What do you do on a Saturday afternoon when you lead a sad, lonely life and you've got no friends? You go to Old Trafford to see Man United, of course. Why do so many people do it? Well, there was only one way to find out. So, in the best traditions of investigative journalism, for which Give 'Em Beans! is justifiably renowned, and at no great expense, we managed to get our hands on a ticket. We asked around the Beans! office to see if anyone wanted to go. Well, it's not a very appealing prospect, I'm sure you'll agree and the Ed wasn't exactly overwhelmed by the rush. So that left him, and he had to do it. This is his report...
A DAY at OLD TRAFFORD
I can't tell you how I got it. I've been sworn to secrecy. But I did. Get it, I mean. And I'm not talking about an unpleasant, incurable disease after a night out on the town and a few too many drinks. I'm talking about a ticket to Old Trafford. A chance to see Manchester United at home. Which, when I think about it, is not dissimilar to an unpleasant, incurable disease. But at least I haven't got it. Like all right thinking football fans, I hate Man U. Maybe hate is too strong a word. Actually I'm completely apathetic. Neutral. Couldn't give a toss. So I wasn't that bothered about going. But I had nothing else to do that particular Saturday. So I went. I got there just after half past one and there was already a constant stream of people walking towards the ground. I suppose when the average home attendance is 55,000 there's quite a few people who want to get there early. I parked the car somewhere in the middle of Trafford Park Industrial Estate, no more than ten minutes walk from the ground. But it wasn't anything like walking up Holker Street from the Abbey Road traffic lights. At Old Trafford the road is lined with souvenir stalls selling posters, flags, photos and anything else as long as it's got Man U on it; food stalls offering hamburgers, cheeseburgers, hot dogs, chips and baked potatoes. I didn't look closely at the food although it smelled pretty good. But I bet that had Man U on it as well. And there were three separate fanzine sellers. Well, separate in that they were each selling a different fanzine. The stadium is quite an impressive sight. You approach it on a wide pedestrian bridge across a canal and the huge bulk of the new North Stand towers several hundred feet above you, reaching for the sky in a tangle of steelwork and white cladding. Sadly, as the structure is so high, giving three massive tiers of seating alongside one side of the ground, it gives Old Trafford a rather unbalanced look, like that of the Titanic as it prepared to dive to the bottom of the Atlantic. The other three sides are nowhere near as high. In fact they're a good 50 to 100 feet lower. How long before a third tier is added all round? I couldn't resist a look inside the United Megastore. Now this is no UniBond souvenir shop with a cardboard box full of old match programmes, a load of scarves and some replica away shirts. The United Megastore is laid out like a Disney Shop. And it was packed. But what a load of sad people they were in there. With everything reduced in an attempt to offload the Sharp inscribed memorabilia before they change sponsor at the end of the season, it resembled a Turkish bazaar. Roy Keane and Jordi Cruyff mugs and posters weren't selling too well. The shelves were full of them. But there were Manchester United key rings and badges down to £1 from £3, alarm clocks at £3 instead of £5, and Cowps knows what other tacky crap, all emblazoned with stickers proclaiming 'fantastic value' and 'sale price.' Even the reduced prices were ten times more than the stuff was worth. I saw one guy fill a huge carrier bag full of the crap. He must have spent over £50. I bought a programme for £1.80. Pity that wasn't reduced. The place was heaving. Like my stomach if I'd stayed in there any longer. So I fought my way through the throng to get out into the fresh air. By now the crowd was just as thick outside as it had been in the shop. I battled my way through to turnstile N45, as indicated on my ticket and queued up to take my turn to shuffle through it. Just by the turnstile there was a notice which read 'The climb to the third tier involves 170 steps and ten levels. If you suffer from vertigo or a heart condition please inform a steward before you start to climb.' Good grief! What was I getting myself into? This place must be up in the clouds. And what a climb! I'm not the fittest of people. And I'm not as young as I was, but even so, I'm not that much out of condition. But I was totally knackered by the time I got to the top. The stairs lead into an area just under the seats where there are toilets and a bar serving hot snacks and beer. I thought Premier League clubs weren't allowed to sell beer. Well, they are. But at £2.50 for a can of lager they can keep it. I went straight to my seat, row 8, no.81. The pitch looked as if it was 500 feet below me. For a split second my head swam as I adjusted to the new perspective that a seat hundreds of feet up in the air gives you. No wonder that notice warned about the vertigo. Sit forward in your seat and you swear you'll go pitching head over heels onto the seats in the tiers below. It was so high you could get a nosebleed. They should give you a parachute to get you safely back to earth again. It's hard to stop looking down but I desperately pulled the programme out of my pocket to give me something else to think about. It wasn't too bad. Lots of information, professionally produced, plenty of fancy graphics, Give 'Em Beans! it ain't. But when all is said and done, our own match programme at Barrow does just as good a job. And it's 60p cheaper. A rather attractive, dark haired young lady, wearing tight ski pants and a brown leather jacket with a fur lined collar sat in the seat on my right. Not wanting to spend too long looking the hundreds of feet down to the pitch again, I had no option but to strike up a conversation with her. This was her third time at Old Trafford, she told me. She worked in the marketing department at Sharp Electronics' head office in Manchester and she got her ticket through the company. I asked if she was a United fan. She hadn't been when she first came, she said, but she is now. She loves the atmosphere and when the teams came out and 55,000 people started cheering, shouting and singing I could see what she meant. The noise was deafening and incredibly uplifting. But I came to my senses when I realised who it was and I was able to check myself. My new companion didn't know the players so I was able to tell her who was who. But I had to squint to see some of the numbers, especially the ones over no.14. In the Premier League, they operate the squad system, whereby each player carries the same number throughout the season. So there were shirts carrying very strange numbers, like 17, 21, 23 and 28. And it isn't easy to decipher them when you're higher than the birds. Speaking of which, I was beginning to wonder what my new friend might be doing after the game. How might I mention the subject? I could ask if she needed a lift anywhere. Or fancied a drink and a bite to eat. I agonised about this for fifteen minutes, made my mind up and turned to her at the same moment as she stood up, said goodbye and disapppeared into the bar area. I raced after her but there were already several hundred people making for the stairway to try to beat the full time rush and I couldn't see her anywhere. So I trudged disconsolately down the 170 steps to ground level and joined the crush of people returning to their cars and buses across the pedestrian bridge over the canal. Was it worth it? Well, it's a marvellous looking ground and the atmosphere is electric when the crowd get worked up. But there wasn't much for them to get worked up about. The accuracy of the passing was abysmal, the understanding and running into space woeful and the fitness of some of the players lacking. If this is the best that the Premiership can offer, give me the UniBond every time. Issue 034 - April 1998