Soccer fans can be strange creatures. I am a football fan and although I think I am perfectly normal, my lady would tell you otherwise! I have been obsessed with the game since I was a child, and although the game has changed in many ways in the last two decades, I will always be hooked.

There is something quite special about match days, especially. As a pincer, I remember waking up at dawn in a state of excitement – it used to drive my dad crazy! I would have packed my football gear the night before, so I wouldn’t have to rush in the morning. Every time I put my shirt on, put my hat on and wrapped my scarf around my neck, I had this immense sense of pride in my team, sad I know! Then I’d come downstairs for breakfast, usually hard-boiled eggs, soldiers, and a bacon butty, and then we’d hit the road.

The car ride to the train station usually involved a game of visual spying or questioning my father about the “good old days” as he called it, what it means to you and me when playing football in white and blue. black. I would also take him around the corner asking him about football clothes in those days and he would always reply ‘only the fancy kids had the replica jerseys, I had a red and white scarf woven for me by Nanny Edith’.

I always knew he was not telling me the whole truth, as I had seen pictures of him wearing a flat silk hat lined with badges, but for some strange reason he would never tell me. He is a funny man my dad!

I loved getting to the train station and seeing the fans of the rival teams. And then as you hit the ground, walking from the station, that buzz of anticipation as you left was, and still is, amazing.

Then you would set your eyes on the hordes of fans, some in football gear, others in casual attire – a sea of ​​red and white roaming the streets. I would always have to buy my game day program from the same vendor as the program. He was an older boy with shiny silver hair and he used to stink of tobacco.

Dad insisted on going for a quick pint before heading to the stadium, always ordering a pint of London Pride and a packet of dry roasted peanuts. I would drink a lemonade until I was a little older, when the old man would buy me a pint of beer, whispering the immortal words: ‘don’t tell your mother!’

Upon entering the ground I would always have butterflies in my stomach, although I have since gotten over this. I clicked through the turnstiles and then rushed to my spot on the terrace in time to watch the players warm up.

Once on the terrace, that was it. I remember the first games I went to, I was amazed and admired the atmosphere, the colors, the smells. Then the game would start and we would get beaten up, and on the drive home I wish I had supported a decent team. And then the following week, you would do it all over again. We’re not that weird, are we?