The roar of the crowd has been replaced by the shuffle of feet on concrete. This week, as footage emerged of fans at the World Cup being herded onto concourses like cattle, the national mood shifted from festive to furious. It wasn't just the inconvenience.
It was the memory of Hillsborough, of Heysel, of every tragedy where poor crowd management turned a day out into a disaster. The British public, ever watchful of class dynamics, saw a familiar pattern: the well-heeled in their seats, the ordinary fan squeezed into corridors. The government's demand for safety guarantees is not just diplomatic.
It is a cultural reckoning. We are a nation that prides itself on matchday rituals: the pie, the pint, the polite queue. To see British fans reduced to sardines in a tin is to see our identity disrespected.
The real question is deeper than turnstiles. It is about who gets to enjoy the beautiful game and who is left standing in the cold. This is not just a news story.
It is a mirror held up to the sport's soul.
