It was strange, putting on a suit, collar and tie to go to a football match. Didn't seem suit-able. But my new best friend, Wayne Rooney, had said he'd leave me two tickets for Man United's game against Spurs at White Hart Lane, plus a ticket for the players' lounge. All these decades, friend of the stars, tra la, I'd never actually been in a players' lounge. That's why I thought I'd have to look vee smart. Players are very lookist.
The two tickets turned out to be with the Man U supporters in the South Upper Stand. I was taking my nephew Ross, who is a Watford fan, so he didn't mind, but I worried that I might jump up if Spurs scored and get my head bashed in.
I told Ross to listen to the accents, try to work out where the fans were from. All football fans believe that most Man United supporters come from Kent. Around us, we heard a lot of Welsh, some Italian, some Hindi, quite a bit of Korean - as both Park Ji-sung of Man United and Lee Young-pyo of Spurs were playing - but mostly they seemed to be from the London area.
And yet, when they sang the United songs, which they did all the way through, they sang them with a Lancashire accent. Like parrots, they'd picked up the intonations with the words. I remember being in Russia and meeting some teenage Beatles fans who sang all the Beatles songs in a Liverpool accent.
When Danny Murphy, ex Liverpool, now of Spurs, started warming up down below, they all shouted anti-Scouse obscenities and abuse. Then they went through several verses of a chant which ended with the line: "We all hate Leeds scum." I didn't hear one chant aimed at Yiddos, ie, Spurs fans. I suppose there is no tradition of hatred between them.
There was a slight commotion in front of us when a bossy steward confiscated a large banner that some Man United fans had draped over the front wall. I asked him why, presuming the banner was either obscene or racist. It was neither. The reason was its size. It was so big that it had obscured the whole window of the £50,000 executive box below. I imagined them stuffing their faces with prawn sandwiches and warm Bulgarian wine when, wham, suddenly it had all gone horribly dark.
My new best friend scored two goals, so of course, the Man United fans went mad, singing his special song. I couldn't make out the words, nor could Ross, and he's got younger ears.
At half-time, I asked the man next to me to tell me the words to the Wayne Rooney chant. "No fucking idea," he said. "I've just come out of prison." Yet he had been standing up, mouthing the words as if he knew them.
I turned to a young man behind me and asked him. "Dunno," he whispered. "I'm a Spurs fan." I asked what he was doing with the Man United supporters. "Friend of Rio's," he whispered.
I thought of asking the gaggle of Koreans to my right, but didn't think they'd know the words, and anyway, they were too busy posing for each other in front of their digital cameras.
Then I saw a man and a boy of about ten who had both been singing lustily. He kindly told me the words:
I saw my friend, the other day
Who said he'd seen the white Pel-ay
Wayne Roo-nay, Wayne Roo-nay
He goes by the name of
Wayne Roo-nay.
I was looking forward to congratulating him afterwards in the players' lounge on his two goals, even though I'd have liked Spurs to win. But he never turned up. Nor did any of the other Man United players. I didn't even spot anyone from Spurs.
It was full of Spurs wives, kids and families, more like a crèche than a bar, with a playpen and toys. The women looked anorexic and bottle-blonde, while most of the blokes, all fortysomething, presumably dads and uncles of Spurs players, had big bellies and tattoos on their arms, and were wearing T-shirts. I was the only wally in a suit.
Later in the week, when I saw Wayne again at his lovely home in Cheshire, he said: "Oh, didn't I tell you? We never go to the players' lounge. We're straight on the coach."
