds to a cheer from the crowd. Whereupon it quickly went in again to be replaced with a dark cloud and a final dump of rain to ensure we would endure our second Gate 1 egress mega queue extravaganza thoroughly drenched. 

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For those who enjoy their queuing I would highly recommend the Melbourne Grand Prix. For everyone else I would suggest you save up your pennies and go to the race in Singapore. At least the rain is warm there.

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