Behind The Frontline: Infiltrating the Prawn Sandwich Brigade 🦐

[OntarioFox]

Rarified air. No, not the lowly row EE seats we chose for our trip to watch the boys play Newport, rather the remarkable experience of a well-poured pint at the football. Served in an actual glass, no less. With something approaching a head?! Do they know who we are?

 

Yes, for just a £5 extra overlay, we mere mortals could enjoy all the trappings of the elite 'matchday experience' against the finest that the League Two relegation battle could offer. As an SK1 and former L1 regular, it was worth a try for a laugh. Last match before the World Cup, in a world where the Elite have taken the game from the common man. Can't beat 'em, join em, eh?

 

The first culture shock came before we'd even entered the ground. Instinctively heading for the Kop, it was only a double-take that confirmed that we'd missed our entrance - a rather exclusive little path weaving betwixt the West Stand commoners and players' cars that just screamed 'social mobility'. Mobile tickets at the ready - Dad, of course, didn't even have Google Pay. No worries, he dawdled and successfully downloaded with my help, without holding up a soul. Probably explains a lot with regards to queues elsewhere in the ground, but I was as shocked as any to escape without a thick lip, let alone a few grumbles.

 

Anyway, through the concourse, past a kiosk serving the usual overpriced fayre, but actually cooked rather than reheated. More on that later. We clearly weren't 'local', as the grumpy stewards asked us if we were lost. Along a hospital-esque corridor, chaperoned by another grumpy steward. Hospitality, indeed! They could smell us a mile off. 'Legacy fans'.

 

To our seats - and yes, for once, we would be using them! We paid five pounds for the privelege, after all. Padding and all! More grumbles from Dad, who was already regretting skipping the singing section. His knees, however, would thank him.

 

The first half passed as any other, but we were clearly on top without so much as getting out of second gear. Occasionally, a murmured song or a polite round of applause, to echo the easy day at the office on the pitch. Newport's fans predictably asked if this was a library from the far corner. I politely asked them to shush. I was trying to read.

 

Just before half time, Justin popped up with a beautiful finish to put us into the lead. I knew it was in five seconds before the fact. The lame cheer from the stand above confirmed it - I was already down in the Walkers Lounge ordering a round of four pints for me and the gang. Got to beat the queues - plus, I pay for this access, might as well use it. Going to the football to watch the FOOTBALL?! Pah!

 

Thirty Quid. You pay for quality, or rather the privelege of that actual glass at the football. Again, do they know who I am? A persistent stander, no less. Nigel Pearson's High Risk Army. Lucky for them, this was my night off. Nobody was getting glassed... this time. My friend who wanted wine was less impressed. Sour. Most likely a bottle that had been open in the fridge since Man City. For once, the options for the unwashed masses had one-upped us - it's hard to get it wrong when your wine is portioned and foil-wrapped.

 

My brother, in a similar boat to me, decides to splash out in a semi-ironic manner. It's the same clobber as the oiks enjoy, but this time with MASH, PEAS AND GRAVY. It's an actual meal, and - most shockingly - with a KNIFE AND FORK!!! I needed a sit-down..And, mercy me, there were tables for days. No more leaning against a steel beam and balancing £6 pints between armpits. We took our seats, and enjoyed our meal. Had the second half started? Who cares? Tables! At the football!

 

On my return, I was somewhat lost. There appeared to be two men in our seats. Surely not? Who let the riff-raff in? A polite word and a cheeky word in our ear - 'ah sorry, thought we could get away with it' was all it took. Not a steward in sight anyway - they were all over in SK1 dealing with those pesky Union FS lot. We were left to police ourselves. Pure anarchy, and not just because Vestergaard was warming up.

 

Barely a murmur when Justin later went down injured. Attempts to sing his name melted into nothing. An anaemic mumbling of the Marc Albrighton chant as he passed his stretcher the closest we got to atmosphere, until Vardy popped up with a quite brilliant header from the latter's cross. Rolling back the years to peak 2016 - the whole ground joining in. 'Ooh', the west stand would interject below their brearh as the singing section screamed Jamie's name from far away. Limbs. Not ours, but limbs nonetheless.

 

Sound does travel in our ground, despite suggestions to the contrary. We'd heard Newport's lot goading Vards' for his wife's insincerity earlier, a surefire way to guarantee a goal for him. Another vintage goal from Jamie barely raised a polite clap from ourselves, and by this point, we had agreed to never pay our extra £5 again. We did not belong here. 

