Clusters of pedestrians walking along a network of streets before funnelling through to the main thoroughfare. The television-dictated change of traditional calendar for another bankable fixture. Few colours. The odd scarf. Older supporters wearing old shirts, from several seasons past, over their jumpers. Some walking past ghost writing graffiti from the ’70s. Homage to an ‘end’ that now only exists in (marketed) name. The one constant being the grand glow. Moths to the proverbial flame, albeit like a sealed lightbox, in the absence of landmark pylons.