I went to see the England and Argentina rugby game on Saturday. Now, when England play the Argies at football, it’s a cue for some serious crowd control, but the atmosphere on Saturday was terrific. The game was at Old Trafford and that in itself was quite an experience. The famed home of Manchester United seems to be smaller than it looks on TV, which is something I’ve noticed before. Maybe when we see something on the telly, we over-compensate in our mind’s eye and turn the little image into something huge.
Our seats (which had cost £10 each – not a lot) were in the Stretford End, about eight rows up from the pitch. It’s all-seater, of course, which I, for one, was grateful for. Old-fashinoned terraces are very chummy, but it’s nice to sit down. In 1950 something, my brother’s father-in-law (if that’s not too complicated a relationship) lost his brand-new hat by hurling it into the air in the Stretford End to celebrate United’s win. I’d always wondered about those bits in old films when you see hundreds of hats thrown up; how did you ever find the correct lid again? The answer is that you didn’t – and he was never allowed to forget it!
Goodness knows how much the seats would set you back if United were playing, because the view was marvellous. It’s odd watching this sort of thing in real life; I kept waiting for the action re-plays!
The game (which was only a friendly) wasn’t, to tell the truth, particularly inspired, as both teams decided to play aerial ping-pong, walloping the ball hopefully down the field, instead of getting down to brass tacks and running with the thing. However, simply being there made it gripping. There’s all sorts of details you don’t get on the telly. For instance, how easy it is to roar out “God Save The Queen” and how the Argentine national anthem (which sounds like a really dodgy bit of Verdi) needs an operatic soprano to even attempt it.
A very smart squad of RAF personnel marched onto the pitch before the game began, when a brass band playing and, having paraded round the field, shook out an enormous Argentine flag. That was good – after all, in 1982, the RAF were doing their level best to shoot down Argie planes and vice-versa. Mind you, Manchester rugby fans do, perhaps, have a soft spot for the Argies; the Captain of the local team, Sale Sharks, for the last few seasons has been the Argentine Captain, Juan Martín Fernández Lobbe.
The atmosphere was great. The two sets of fans mingled freely and, in a burst of old-fashioned sportsmanship, applauded each other’s good work. At the end of the game I shared some chips with a policeman who wished that every game could be like this. The only thing that really went wrong was the weather, which was a historical recreation of the D-Day Landings; miserably cold and threatening rain. The bloke behind me had just remarked how perishing it was when some stalwart ran onto the pitch and, dropping his trousers, showed us all his manly form. Like little walnuts, they were! Then he tripped over his trousers as two policemen thudded after him and he was led off to reflect on his shortcomings; as did we!
I’m off to London to sign copies of the new book, As If By Magic this week. Bring it on!
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