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20 hours ago
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I was 17 when I started working at football grounds for some extra cash on the weekends. As the youngest of three girls, I could easily have followed my older sisters into a Saturday job at a local cafe. Instead, I signed away my life (and social life) to a hospitality agency, in exchange for a tenner an hour, flexible shifts and a variety of unflattering uniforms.
As a diehard Hull City fan, I was no stranger to the concourse, but I wasn’t prepared for the trials and tribulations of working in them. From Millwall to Manchester, I’ve seen it all – proposals, tears (mainly my own) and flying pies.
In a baptism of fire, I was thrown into the Lions’ den (literally) when my first shift behind the bar was at Millwall. My attempts to make conversation with the other teenagers lining up at the staff entrance were futile; they were the first team and I felt like the wide-eyed apprentice. Like a line of children on a school trip, we snaked around the stadium, allocated to kiosks by a woman in hi-vis armed with a clipboard.
I felt out of my depth, sweaty and embarrassingly overdressed; my patent school shoes were literally shining out among the sea of Nike trainers. I had no idea what to expect, or what to do, but it became obvious when the kiosk contained only plastic cups, three Carlsberg taps and some Twix.
Up until then, my only experience with Millwall fans had been when I donned my black and amber scarf in the away end, understandably not receiving the warmest welcome. Despite their reputation, the fans were polite. I even had a regular who proposed to me on several occasions, but I wasn’t convinced that 60-year-old toothless Steve and I were the best match. Another memorable encounter was when two blond American women asked whether we sold seltzer. I gestured around my kiosk and replied: “What do you think?”
My proudest moment at Millwall came several shifts later, when some intimidating bushwhackers complimented my pint-pouring skills after I took over from a shaky 16-year-old producing beers which were 50% head. “She’s done this before,” echoed off the concrete walls of the concourse – I finished the shift with a sense of superiority knowing that even though I couldn’t legally drink a pint, I could certainly pull one.
I used my newfound confidence to bag myself a shift up a league, at the swanky Emirates Stadium. Much to my disappointment, my pint-pulling was made obsolete by the newly installed self-filling cups. However, I felt very important when I was searched going in and out of the stadium, only to find out that this was for “revenue protection” – because God forbid your teenage minimum wage workers steal a pack of Tangfastics. But I didn’t mind, because I’d made it to the big leagues and the only way was up; or so I thought.
“Is everyone here OK with asbestos?” were the words my manager greeted me with at my first shift at Craven Cottage. For £12.95 an hour at 17 there was only one answer and so, inhaler in hand, I braved the barrage of Fulham fans arriving for the west London derby. I learned an important lesson that shift – never ask the losing side the score.
Speaking of losing sides, with my move to Manchester for university at 18 came my transfer to Old Trafford. After getting to grips with the concept of trams, I would make the hour-long commute from my dingy student flat to an even dingier 6ft by 4ft kiosk. It wasn’t quite my theatre of dreams but the fans made up for the dilapidated concourse; the travelling Irish fans were charming, polite and more patient waiting for a pint from me than waiting for their team’s losing streak to end. I was also impressed by the “minesweepers” who’d leave the game five minutes early to down abandoned dregs of flat pints, demonstrating their true commitment to reducing waste. But the biggest highlight from my time at Old Trafford was a cheery “Hello!” from Gary Pallister as I dragged overfilled bin bags to the skip.
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I couldn’t help but feel like a traitor to Gary and co when I headed east to the Etihad, swapping my red fleece for a blue “Team Leader” jersey. Still, someone’s got to pay for my student nights out at 42’s. My time here was characterised by not one, but two pie-related incidents … the first when poor Nick the chef was ambushed by Manchester City fans while transporting a tray of chicken balti pies from kitchen to kiosk. He returned: foil-ripped, ashen-faced, chef’s hat in hand, empty-trayed. Like the sole survivor in a zombie apocalypse movie, he refused to go back out there. In another pie-rage incident, I received a steak pie to the face after telling a customer we didn’t have ketchup – wiping away tears and bits of gravy at the same time was a first for me.
After four years of working in football stadiums, I’ve hung up my name badge while I start a full-time career; I’m slightly saddened to think I may never pull a pint in a football ground again. Though fans could sometimes be impatient, I’ll always remember the excitement of being surrounded by hordes of them doing something they loved – we could all learn something from their infectious passion and hope. And Steve from Millwall, if you’re reading this, I’m still single.
