The football edit: Man U, bananas in Wembley, bhel puri in Alperton

My friend Jim from Manchester is staying over. On Friday he mentioned that Manchester United were playing Manchester City on Saturday at 3pm. Then as a random thought: 'Wouldn’t it be great to go? It’s taking place at Wembley.’

I live in Kilburn on the Jubilee line. I’ve been here 24 years. I’m a local but, even though I live four tube stops away, I’ve never been to Wembley Stadium to see the football.

I did a bit of googling. The Radio Times (!) told me how to get a ticket. There’s a site called LiveFootballTickets.com. I clicked. Tickets were £55.

‘That’s for the City end. We can’t sit there, they’ll sense something is up,’ protested Jim. I searched further. Tickets for the Manchester United end cost double. ‘Haha that’s the proof that they aren’t popular,’ crowed Jim, who is from south Manchester, meaning he’s a United fan.

Recently Manchester United, one of the greatest football teams ever, have been doing badly. Much of the blame can be ascribed to an American family called the Glazers. They bought the club in 2003, with debt, and they aren’t even football fans. Locals were horrified. As of last year, however, Mancunian billionaire Jim Ratcliffe has a minority stake in the club. Maybe this will transform their fortunes.

(It’s a bit like when Mohammed Al Fayed bought Harrods on debt. Or the Americans bought Aga ovens in the UK and have basically destroyed it, laying off all the engineers, dismantling the service team and gradually running down the classic Aga oven model. It’s a bloody cheek really, buying up someone else’s heritage and asset-stripping it. There are rules about foreign countries buying art so why don’t the same rules apply to companies, historic shops and football teams?)

Manchester City, on the other hand, have been bought by another billionaire, but one who is willing to invest money. They will have a nice new stadium, they spent money on valuable players (to the point that they are being taken to court for overspending, apparently there are rules about this). But the upshot is: City have been doing very well.

On Saturday afternoon, we could hear the chants of Man U fans even from my garden. They’d obviously stopped for a beer in Kilburn before heading to the game. I found out why later.

Jim and I hopped on the tube at Kilburn. The train carriage was full of fans in red singing. There was the odd quiet person in pale blue.

We got off at Wembley Park, dazzled by the iconic Wembley arch from the steps of the station. A sea of red was throbbing down the main stretch to the stadium, past Box Park and a bunch of developer flats that have sprung up in the area. I don’t know who lives there. You’d have to be a football fan wouldn’t you?

We tried to buy a pint but it was impossible. The bars nearest the stadium stop serving at 2pm, an hour before kick-off.

There was a bit of argy-bargy on the way: a group of lads in pale blue were taking the piss out of another group in red. It was all harmless until one of the Man U fans called a City fan a ‘paedo’ (a City player was done for sexual assault of a 15-year-old). Jim suddenly grabbed my arm and kept his head down, murmuring: ‘I thought it was going to kick off there.’

Football is not the same as it was in Bill Buford’s seminal book, ‘Among the thugs’ (one of my all-time favourite books). Buford practises immersive reportage. He spent two years as part of The Red Army, Manchester United’s crew of football fans, going to home and away games. It’s both funny and horrifying. You can’t deny that British men are some of the funniest in the world, with scathing wit, but also that some football fans are just psychos. This book is war-time reporting from the front line of working-class sport.

Since the bad old days in the 80s, when football violence was at its worst, football has become more of a family affair, with drinking restricted and seated stadiums. It’s also become very expensive. I went to see Arsenal as a kid. I paid a few pennies to go through the turnstiles to the standing terraces. Anyone could go. Not any more.

I last went in 2020, for my birthday. I was invited by my nephew to see Arsenal at the Emirates stadium. It was amazing but in my memory the players seemed tiny even though Wembley seats more. I really enjoyed the chants, the piss takes, the traditional take-downs of Tottenham even though they weren’t playing. Rivalries last decades and it’s worse between neighbouring teams. Have you ever heard half a stadium contemptuously yell ‘Who?’ when the other side brings on a substitute? It’s par for the course.

Closer to the stadium I gazed up at the arch. Was it performing any function other than decoration? It was hard to tell.

Going up the escalator to our seats I heard Manchester United fans sing chants to the tune of ‘Coming round the mountain when she comes’ and ‘This Old Man’. The taunts are creative: ‘20, 20, 20’ yelled with pointing fingers, refer to how Manchester United have won 20 major titles. You can’t help but laugh at the affectionate yet insulting rhyming songs dedicated to players. I even heard a bunch of reds singing passionate odes to ‘Argentina’, our old enemy post-Falklands, because some of their best players, Garnacho and Martinez, are from there.

‘Some people think football is a matter of life and death. I assure you, it's much more serious than that’ – Bill Shankley

The multi-cultural aspect of the crowd struck me: every nationality, every race, was present. Football crosses cultures. Even Osama Bin Laden, who had a house in Kilburn, was an Arsenal supporter. It was cute to see so many dads with daughters wearing the kit - I’m sure the Lionesses have contributed to this.

The only place we could buy beer was in the stadium where prices are very high. A small bag of crisps was £2, double the normal price, and there was just one flavour (Ready Salted) available. Jim was persuaded by a canny barwoman to buy four pints for £25. I had one and poor Jim had to drink three pints in 45 minutes. The last two took 11 minutes each.

I’m a cheap date so on my one pint I felt quite lairy by the time we got into our seats. It certainly reduces inhibitions.