 

And by this point, the game had petered out. The match ended, and I joined the throng queuing for the loo before leaving. A surreal experience, not least because of the large number of overly-polite people willing to piss themselves instead of shimmying past the weirdos waiting in the corridors. By this point I'd had enough and willingly shoved my way through, to predictably find a number of completely empty urinals. The strange ambience of the blue mood lighting and booth-like entrance evoked visions of a back-street massage parlour. Vards had already provided the happy ending, so I finished my business and was off into the night.

 

Would I repeat this experience? Not for a while. Five pounds is a reasonable surcharge once in a while to see how the other half live, but more than anything it was a reminder to me of how sanitised, passive and downright dull the 'matchday experience' the club want to sell us, the hardcore fans, actually is. And seeing SK1 having a ball from the other side of the ground, after enjoying it first-hand this year, was an out of body experience to put it mildly. Couldn't even join in with calling the goalie shit (AHHHH) without death stares from the lady beside me. No worries, no steward nearby to report me to. Too busy throwing out persistent standers. Unlike me. Padded seats, innit.

 

Whatever happens against Newcastle on Boxing Day, I will be grateful to be back amongst the throng. I can certainly see some of the appeal of the fancy section as an occasional thing, but it isn't for me. When your sixty-something Dad (now a Grandad) says he'd rather shred what's left of his ankles than sit in soulless comfort and watch others have fun, you know it's maybe not worth the extra output.

 

Still, that pie, eh? That's what you pay for. Cheers, everyone. Back to eating shite in town before the match I go. Jamie Vardy's magic. ❤️

[Vlad the Fox]

34 minutes ago, OntarioFox said:

Rarified air. No, not the lowly row EE seats we chose for our trip to watch the boys play Newport, rather the remarkable experience of a well-poured pint at the football. Served in an actual glass, no less. With something approaching a head?! Do they know who we are?

 

Yes, for just a £5 extra overlay, we mere mortals could enjoy all the trappings of the elite 'matchday experience' against the finest that the League Two relegation battle could offer. As an SK1 and former L1 regular, it was worth a try for a laugh. Last match before the World Cup, in a world where the Elite have taken the game from the common man. Can't beat 'em, join em, eh?

 

The first culture shock came before we'd even entered the ground. Instinctively heading for the Kop, it was only a double-take that confirmed that we'd missed our entrance - a rather exclusive little path weaving betwixt the West Stand commoners and players' cars that just screamed 'social mobility'. Mobile tickets at the ready - Dad, of course, didn't even have Google Pay. No worries, he dawdled and successfully downloaded with my help, without holding up a soul. Probably explains a lot with regards to queues elsewhere in the ground, but I was as shocked as any to escape without a thick lip, let alone a few grumbles.

 

Anyway, through the concourse, past a kiosk serving the usual overpriced fayre, but actually cooked rather than reheated. More on that later. We clearly weren't 'local', as the grumpy stewards asked us if we were lost. Along a hospital-esque corridor, chaperoned by another grumpy steward. Hospitality, indeed! They could smell us a mile off. 'Legacy fans'.

 

To our seats - and yes, for once, we would be using them! We paid five pounds for the privelege, after all. Padding and all! More grumbles from Dad, who was already regretting skipping the singing section. His knees, however, would thank him.

 

The first half passed as any other, but we were clearly on top without so much as getting out of second gear. Occasionally, a murmured song or a polite round of applause, to echo the easy day at the office on the pitch. Newport's fans predictably asked if this was a library from the far corner. I politely asked them to shush. I was trying to read.

 

Just before half time, Justin popped up with a beautiful finish to put us into the lead. I knew it was in five seconds before the fact. The lame cheer from the stand above confirmed it - I was already down in the Walkers Lounge ordering a round of four pints for me and the gang. Got to beat the queues - plus, I pay for this access, might as well use it. Going to the football to watch the FOOTBALL?! Pah!

 

Thirty Quid. You pay for quality, or rather the privelege of that actual glass at the football. Again, do they know who I am? A persistent stander, no less. Nigel Pearson's High Risk Army. Lucky for them, this was my night off. Nobody was getting glassed... this time. My friend who wanted wine was less impressed. Sour. Most likely a bottle that had been open in the fridge since Man City. For once, the options for the unwashed masses had one-upped us - it's hard to get it wrong when your wine is portioned and foil-wrapped.

