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Old Trafford (part 3)

Then we move into the dressing room. The chamber in which however many people play these days – is it eleven plus seven subs? – get dressed an undressed. Some of you (and indeed some of the tour group) might want to take a moment to imagine it. I’ll press on with the interesting facts we learned about the dressing room. Most notably, it used to be half the size because Le Grande Eric demanded his own private warm up room. Imagine the same number of people crammed into half the space while naked. I know, I know – you’re still imagining the first bit. I’ll wait. Health and safety meant they had to get rid of their communal bath too. What is the world coming to when a dozen men aren’t allowed to have a bath together? It’s political correctness gone mad.

Everyone was sat on the benches around the room (THE benches). I chose Owen Hargreaves’ spot because I knew it hadn’t been used much and also because the good ones had been taken.

This is where Siralex gives his team talks. He has marker pens and a big telly. I hope he doesn’t use the marker pens on the big telly. That would be a terrible waste of a big telly.

Then the guide says we can fill our boots with snaps of the dressing room. Good plan – take thirty or so people in a small dressing room and let them try to take pictures. It was a scrum. It didn’t help that two tactile girls – I think they were Italian and until they went weak at the knees over Cristiano’s shirt I thought they must be a couple because they were all over each other – were hogging the number 7. This is what they did – one would stand by the shirt, draping herself all over it and acting like these photos were going to be left in known WAG pick up points around the city, be photographed several times and then they huddled together – in front of the shirt so no one else could see it – and looked at their pictures. They then swapped places and kept going. I would’ve been annoyed except they were nylon shirts hanging on pegs and I still just about had a sense of proportion.

After that we went down a corridor. Normally these are dull but on the wall they had commemorations of each Premiership title win. The most recent – the cleverly branded “Champ10ns” one – is placed opposite the away team’s dressing room so they are greeted by Wayne Rooney’s open mouth and hopefully their morale suffers as a result.

Two other doors to mention – the manager’s lounge and the referee’s suite. Neither of which we were allowed into to mooch around.

And then – as if by magic – you’re here. In the tunnel. As in THE TUNNEL.

With the advertising boards where post-match interviews are conducted.

Above the tunnel sit some hundred or so people. This section of seating can be evacuated in two minutes and it then lifts up like something out of Thunderbirds so emergency vehicles could get into the ground. They didn’t demonstrate this. I was disappointed.

This is the view from the tunnel mouth. This is what players see when they come out at Old Trafford. Only with seventy five thousand people in the seats and no barriers to say you can’t go on the pitch. If you were a professional footballer that would almost certainly take you out of your game.

Literally pitch side. Those big things are heaters to keep the grass warm. The last time I saw anything like that was in a marihuana shed. On telly. For the lawyers.

We got to walk along the edge of the pitch – where John O’Shea can often be seen warming up before Sir Alex decides whether the game is going well enough that he can risk bringing him on for the last few minutes.

Then we got the dug outs. They aren’t actually dug out of anything – they’re just posher seats. They had covers on them which prevents star bottoms and common bottoms from sharing the same leatherette.

People sat in the chairs and had their pictures taken. I didn’t because (a) I would rather die and (b) I had no one to take pictures of my corpse. I did sit there though and see the view as it is seem by the gum-chewing Scotch genius himself.

Between the home and away managers is this tunnel. I’m not sure what it’s for but I bet a few people have stormed down it in its time. I’ll watch next time they’re on TV (if they’re on TV any time soon) and see whether it is a medical emergency tunnel or indeed somewhere a player can flounce if sent off, substituted against his will or gets his shirt covered in blood from a head wound and so has to get changed before he’s allowed back on the field of battle. More bloody political correctness gone mad.

Then a final few minutes to take a bunch more pictures of this enormous and frankly fantastic arena. It was here that my camera batteries died but – fear not – I was prepared and changed them in about as much time as your average formula 1 team takes to change four tires, fill her up with petrol and diddle about with the windscreen wipers.

Then back inside for a final word from the tour guide, a potted history of the Mega Store – from 8x8 wooden shed selling scarves to the retail park we know and love today.

And that was that. An interesting hour which showed all three sides of Old Trafford – the magnificent arena, the behind the scenes rooms you don’t normally see and the nuts and bolts areas which are normally packed with people eating pies and placing bets. I’ve stood where naked players have whipped each other with towels, I’ve walked up the tunnel where the great and the good have jumped up and down waiting for the TV cue and I’ve lolled in a comfy chair where John O’Shea may well have sat while waiting for the order to go and warm up. This was a good tour.

While walking round the outside I saw the Old Trafford smoking hut. Sadly, the squad were in Spain that day or I might’ve seen Dimitar Berbatov puffing away in the leper’s shed. Allegedly.

On my way back to the Metro station I decided to get some chips from a genuine match day chip shop. With a logo that is just different enough from the real thing to avoid legal action, this chippy must rake in the cash when seventy five thousand people walk past on their hungry way to and from the stadium. On a cold Tuesday it was empty. So empty that they didn’t have any chips. I had to sit amidst the frankly random selection of United photos while they made some more chips. That was awkward. They were very nice though. If I could remember the shop’s name I’d give them a plug. You’ll find it – it’s the one with the slightly-different-for-legal-reasons logo.

Next Time...

The MEGA STORE~!