Chants, Pints, And Scams: Football The British Way

The Overground train ran express from Central London to South London through the frigid January air. It skipped stations of other periphery London neighborhoods because it only had one in mind. Every passenger that crammed the train had a shared destination: Selhurst Station. Every passenger had a shared objective: to partake in the widespread whirl of intensity that is the Premier League. Tonight, was Crystal Palace versus Manchester United.

The train slowed and our station was announced. The crowd—the push rather—trampled what had been a quaint, quiet station only moments earlier. I didn’t know where the stadium was—hell, I didn’t even have a ticket. It didn’t matter that I didn’t know where to go; there was nowhere to go but with the push. The streets were barricaded by metal blockades and police in neon vests with weird hats. Their sole purpose: to halt any wanderings out of sight and down side streets of dark family homes. Unexpectedly, chants burst from the depths of the Crystal Palace fanatics surrounding me. It was as if they could no longer contain their anticipation and excitement and the only thing that would satisfy their sensations was to roar. It was time to let Croydon know they’d entered; it was time to make their arrival felt by all.