North London Tavern was equally as raucous, as hundreds of reds packed themselves inside, singing loudly to create an epic atmosphere. On walking in we instantly stuck to the floor like we were back in a dingy 90s back-alley nightclub. It was like wading through a swamp, testament to how much booze had been spilt during the dancing and singing I presumed. It was in there, able to join in the merriments, that I started to come around and liven up, fully ready and energised for the upcoming game. Amazing what a bit of full-blooded singing about your team can do for your mental state.

After a couple of more pints, we set off to Kilburn Station to get to Wembley in good time. The station and platform were bouncing with reds singing passionately, generating an electric atmosphere that was immense to be part of. The usual ‘Wembley! Wembley! We’re the famous Man Utd and we’re going to Wembley!’ and songs about City and the Stretford End ripped through the station.

One thing we didn’t do, which we really should’ve done, was buy a few cans from one of the nearby supermarkets. It’d be over an hour until our next beer and seeing other fans walk the streets with cans left me cursing our decision, but given the intensity of the day’s drinking, a short break probably wasn’t a bad thing. 

After waiting eight minutes for the tube, the station had become a red painting. When the tube pulled up it was near impossible to get on, certainly not comfortably as legions of reds besieged the doors. We only had to wait another minute for the next one, and that one was much calmer. 

On the tube I met my first set of City fans, but everyone was well-behaved, and nothing went past gentle ribbing-like comments about the respective clubs. 

Wembley 

It was only a few stops until we hit Wembley Park. Droves of people exited the carriages and singing from both sets of fans began rumbling in the station as we walked to the exit. Once outside we could see the stadium in the distance. We took a moment to soak it all in before following the crowd down the steps towards Wembley Way. Singing became more prominent between the fans, more coming from United of course, as both sets of fans sang of their achievements. You could feel the tension in the air and the possibility that trouble could spill over at any time. I’m not a violent person at all but even I was getting revved up for the game and thought “I’m jumping in if this goes off.” Thankfully it didn’t.

Our seats were in the blue zone, so we took the long walk around the stadium to the left in search of the entrance. It was the final turnstile and the final block, which I then realised was right next to the City fans, a prospect I was not looking forward to if they pummelled us. However, if we managed to win…well that would be even sweeter. Fortunately, we weren’t sat as close to them as I expected. 

I was gagging for a beer and with kick-off edging closer, I needed something to relieve the stress. Four pints of Carling for £25 was semi reasonable. I dispensed of the fourth one too, downing it quickly to steady the nerves. I think I finished both pints before the other two had finished one! 

Once the beers were emptied, we took up our seats about ten minutes before the game, witnessing the traditional, ‘Abide With Me’ and the national anthem. It was a fantastic view we had, sat in the lower tier just offset from the halfway line. Given they were top end prices, I expected nothing less, but what was gained in the viewpoint could potentially be lost in the atmosphere. Having access to a season ticket in the Stretford End meant that you sacrificed prime viewing for an incredible atmosphere, and I’d always choose atmosphere over the view. I feared something may be lost in our section as the majority of the hardcore fans who followed the Reds all over Europe were likely to be clustered behind the goal. 

Just before kick-off we reiterated our desire just to see an important goal from us in the game so we could have that euphoric feeling wash over us. If we were to lose, I just wanted that one moment that I could savour and remember, that once moment where I could just go mental for a couple of minutes. 

The Match 

The game kicked off and an almighty roar rang around from both sets of fans like a collective wave of nervous tension had just been released within the stadium. Having stood up for the first few minutes it was strange to have to sit down. I think I’ve become too used to standing up in the Stretford End for the whole game these days. It didn’t feel right. 

The game started quite quick, with both teams having an early attack each. A couple of lively moments and flash points with no real clear-cut chances occurred. The time ticked onto thirty minutes, and we looked relatively comfortable, but we knew that things could change in an instant… and they did. 

Out of nowhere, Diogo Dalot lumped a ball forward for Alejandro Garnacho to chase down. He looked second favourite against City’s stalwart defender, Joško Gvardiol, who was more than capable of dealing with the situation, despite his Goalkeeper, Stefan Ortega rushing out… but suddenly, he misplaced his header over the top of Ortega, leaving Garnacho to run onto the ball and shoot into an empty net to give United a 1-0 lead. I’d got what I’d wished for… I got to experience that moment of sheer exhilaration. It was pandemonium in our section. It didn’t matter where we were sat in the stadium as the adrenaline-fuelled ecstasy consumed each and every one of us. I jumped up and down with my two mates hugging, going crazy. I shouted and screamed so hard that I felt a huge head rush and thought I was going to pass out, so I had to curb the celebrations a touch to avoid collapsing to the floor. It felt like my head was going to explode if I carried on. I was ecstatic to have had my Wembley moment, experiencing an important goal, but I was greedy for more. 

I’d not had time to gather my thoughts and comprehend that we’d gone 1-0 up before Garnacho was released again, teeing up Marcus Rashford to guide into the corner. This time I looked immediately at the linesman and saw his flag go straight up, so I was able to tether my celebration. 

United fans were in fine voice on the 39th minute. We took possession inside our own box and played a few passes that ended up at the feet of Marcus Rashford, who played a wonderful, sweeping pass cross field to Garnacho, who collected it and drove towards the box. Bruno Fernandes and Kobbie Mainoo were up with him, but neither made any significant run…jogging towards the goal. Aaron Wan-Bissaka’s dart into the box deceived two defenders and left the space for Garnacho to find Fernandes on the edge of the box. We now know what he really did, but from my viewpoint it initially looked like a skewed shot, but in actual fact it was a sublime, deft pass that set up Mainoo for an easy finish to cap off a fine move and send us fans delirious. The shouting and screaming rippled around us as we jumped up and down furiously again. This time, the guys behind were hugging us, and even the guys in front got involved to. Nobody could quite believe what was happening. This was not in the script, but we found ourselves 2-0 up and thoroughly deserving of it. We could hardly believe it, and neither could the City fans. Both sets of fans were stunned for different reasons, but we knew that this game was far from over. We just needed to get to half-time 2-0 up and compose ourselves, and that went for the fans too. This was not in the script. 

