Well, Manchester United: here’s your Wembley of the North. Several years ahead of schedule, and perhaps not quite as envisaged in the architects’ drawings, but note-perfect in most other respects. A retail temple with a football concession attached; a shrine to wasted money; a ground where the noise barely rises above a disgruntled murmur, and where Tottenham feel pleasantly at home.
Afterwards, Erik ten Hag tried to maintain some semblance of dignity, like a plumber calmly filling out his invoice even as brown water sloshes around his knees. After all, this is not simply a job but an office, and even in moments of decay a certain carriage is demanded. “Is there a fire drill?” the Tottenham fans gleefully asked as Old Trafford slowly emptied. There wasn’t. But the real thing is beginning to feel dangerously close.
