Ah, for the days when you got home from the match and then went up to the newsagents to get the Pink. Somehow it was even better if you had to wait a few minutes in the dark for the black CET van to pull up, and for a bundle of Pinks tied up with string to be chucked on the pavement with a satisfying thud.
In our area that was about 6 o’clock, so not much more than an hour after the match finished you could read an unpretentious report of all the things that happened in the game, in straightforward chronological order. In the middle pages, you’d get proper articles and interviews about the club, and you’d read them several times because that was your only source of information.
Maybe we were less well informed, but it wasn’t as stressful as today’s minute-by-minute stream of words from every person on the planet, all wasting their time under the illusion that they are influencing events.
I'm not knocking today's journos - to me, most of them are good writers operating in an impossible environment.
Bring back the 20th Century