Watching my first ever football match at Old Trafford, I turned to the person next to me and asked:
“Where are the commentators?”
I watched a lot of United home games between ’00 and ’03 (rough dates), going along with my Mum’s cousin and her daughter. I enjoyed it, and most matches we’d stay around after to meet the players and get their autographs – without exception they were very nice and signed our books, and our favourite, David Beckham would always say hello and smile, which was great considering how mega-famous he was at that time (and still is).
We were almost always in the family section, which I suppose meant that people were encouraged not to sing some of the more fruity songs, however, when there’s tens of thousands of people chanting from the other three stands, it was quite easy to hear some charming ditties about rival teams, Gary Neville’s Scouse-hating prowess and Arsene Wenger’s sexual peccadilloes.
One time we had seats in the Stretford end, traditionally the reserve of the ‘proper Mancs’ and hard nuts, and as such were surrounded by a lot of shaven headed men with scarves, who continually stood and shouted throughout the game.
That is until they fell victim to one of nature’s most terrifying beasts.
A dragonfly. I noticed it hovering around above our heads, and was quite excited, as I’d never seen one in an urban environment. That is, until it came closer, and started flitting about near our faces. It was a big bugger, and quick with it, its prehistoric form cutting through an ever growing mass of hands, as heavy-set blokes swatted the air with their palms, the buzzing of its stained glass wings sending typically fearless men into a frenzy.
At the time, it was terrifying. Looking back, it’s hilarious.
Yesterday’s collapsing motorway sign, however, still terrifying.