 

My brother, in a similar boat to me, decides to splash out in a semi-ironic manner. It's the same clobber as the oiks enjoy, but this time with MASH, PEAS AND GRAVY. It's an actual meal, and - most shockingly - with a KNIFE AND FORK!!! I needed a sit-down..And, mercy me, there were tables for days. No more leaning against a steel beam and balancing £6 pints between armpits. We took our seats, and enjoyed our meal. Had the second half started? Who cares? Tables! At the football!

 

On my return, I was somewhat lost. There appeared to be two men in our seats. Surely not? Who let the riff-raff in? A polite word and a cheeky word in our ear - 'ah sorry, thought we could get away with it' was all it took. Not a steward in sight anyway - they were all over in SK1 dealing with those pesky Union FS lot. We were left to police ourselves. Pure anarchy, and not just because Vestergaard was warming up.

 

Barely a murmur when Justin later went down injured. Attempts to sing his name melted into nothing. An anaemic mumbling of the Marc Albrighton chant as he passed his stretcher the closest we got to atmosphere, until Vardy popped up with a quite brilliant header from the latter's cross. Rolling back the years to peak 2016 - the whole ground joining in. 'Ooh', the west stand would interject below their brearh as the singing section screamed Jamie's name from far away. Limbs. Not ours, but limbs nonetheless.

 

Sound does travel in our ground, despite suggestions to the contrary. We'd heard Newport's lot goading Vards' for his wife's insincerity earlier, a surefire way to guarantee a goal for him. Another vintage goal from Jamie barely raised a polite clap from ourselves, and by this point, we had agreed to never pay our extra £5 again. We did not belong here. 

 

And by this point, the game had petered out. The match ended, and I joined the throng queuing for the loo before leaving. A surreal experience, not least because of the large number of overly-polite people willing to piss themselves instead of shimmying past the weirdos waiting in the corridors. By this point I'd had enough and willingly shoved my way through, to predictably find a number of completely empty urinals. The strange ambience of the blue mood lighting and booth-like entrance evoked visions of a back-street massage parlour. Vards had already provided the happy ending, so I finished my business and was off into the night.

 

Would I repeat this experience? Not for a while. Five pounds is a reasonable surcharge once in a while to see how the other half live, but more than anything it was a reminder to me of how sanitised, passive and downright dull the 'matchday experience' the club want to sell us, the hardcore fans, actually is. And seeing SK1 having a ball from the other side of the ground, after enjoying it first-hand this year, was an out of body experience to put it mildly. Couldn't even join in with calling the goalie shit (AHHHH) without death stares from the lady beside me. No worries, no steward nearby to report me to. Too busy throwing out persistent standers. Unlike me. Padded seats, innit.

 

Whatever happens against Newcastle on Boxing Day, I will be grateful to be back amongst the throng. I can certainly see some of the appeal of the fancy section as an occasional thing, but it isn't for me. When your sixty-something Dad (now a Grandad) says he'd rather shred what's left of his ankles than sit in soulless comfort and watch others have fun, you know it's maybe not worth the extra output.

 

Still, that pie, eh? That's what you pay for. Cheers, everyone. Back to eating shite in town before the match I go. Jamie Vardy's magic. ❤️

Wouldn’t know myself but I’ll take your word for it.

 

[Gamble92]

What the **** is this shit

[Vlad the Fox]

In all fairness I was in there tonight, I’m usually in the east stand, and I get the impression that a lot of those in there weren’t your regulars. I bought tickets in the Walkers or Wellers lounge for the European games last season and the atmosphere was better. Having the opposite side of the ground empty most likely doesn’t help with the that. Having grown up on the terraces and considering myself a man from the terrace I always thought I would balk at the idea of hospitality but I watched several matches from the Gallery last season and have had boxes in the past and to be honest I bloody love it  
 

Whether I’d want it permanently is difficult to say, introducing safe standing would be a big reason for me not to consider it more seriously. But it is nice to have a decent beer in a glass, get served quickly at half time and then have a drink after the match while letting the traffic clear. Oh and padded seats.  

[AjcW]

It's the toilets for me...