The match:

We were sat in the gods so I wasn’t expecting much. But we were directly behind the goal and I could see everything. The pitch looked bright green gingham, perfectly mowed stripes and checks of grass. I could see two boxes of dotted white lines at the sides where the managers jigged about nervously. The City side, a sea of sky blue blanket, had many holes of red – empty seats – whereas our side was full. The players appeared bigger than at the Emirates Stadium. The weather was sunny but not too hot. It was perfect.

This match is called a ‘derby’ because it’s two teams from the same city. It was the final of the Community Shield, which is not one of the bigger prizes. Still, a win would be a confidence booster for Man U.

'Manchester City are known for scoring within the first five minutes,’ explained Jim. ‘If we can get past the first quarter of an hour without them scoring, we have a chance.’

We sat next to a lad whose brother had bought him and his cousin tickets for his birthday. ‘First time here?’ he asked.

I nodded and asked: ‘Are you from Manchester?’

‘No, from Bristol.’

‘Why do you support Manchester United then?’

‘I don’t know, it’s in my family.’

‘It’s genetic,’ I agreed.

Football is like politics. Loyalty runs through families. In the same way that people vote like their parents, they support the same teams. I support Arsenal as do my whole family. It’s part of my North London DNA, I guess, even though I don’t really support them in any meaningful or financial way. I don’t know who the players or the manager are currently.

I found myself really wanting Manchester United to win. Loyalty to Jim? I don’t know. But I was bellowing and groaning just like everyone else. Perhaps the pint of beer egged me on.

After half-time, late getting back into our seats, we missed a goal, ffs. Then it was disallowed. Then Manchester City, who seemed more energetic, more positive, more present, scored. Marcus Rashford for Manchester United was a ghost. He may as well not have been there. At the ripe old age of 26, perhaps he has peaked?

Garnacho scored an equaliser. The whole of our side rose up joyously. Would my first game at Wembley break a long dry run? I fervently hoped so for Jim’s sake. We had a chance.

After 90 minutes, play stopped. At the Community Shield there is no Extra Time, it’s straight onto penalties. Lucky for us this took place at our end. We could see each penalty in close up. Brilliant.

Each team took turns. Our keeper saved one. Even more of a chance! Then Sancho came on. He is a player in trouble with management, I was told. He’d been benched and this was his first time back to prove himself.

He fucked up. Christ it was almost like he passed it to the goal keeper. Nooo.

Still equal though. A glimmer of hope?

‘Now all our best penalty takers have been used,’ said Jim. A player in white, who turned out to be the Man U goalkeeper, took a penalty.

‘What!!? Is that a thing?’ I gasped.

‘He’s a good penalty taker,’ explained Jim. Bang into the goal. Phew.

Manchester City were efficient and professional, as they had been the entire game. They kept scoring penalties. Johnny Evans on our side had his penalty intercepted. So, finally, we lost. Today would not be the day.

As soon as it happened the Manchester United fans left the stadium. Within minutes our side was virtually empty. ‘It’s not very sportsmanlike, is it, to leave before the trophy is handed out?’ I said.

‘They have to get their trains home and it’s better that the exit happens in two stages,’ reasoned Jim.

So another match lost by Man U.

Going home:

Afterwards Jim said he wanted a walk. ‘It’s a lovely day, I’d like a beer garden, near a river perhaps? I’d like to see a bit more of London,’ he said optimistically.

‘Er it’s a bit of an industrial wasteland round here,’ I countered. But gamely, even with broken ankle and support boot, I soldiered on. We walked around the stadium, past the other side full of happy City fans, to Wembley Central, then through a long footpath, through grassy playing fields and suburban terraces.

I wondered how much a house costs in Wembley, Zone 4. I looked it up later: approximately £650k for a three-bedroom house. It’s a predominantly Asian area. The streets were full of kids playing, scooters laying on their sides, hopscotch chalked upon the pavement, a faint smell of curry emanating from the houses, and emerging signs of gentrification. Humble houses had fancy front doors and sealed UPVC porches, often architecturally at odds with the Victorian era. The sun swung low, we walked along a west-facing street of front gardens. One house had a huge palm tree, which on closer inspection revealed several bunches of green bananas growing. Incredible! Bananas in Wembley.

bananas in Wembley, bhel puri in Alperton

We walked across the railway lines, with litter, bottles, dog shit and spilled yellow rice, to Alperton, on the way spotting a rainbow view of the Wembley arch. I wanted to visit the hindu temple before it closed.

The elaborate carved exterior gave hint as to the interior decor. We took off our shoes and padded in. A religious ceremony was taking place: people were clasping their hands together in prayer or Namaste, a tray with strange candles was waved under faces. I copied the others, placing my hands over the candles then patting my face. People were smiling and friendly. I asked about the carvings: it’s machine done, somebody explained. The building cost £17 million and was constructed this century.

Afterwards we had street food: bhel puri and dahi puri, small fried crispy puffs, filled with chickpea curry and doused with coriander, mint, and yoghurt. Costing only £5, it was without a doubt the best bhel puri I’ve ever tasted, very spicy and authentic, and I’ve been to India three times. We passed one of my very favourite food shops, the Indian supermarket VBs. It has a chutney chariot, cheap spices in bulk, unusual fresh vegetables that you’d never see in a Western supermarket.

More posts about football:

Last year I went to see ‘Dear England’, which I can honestly say is the best play I’ve ever seen. Only ‘Jerusalem’ nearly equals it. It goes on tour around the UK next year. See it, even if you aren’t in football OR the theatre.

Cheesy footballs recipe, snacks for the game.

Watching England on the Norfolk Broads

The astrology of football part 1

The astrology of football part 2