Only the truly churlish or squeamish could deny that the sight of a dozen or
so beery northern men urinating in unison has a certain power as a
spectacle. Indeed, such a joint endeavour is not wholly different from the
fine art of synchronised swimming.
Yet, when the staff of the pleasant-looking Aylward school and nursery return
to work tomorrow in their plush corner of northwest London, they may find
the flowers in their carefully tended entrance are not what they once were.
Still, the minibus of Manchester United fans cared not a jot as they
continued on their overly merry way. After all, it had been a long journey
and, anyway, this was FA Cup final day and not just any old FA Cup final
day. This was the day, as the alternative national anthem has it, that
football came home. How the good citizens of Wembley and nearby must have
wished they were somewhere else. Cardiff perhaps.
Closer in, it was almost like it used to be. The arch is a spectacular
construction, visible from the air, from Shepherd’s Bush and from the North
Circular Road where traffic, stationary most of the day (in fact, stationary
most days), had plenty of time to admire it. Travelling to Wembley on the
overground section of the underground, it hoves into view like a giant Alice
band. You don’t have to be short of breath for it to take your breath away
Yet, emerging from Wembley Park Tube station, supposedly redeveloped since
new Wembley was built, but effectively merely the lucky beneficiary of some
new steps, albeit impressive ones, eerily similar to the Odessa Steps in
Battleship Potemkin, things were not quite as they should have been.
Certainly they were not as the architect Norman Foster intended.
What was conceived as a clear sightline with the arch presiding over a
seething mass of humanity was sabotaged by a phalanx of flashing signs
deployed by the police, announcing that Wembley is a no-smoking stadium and
that fans should follow the flashing arrows, rather than perhaps the flow of
humanity.
And, worse, the sponsors had taken the opportunity to block out much of the
arch to advertise their wares. From Bobby Moore Bridge, at the bottom of
those Wembley Park steps, it was impossible to see the magnificent, two-ton
Bobby Moore statue that marks the entrance to the stadium. Someone has not
wholly thought things through.
If that wasn’t enough, Wembley Way is now a corridor bordered by a branch of
Currys, a McDonald’s and a giant patch of waste ground which, when the
Germans next come to defeat England, will conjure up distressing memories of
Berlin and 1945 for the older members of their ranks.
No matter. While the What’s On At Wembley caravan was as closed as it has been
for the past 6½ years (plus 30 minutes to think about the transport) it took
to build new Wembley, there was what the organisers would have liked to have
called a carnival atmosphere. There were men in stilts, there were African
drummers, there were scarf, flag and klaxon sellers and there were snatch
squads from Trading Standards to ensure the party really went with a swing.
The Jamshed family, Manchester United fans from Oldham, were disappointed. “I
thought it would be better,” sighed Ann Jamshed. “You couldn’t see the arch
properly.” Her husband Mohammed, director of a construction company, agreed.
“I know the arch is great architecture, but it doesn’t compare with the twin
towers. I’ve been to this stadium a million times with United and I miss
them. I’ve also been to nearly every stadium in Europe where United have
played and this is just like one of those. It’s a standard new stadium.
Standing here, we could be outside the San Siro.”
“Or the Reebok in Bolton,” adds Ann.
For the Jamsheds, this was not a cheap weekend. Understandably wary of
travelling down on the day, they left Oldham on Friday lunchtime and checked
in at the Watford Ramada in the evening. After the final, they planned to
stay a second night in Watford. If United had won, their boys Matthew and
Jonathan would have seen the sights of London for the first time. Following
defeat, a mass family sulk and a sauna was planned, although mum may have
other ideas. The hotel cost both a Ramada voucher Mohammed paid £300 for in
a charity auction, plus an upgrade so the boys could be included. And the
family paid £15 for a taxi from Watford to Stanmore, where they boarded the
underground after paying £10 for a family ticket. Naturally there would be a
£15 cab ride back again.
Then there were the match tickets. Mohammed has five season tickets and
fulfilled United’s FA Cup final criteria of attending cup games at Old
Trafford and applying for the not-always-guaranteed Premiership away
tickets. “That put me in the loyalty pot,” he explains with a smile. He paid
for four at £80 each, irrespective of whether they were for a company
director or a schoolboy.
“We could have got concessions, where myself and Ann would have paid £35 each
and the boys £17.50 each, but there were few of them and they were in the
cheaper seats. I wanted us all to be sure of seeing.”
In the plastic bag Mohammed was carrying were five match programmes at £10
each. And then there were the burgers, legendarily priced at £8.
”Well, I made sure we all had a huge breakfast at the hotel,” smiles Mohammed.
“But if the children get hungry I’ll have to relent. It’s not right though.”
So with £75 on petrol, £400 on a hotel, £360 on tickets, £50 on programmes,
£10 on the underground, £30 on taxis, £32 on burgers and £11.60 on drinks to
wash them down, the Jamsheds have spent £968.60 to welcome football home
before extras. Who said football has lost the common touch?
The Jamsheds were in delightful form, but in Wembley town, the atmosphere was
more poisonous and few would doubt that prescience of Police Commander
Robert Broadhurst’s assertion that the FA Cup final needed 1,000 officers
and “world-class policing”. Police vans surrounded the Blue Check bar where
United fans taunted passing Chelsea fans with “championi” chants, invariably
to an especially slack-jawed response of “you’re just a bunch of Munichs”.
In nearby alleys, arrests were made. Probably wisely, parking had been
restricted by what one local newspaper referred to as “the toughest anticar
measures ever seen in Britain”, meaning that only residents could park
within 1½ miles of the stadium. How this will work with the extra traffic on
a weekday when one team isn’t from London and the house is full (West Brom v
Derby next week) remains to be seen.
Those in the immediate vicinity of the stadium were more benign entirely and
most chose to ignore the enticing prospect of Des Lynam interviewing that
great football fan Bob Geldof at midday. In truth, the atmosphere was muted,
despite the blow-up FA Cups carried by all and sundry. Had they stronger
bladders, the drinkers who had spoiled the Aylward school could have found
relief in a toilet for those outside the ground. They may have resembled the
Somme on an especially inclement day, there may have been an entrance but no
exit, but they were there, they were free and they worked.
Indeed, there was even stadium catering outside. Alas there were no £8 burgers
to sample, but there was water at a scandalous £1.80 a bottle, indeterminate
pies (£4.50) and hot dogs at a till-challenging £3.90 accompanied, for
reasons unclear, by Dutch mustard. My hot dog was lukewarm but adequate, had
I not eaten for a month. My £5 went into one till. My £1.10 change from
another. No wonder they wouldn’t give receipts.
Outside, too, there was a list of prohibited items. Only terrorists and
pyromaniacs could argue with explosives and fireworks, but those Trading
Standards Swat teams might wonder why flags and air horns were on sale
outside, but banned inside. And outlawing fans’ cameras is a childish and
venal step too far.
And so, there it was. New Wembley in all its glory. In truth, little has
changed. Outside at least, but, as Mohammed Jamshed concluded before the
game: “If we win here today, I’ll love new Wembley just as much as I loved the
old.”