[Scanchez]

9 hours ago, OntarioFox said:

Rarified air. No, not the lowly row EE seats we chose for our trip to watch the boys play Newport, rather the remarkable experience of a well-poured pint at the football. Served in an actual glass, no less. With something approaching a head?! Do they know who we are?

 

Yes, for just a £5 extra overlay, we mere mortals could enjoy all the trappings of the elite 'matchday experience' against the finest that the League Two relegation battle could offer. As an SK1 and former L1 regular, it was worth a try for a laugh. Last match before the World Cup, in a world where the Elite have taken the game from the common man. Can't beat 'em, join em, eh?

 

The first culture shock came before we'd even entered the ground. Instinctively heading for the Kop, it was only a double-take that confirmed that we'd missed our entrance - a rather exclusive little path weaving betwixt the West Stand commoners and players' cars that just screamed 'social mobility'. Mobile tickets at the ready - Dad, of course, didn't even have Google Pay. No worries, he dawdled and successfully downloaded with my help, without holding up a soul. Probably explains a lot with regards to queues elsewhere in the ground, but I was as shocked as any to escape without a thick lip, let alone a few grumbles.

 

Anyway, through the concourse, past a kiosk serving the usual overpriced fayre, but actually cooked rather than reheated. More on that later. We clearly weren't 'local', as the grumpy stewards asked us if we were lost. Along a hospital-esque corridor, chaperoned by another grumpy steward. Hospitality, indeed! They could smell us a mile off. 'Legacy fans'.

 

To our seats - and yes, for once, we would be using them! We paid five pounds for the privelege, after all. Padding and all! More grumbles from Dad, who was already regretting skipping the singing section. His knees, however, would thank him.

 

The first half passed as any other, but we were clearly on top without so much as getting out of second gear. Occasionally, a murmured song or a polite round of applause, to echo the easy day at the office on the pitch. Newport's fans predictably asked if this was a library from the far corner. I politely asked them to shush. I was trying to read.

 

Just before half time, Justin popped up with a beautiful finish to put us into the lead. I knew it was in five seconds before the fact. The lame cheer from the stand above confirmed it - I was already down in the Walkers Lounge ordering a round of four pints for me and the gang. Got to beat the queues - plus, I pay for this access, might as well use it. Going to the football to watch the FOOTBALL?! Pah!

 

Thirty Quid. You pay for quality, or rather the privelege of that actual glass at the football. Again, do they know who I am? A persistent stander, no less. Nigel Pearson's High Risk Army. Lucky for them, this was my night off. Nobody was getting glassed... this time. My friend who wanted wine was less impressed. Sour. Most likely a bottle that had been open in the fridge since Man City. For once, the options for the unwashed masses had one-upped us - it's hard to get it wrong when your wine is portioned and foil-wrapped.

 

My brother, in a similar boat to me, decides to splash out in a semi-ironic manner. It's the same clobber as the oiks enjoy, but this time with MASH, PEAS AND GRAVY. It's an actual meal, and - most shockingly - with a KNIFE AND FORK!!! I needed a sit-down..And, mercy me, there were tables for days. No more leaning against a steel beam and balancing £6 pints between armpits. We took our seats, and enjoyed our meal. Had the second half started? Who cares? Tables! At the football!

 

On my return, I was somewhat lost. There appeared to be two men in our seats. Surely not? Who let the riff-raff in? A polite word and a cheeky word in our ear - 'ah sorry, thought we could get away with it' was all it took. Not a steward in sight anyway - they were all over in SK1 dealing with those pesky Union FS lot. We were left to police ourselves. Pure anarchy, and not just because Vestergaard was warming up.

 

Barely a murmur when Justin later went down injured. Attempts to sing his name melted into nothing. An anaemic mumbling of the Marc Albrighton chant as he passed his stretcher the closest we got to atmosphere, until Vardy popped up with a quite brilliant header from the latter's cross. Rolling back the years to peak 2016 - the whole ground joining in. 'Ooh', the west stand would interject below their brearh as the singing section screamed Jamie's name from far away. Limbs. Not ours, but limbs nonetheless.

 

Sound does travel in our ground, despite suggestions to the contrary. We'd heard Newport's lot goading Vards' for his wife's insincerity earlier, a surefire way to guarantee a goal for him. Another vintage goal from Jamie barely raised a polite clap from ourselves, and by this point, we had agreed to never pay our extra £5 again. We did not belong here. 

