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Man Utd

How I Met Your Theatre of Dreams

Kids, I’m going to tell you an incredible story. The story of how I went to Old Trafford and sacrificed my soul under Sir Alex Ferguson’s seat. I dare not touch it though because I’m pretty sure that would burn the souls of peasants like myself. However, to give you context of what it feels like, this was me when I entered through the gates of Sir Bobby Charlton stand and experienced that first whiff of the Old Trafford air.

Old Trafford is not a football stadium, y’all. You couldn’t possibly just call it a football stadium that could fit in five Indian joint families x 100 and then some. It’s basically a pilgrimage site. You literally just want to sit near the pitch and pray to touch the ground that has been touched by the feet of some of the world’s most legendary players. But like the tour guide said, “You can’t touch the pitch. It’s sacred ground.”

Much as you’d love to roll around the grass and wish for the gods of football to grant you death right then because you’re so happy, you also don’t want to touch it at the same time because you know you’d contaminate it.

This was Phase One: Where you got to look at the ground from the stands.

Now we move on to Phase Two: The press room.

The tour guide took us through the private bar that only the VIP’s are allowed to enter and get trash drunk inside. Though I’d love to see what Jose Mourinho does when he’s trash drunk, his sober rage flashes during games is enough example of it. Anyway, we get out of the bar pretty quickly and then enter the press room. This is where Sir Alex trolled the crap out of the press on a number of occasions. The tour guide didn’t shy away from saying how Manchester United is slightly duller without Sir Alex and his often tongue-in-cheek demeanour. And that’s probably one of the greatest truths I’ve ever heard.

Now onto Phase Three: The dressing room.

If there is a god, I thank thee fully and completely, with all my heart for letting me look at that cool af dressing room seating area that was blessed with the butts of all the United players. The feels, y’all. The feels. Replica jerseys of the current players were hung above their respective seats, and guess where my eyes along with my brother’s stopped. On the Lion’s jersey of course. I don’t think I’ve ever had as many goosebumps as I did when we got closer to touching the butt resting areas of the players, especially Ibrahimovic’s. No joke. It was glorious to even imagine standing in a room that legends have been present in. Also, would like to point out that I shamelessly stroked Jesse Lingard’s jersey replica because he is, after all, my husband, and I am allowed to do that.

Fun fact: there’s a mirror in the dressing room that is fondly known as the Cristiano mirror. No prizes for guessing that CR7 spent most of his time before games in front of that mirror fixing his hair. Tch tch. Typical Ronaldo.

After we calmed the frick frack down leaving the dressing room, we were guided through to the players’ tunnel.

This is Phase Four and I like to call it: I died and went to heaven.


Fun fact two: Our tour took place three days before a game against City, which is why we couldn’t actually walk out of the players’ tunnel and onto the pitch. But nonetheless, goosebumps were constant. I hardly think I could feel any of my body parts. Moving on. We took a few pictures. The tour guide pointed out the spot where David De Gea usually stands, and this is when I felt my soul leaving my body. Thank you very much.

Phase Five: I’m not alive and I’m ten inches away from the pitch.

This is the concluding part of the Old Trafford experience. Picture this: The stadium is empty apart from another tour team across from you on the Stretford End stand. It’s quiet. And yet, you can hear the echo of seventy thousand screaming fans clearly. You can see the red flags waving. The air is red, the celebration is red, the players are red. Your heart is throbbing at a pace you never even imagined it could, and the chants of Glory Glory Man United are louder than you have ever, ever heard in your entire life. Forget shouting at the television screen from your living room. This is it. This is where all those games you’ve ever watched on screen flash before your eyes as you stand there five steps away from the pitch.

(Info time: Those are artificial sunlight machines since it was smack in the middle of winter three days before a Derby, which means Britain hardly had any natural sunlight.)

Loss of breath is an understatement. And I am really not exaggerating. Old Trafford truly is breathtaking.

This was me and my brother ten minutes after the tour finished.


There’s a bunch of stuff I haven’t written down here, including much of the tear-jerking experience(you know what I’m talking about). I’m choosing not to reveal it all because you have to see it and live it for yourself. They don’t call it the theatre of dreams lightly, you know. The only difference between a dream, and Old Trafford is that you remember every single detail of it.
And that, kids, is how I met your Theatre of Dreams.

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