Thunderbozz

My very first memory of attending a football match, like so many others', contains virtually no details about the goals, nor the scoreline, nor the players, nor even who we were playing. These details, these statistics, these facts have been pushed aside and replaced by the sense of awe, the feeling of wonderment, the overpowering synæsthesia of multi-coloured scarves and burger-van smells. For my very first game, my dad took me to the Watling Street ground. It was (still is) three streets away from our house, but I was spared the arduous five minute walk and treated to being carried on his shoulders instead. This is where my memory begins: As we turned onto Watling Street, I was met with an incredible sight. Hundreds of people were walking down the pavements, dozens more weaving in-between the passing buses and cars. From every side road, from every footpath, from every gap in the fence, people formed a human river, flowing steadily towards the turnstiles. I had never seen