 

And by this point, the game had petered out. The match ended, and I joined the throng queuing for the loo before leaving. A surreal experience, not least because of the large number of overly-polite people willing to piss themselves instead of shimmying past the weirdos waiting in the corridors. By this point I'd had enough and willingly shoved my way through, to predictably find a number of completely empty urinals. The strange ambience of the blue mood lighting and booth-like entrance evoked visions of a back-street massage parlour. Vards had already provided the happy ending, so I finished my business and was off into the night.

 

Would I repeat this experience? Not for a while. Five pounds is a reasonable surcharge once in a while to see how the other half live, but more than anything it was a reminder to me of how sanitised, passive and downright dull the 'matchday experience' the club want to sell us, the hardcore fans, actually is. And seeing SK1 having a ball from the other side of the ground, after enjoying it first-hand this year, was an out of body experience to put it mildly. Couldn't even join in with calling the goalie shit (AHHHH) without death stares from the lady beside me. No worries, no steward nearby to report me to. Too busy throwing out persistent standers. Unlike me. Padded seats, innit.

 

Whatever happens against Newcastle on Boxing Day, I will be grateful to be back amongst the throng. I can certainly see some of the appeal of the fancy section as an occasional thing, but it isn't for me. When your sixty-something Dad (now a Grandad) says he'd rather shred what's left of his ankles than sit in soulless comfort and watch others have fun, you know it's maybe not worth the extra output.

 

Still, that pie, eh? That's what you pay for. Cheers, everyone. Back to eating shite in town before the match I go. Jamie Vardy's magic. ❤️

Really enjoyed that read!

[Nick]

9 hours ago, OntarioFox said:

Rarified air. No, not the lowly row EE seats we chose for our trip to watch the boys play Newport, rather the remarkable experience of a well-poured pint at the football. Served in an actual glass, no less. With something approaching a head?! Do they know who we are?

 

Yes, for just a £5 extra overlay, we mere mortals could enjoy all the trappings of the elite 'matchday experience' against the finest that the League Two relegation battle could offer. As an SK1 and former L1 regular, it was worth a try for a laugh. Last match before the World Cup, in a world where the Elite have taken the game from the common man. Can't beat 'em, join em, eh?

 

The first culture shock came before we'd even entered the ground. Instinctively heading for the Kop, it was only a double-take that confirmed that we'd missed our entrance - a rather exclusive little path weaving betwixt the West Stand commoners and players' cars that just screamed 'social mobility'. Mobile tickets at the ready - Dad, of course, didn't even have Google Pay. No worries, he dawdled and successfully downloaded with my help, without holding up a soul. Probably explains a lot with regards to queues elsewhere in the ground, but I was as shocked as any to escape without a thick lip, let alone a few grumbles.

 

Anyway, through the concourse, past a kiosk serving the usual overpriced fayre, but actually cooked rather than reheated. More on that later. We clearly weren't 'local', as the grumpy stewards asked us if we were lost. Along a hospital-esque corridor, chaperoned by another grumpy steward. Hospitality, indeed! They could smell us a mile off. 'Legacy fans'.

 

To our seats - and yes, for once, we would be using them! We paid five pounds for the privelege, after all. Padding and all! More grumbles from Dad, who was already regretting skipping the singing section. His knees, however, would thank him.

 

The first half passed as any other, but we were clearly on top without so much as getting out of second gear. Occasionally, a murmured song or a polite round of applause, to echo the easy day at the office on the pitch. Newport's fans predictably asked if this was a library from the far corner. I politely asked them to shush. I was trying to read.

 

Just before half time, Justin popped up with a beautiful finish to put us into the lead. I knew it was in five seconds before the fact. The lame cheer from the stand above confirmed it - I was already down in the Walkers Lounge ordering a round of four pints for me and the gang. Got to beat the queues - plus, I pay for this access, might as well use it. Going to the football to watch the FOOTBALL?! Pah!

 

Thirty Quid. You pay for quality, or rather the privelege of that actual glass at the football. Again, do they know who I am? A persistent stander, no less. Nigel Pearson's High Risk Army. Lucky for them, this was my night off. Nobody was getting glassed... this time. My friend who wanted wine was less impressed. Sour. Most likely a bottle that had been open in the fridge since Man City. For once, the options for the unwashed masses had one-upped us - it's hard to get it wrong when your wine is portioned and foil-wrapped.

