Ukraine fans bring fervour to England’s soulless headquarters

A recorded announcement plays on a loop on the approach to Wembley Stadium. “I’m Clive Tyldesley,” says the voice, for the voice is indeed Clive Tyldesley’s. “It is not allowed to drink alcohol on Olympic Way or the surrounding streets. This is due to a Public Space Protection Order. I’m sorry, it’s the law.”

On Tyldesley goes, advising fans that anybody caught with an open container of alcohol will be dealt with by law enforcement officers, before warning that bags over a certain size will not be permitted into the stadium. “I’m sorry,” Tyldesley repeats, and to be fair he genuinely does sound as if he’s sorry about all this, almost as if he’s reading the message under duress. Then, after a short silence, the recording plays again: “I’m Clive Tyldesley. It is not allowed …”

You will often hear it said that totalitarianism rarely marches in through the door wearing jackboots and military insignia but instead cloaks itself in the softly spoken register of compassion, familiar voices preaching family values. Let’s be very clear here: I am not saying that the onset of martial law in Britain will be heralded by the dulcet tones of Clive Tyldesley being piped over public loudspeakers, explaining that while burdensome these things must nevertheless be done for the greater good. I am categorically not saying that.

All the same there is a weird, menacing kind of vibe to the new Wembley: this vast meaningless white obelisk plonked down in the middle of Brent, slowly chewing up the land around it, sprouting car parks and hotels like pustules.

Other countries take their national sides out on the road, inflect them with local flavour and local colour, bring them to the people. Wembley instead demands that the people bring