Half and half tourists, songs on the speaker system, a bottle of watery lager, and a pasty costing the same as a small family hatchback. Lapped up by consumers replete in branded plastic clothing, made by children for pennies, clutching tickets equating to the weekly food budget for the majority of lower income families.
Yep, this is a glorious true fan experience played out while sitting on an overpriced cramped chair, in the cold, suffering a nearby tool spouting ignorance or bile.
“Oh that’s not me, I know the words to WYS and who shares a flat with Julian Joachim.”
You propa fans are welcome to what now laughably constitutes the live matchday experience [tm]. Chant equal opportunities approved songs and run to beat the traffic on 80 minutes.
Lap up the platitudes from your preferred vendor.
Promise to buy more product.
The game died decades ago but people still think that history or salary structures can be reversed and the zombie reanimated. Those glory days of service station brown envelopes, Ken Bates’ fences and Bob Wilson, anchorman.
The future is streamed season ticket content and I can not wait.