Yesterday was the first time I?d been to Old Trafford since terraces had been abolished.
Due to changing circumstances, namely several offspring and the ongoing availability of tickets, it was one of those grounds that I always seemed to miss out on when allocations were distributed.
Therefore, with in excess of 30,000 tickets up for grabs I was more than optimistic of getting one and that was the case. I?d visualised, in my mind, what I expected the Theatre of Dreams to look like, I imagined it to be just that ? A Theatre of Dreams. In reality I was to be disappointed.
Approaching the ground, it looked quiet a spectacle but getting closer it looked a mess. Walking around underneath, the West Stand was awash with peeling pain from the giant iron girders. The North Stand, supposedly the newest construction, had a bleak industrial feel about it.
Climbing sixteen flights of stairs to reach the third tier, I was faced with wall after wall of concrete bleakness. Strolling out on the concourse beneath the tier, you couldn?t help but notice the minute size of the refreshment areas and as for the kiosks selling the match programme – claustrophobic or what?
Venturing to my seat I was dismayed that the leg room was minimal ? perhaps that?s how they cram 70,000 in. The view was nothing special; in fact it was dominated by the overhanging roof.
Outside, I sat in the queues to exit the car park for ages; it made waiting ten to fifteen minutes for a tube seem almost a pleasure.
Theatre of Dreams ? No! Just an average industrial concrete structure. Give me Stamford Bridge any day.
Share this article