 

My brother, in a similar boat to me, decides to splash out in a semi-ironic manner. It's the same clobber as the oiks enjoy, but this time with MASH, PEAS AND GRAVY. It's an actual meal, and - most shockingly - with a KNIFE AND FORK!!! I needed a sit-down..And, mercy me, there were tables for days. No more leaning against a steel beam and balancing £6 pints between armpits. We took our seats, and enjoyed our meal. Had the second half started? Who cares? Tables! At the football!

 

On my return, I was somewhat lost. There appeared to be two men in our seats. Surely not? Who let the riff-raff in? A polite word and a cheeky word in our ear - 'ah sorry, thought we could get away with it' was all it took. Not a steward in sight anyway - they were all over in SK1 dealing with those pesky Union FS lot. We were left to police ourselves. Pure anarchy, and not just because Vestergaard was warming up.

 

Barely a murmur when Justin later went down injured. Attempts to sing his name melted into nothing. An anaemic mumbling of the Marc Albrighton chant as he passed his stretcher the closest we got to atmosphere, until Vardy popped up with a quite brilliant header from the latter's cross. Rolling back the years to peak 2016 - the whole ground joining in. 'Ooh', the west stand would interject below their brearh as the singing section screamed Jamie's name from far away. Limbs. Not ours, but limbs nonetheless.

 

Sound does travel in our ground, despite suggestions to the contrary. We'd heard Newport's lot goading Vards' for his wife's insincerity earlier, a surefire way to guarantee a goal for him. Another vintage goal from Jamie barely raised a polite clap from ourselves, and by this point, we had agreed to never pay our extra £5 again. We did not belong here. 

 

And by this point, the game had petered out. The match ended, and I joined the throng queuing for the loo before leaving. A surreal experience, not least because of the large number of overly-polite people willing to piss themselves instead of shimmying past the weirdos waiting in the corridors. By this point I'd had enough and willingly shoved my way through, to predictably find a number of completely empty urinals. The strange ambience of the blue mood lighting and booth-like entrance evoked visions of a back-street massage parlour. Vards had already provided the happy ending, so I finished my business and was off into the night.

 

Would I repeat this experience? Not for a while. Five pounds is a reasonable surcharge once in a while to see how the other half live, but more than anything it was a reminder to me of how sanitised, passive and downright dull the 'matchday experience' the club want to sell us, the hardcore fans, actually is. And seeing SK1 having a ball from the other side of the ground, after enjoying it first-hand this year, was an out of body experience to put it mildly. Couldn't even join in with calling the goalie shit (AHHHH) without death stares from the lady beside me. No worries, no steward nearby to report me to. Too busy throwing out persistent standers. Unlike me. Padded seats, innit.

 

Whatever happens against Newcastle on Boxing Day, I will be grateful to be back amongst the throng. I can certainly see some of the appeal of the fancy section as an occasional thing, but it isn't for me. When your sixty-something Dad (now a Grandad) says he'd rather shred what's left of his ankles than sit in soulless comfort and watch others have fun, you know it's maybe not worth the extra output.

 

Still, that pie, eh? That's what you pay for. Cheers, everyone. Back to eating shite in town before the match I go. Jamie Vardy's magic. ❤️

 

 

 

Great writing.

[MarriedaLeicesterGirl]

9 hours ago, OntarioFox said:

Yes, for just a £5 extra overlay, we mere mortals could enjoy all the trappings of the elite 'matchday experience' against the finest that the League Two relegation battle could offer. As an SK1 and former L1 regular, it was worth a try for a laugh. Last match before the World Cup, in a world where the Elite have taken the game from the common man. Can't beat 'em, join em, eh?

I do the same thing for early round Cup matches, and the "big preseason game" -- It's being able to sit around before the game on an actual table (my knees are bad). It is embarrassing how the staff treat us riff-raff like school kids on a trip to the factory, and more embarrassing that I kinda need them to.

 

But it isn't the "elite matchday experience" by a longshot: My [Arsenal supporting] brother-in-law sits in one of the halls whenever he is back in town. They get free tea, free food, free magazines. We are getting the Poundland version of club seating during the League Cup!

[st albans fox]

6 minutes ago, MarriedaLeicesterGirl said:

We are getting the Poundland version of club seating during the League Cup!

For a Poundland price ?