Behind the main stand smoke rises from factory chimneys. There are fewer cars in the streets, more old men.  The tea ladies carry naugahyde handbags and wear see-through plastic head squares. The ball boys in their baggy cotton tracksuits sit beside photographers in trench-coats – no more than one or two of the latter. Football then was never front page news, kept firmly in the back beyond share prices, the racing form and the pictures of minor members of the Royal Family opening swimming baths in newly built suburbs.  The only bright splashes in the crowd are the hand-knit scarves and the occasionally red- lining in a parka hood. Replica shirts were a thing for the future, the only people in sportswear at a ground were the players. Even the managers sported expensive leather car coats and sensible shoes.  Soon the demob haircuts give way to Mod-ish side-partings, then feathered unisex dos; Zapata moustaches will acquiesce to bubble perms, refulgent mullets and Hoxton fins, but always too late for anyone to claim to be cutting edge.