'Mind yer car mister.’ It’s 30p to stand at The Valley (That’s six shillings in proper money). It is long ago a time of rosettes and handmade capes of bedsheets daubed with the names of the players using some left over gloss from the touching up the skirting-boards in the spare room. Watch Brasil win The World Cup , on a colour television set if you’re lucky , but the terraces are crumbling, the youthful fans filled with testosterone and bile, those who control them uncaring or brutal or both. Walls collapse. Fences are locked, there are deaths on the terraces . It is an era at once more innocent and infinitely more dangerous than today. And gradually that all changes.