Roy Keane once attacked the ‘hospitality freeloaders’ at football matches, just verbally, unusually for him, and referred to them as ‘prawn sandwich eaters’. As if eating a prawn sandwich represented the most decadent, upper-class, almost aristocratic act a man could do. Women can eat them too but Roy probably had even more abuse to hurl at them.

The ‘hospitality’ areas of any football ground are the seats and boxes that are bought annually by companies. For directors, partners, the odd, lucky staff member, to entertain their guests. Thus creating areas of the ground where there are loads of people ‘just there for the ride’. Who don’t support either team on view. Who don’t like football but enjoy free beer. Let’s just say ‘who are less committed’. To the extent that when the second half starts, there are vast swathes of empty seats, the eventual occupants of which are far more interested in one more beer and three more prawn sandwiches than in events pitch-side. Deals are being done. Important conversations (do want the prawn or roast beef?) So they return late. And it is horrible.

But unfortunately, for football clubs, ‘hospitality’ is their financial life-line. Normal punters, the ‘mere mortals’ just pay a virtual small fortune for their season tickets, whilst the corporates pay very big fortunes. Ok, they throw in free beers, offer dining facilities pre-and-post-match, have a bunch of ex-players strolling round chatting and having selfies taken, but the clubs charge. Even the toilets in those areas have hand soap!! Warm water, which works!! Dyson dryers!!! It’s almost civilised. Hardly any violence. Only if there’s just one prawn sandwich left.

And as a lifelong football purist who enjoys the ‘rough’ of match days, who likes walking down dark tunnels lined with fag-butts and half-drunk away fans pissing against the walls (all away fans do that; its a territorial thing), there’s a lot to be said for prawn sandwiches.

Although, as prawns aren’t kosher, they don’t do those at Spurs. We have smoked salmon instead.

The son-and-heir-in-law has a contact (who will be forever blessed and should live to a hundred, pth, pth, pth). Who has lots of hospitality seats he seldom uses. Thus they get offered to Tory Boy. And, by proxy, to me. And thus we leave the mere mortals at on the High Road and walk in through the front door!!! Into the Palace of Tottenham. Which is vast, spotlessly clean and has all the beauty and modernistic grandeur of a 6-star hotel in Dubai. We enter a glass lift and a uniformed geezer presses the button for you, in case you’re so rich you don’t know how to do something like that yourself. And its all splendid and wonderful and polite and genteel. People even hold doors open for each other!! At fucking football!!! They have trophies there. Old ones, obvs.

The seats are spectacular (photo taken at a previous match, hence the mask round my neck) the food and drink abundant and the experience, whilst a little bit ‘different’, is just brilliant. Even for someone who firstly likes football an also is an actual fan!

Match was ok. We won. And I can’t wait to go there again. Just to spite Roy Keane.

Happy Monday

A xxxx