The half time whistle blew, and a collective cheer and sigh of relief exuded from the red half of the stadium. It wasn’t even job half done because we knew City were more than capable of taking this to extra time or even winning within 90 minutes, especially in view of the seismic collapses we’d endured this season. We imagined that City fans would still be quietly confident of getting back into this. I needed a beer! 

I couldn’t comprehend what I’d just witnessed. We were playing really well and found ourselves 2-0 up. I thought about how gutted I’d be if we lost this now, and that thought made me lose my head a bit. I quickly logged onto my Will Hill account and emptied my balance of £40 to bet on City to win the tie. If we were to lose this now, I needed something out of it, but I would’ve gladly paid £40 to hold on… shit I’d have paid £1,000 in that moment. 

The queue for the bar was worse than Old Trafford. I thought Wembley would be well equipped to serve everyone needing a beer at half time, especially considering that not as many people left their seats five minutes beforehand in order to gain a foothold in the queue. We queued for that long we missed the start of the second half, which wasn’t such a bad thing. The longer it took for me to get back to my seat the better, so I didn’t have to sit through the oncoming onslaught about to terrorise our goal and put me through the mill. We only had time for a water to take back to our seats. Considering we’d had about seven pints already, it probably wasn’t a bad idea to rehydrate ready for the evening’s drinking. With three waters in tow (I downed mine nervously in seconds) we ventured back to our seats on 52 minutes, saving ourselves seven minutes of nerve-racking agony. 

As expected, City dominated possession in the second half, and much of the play revolved around our box. I clock-watched like I’ve never clock-watched before. Time was sluggish. Surely the clock had a fault and was ticking slower than usual. Seconds felt like minutes, minutes felt like hours as we watched in silence, wondering how this was going to play out. I panicked at every semi-decent City attack. I couldn’t handle this at all. It felt like if City scored one then it may as well be two, as a second would surely follow - but as time ticked on, and despite a few scares, they failed to score. Haaland hit the bar, Alvarez missed their best chance by slotting wide of the post when clean through. A couple of long-range efforts on target were saved by Onana. Corner after corner came in but United defended the best they had all season, repelling all that was thrust upon them. Respites in play were few and far between as we sought to break up the pressure with rare attacks in the opposition’s half. 

It was torturous! I kept checking the scoreboard every thirty seconds or so, before bargaining with myself not to check it until the next time the ball goes out of play. 70 minutes slowly crept to 80 minutes and the fans found their voice again, sensing victory, daring to believe after a period of nail-biting stillness. The tension inside Wembley became palpable. We rallied to get behind the boys and help them over the line. This was fast becoming the worst half of football in my life. It was a test of one’s mental strength and I didn’t even know what the test in strength was in aid of… basically just sitting and watching a football match unfold. There was nothing I could do but be put through my paces. 

87 minutes and Doku, who had been City’s most threatening player, cut in from the left and fired a soft shot into the near post that Onana failed to deal with and could only parry into the goal. My arse fell out. Surely, that was it and the floodgates would open, and City would get a second goal and take this to an unbearable thirty minutes of extra-time. The 4th official held up seven minutes of additional time to play. Nerves jangled in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t take it. It was like watching a horror movie, just waiting for that moment that makes you jump. Time appeared to tick down even slower now, but City rarely threatened again. They just continued to play around our box as our defence stood firm. 

Then, Hojlund broke onto a loose ball and brilliantly kept possession before being fouled. You sensed that was surely it. We dared to dream that it was all over, and when Fernandes punted the resulting free-kick out for a throw-in, the ref decided that was enough. Man Utd had done it! Against all the odds and all the hopelessness portrayed in the media, they had pulled off what seemed like a miracle. But in reality, this is Man Utd! Always expect the unexpected! Never write us off! We’d played brilliantly, defended staunchly, attacked wonderfully when necessary, and above all else out fought our opponents. What a victory! 

The roar from the crowd was deafening, born out of relief and elation. The players mirrored the fans delight by dancing and jumping around amongst themselves, deservedly celebrating ecstatically. It was fantastic to see, more so that the fans could be so proud of their team after a disappointing campaign. The majority of us were happy for our manager Erik Ten Hag, who had suffered a torrid time this season subjected to the typically negative media narrative that encircles Man Utd the moment something goes wrong.

I watched on, witnessing United win a trophy for the first time. I soaked it all up, the fans jubilation, the players celebrations, all while smirking at the City fans making their way to the exits in their hoards. To be fair, a few did stay behind and stuck by their team for the runners-up presentation. 

Sir Alex Ferguson was shown from time to time on the big screen and whenever he appeared the fans would give a loud cheer in honour of our Godfather. 

The time had come for the players to make their way up the steps to the podium to collect their medals and lift the trophy. It was the opposite side of the stadium to me so they looked like dots in the distance, but I could see their faces clearly on the big screen as Bruno Fernandes lifted and shook the cup in delight to the thunderous cheers of the red army in the background. The famous trophy was passed along as each player took a turn in holding it aloft, but the biggest cheer was saved for when the players pushed the trophy onto Erik Ten Hag, who resisted at first before accepting it in his hands. He kissed it and held it high towards the United end behind the goal. 

We stayed around for the next half hour or so as the players made their way around the red half of the pitch, proudly showing off their achievement and waving to fans. Once the dust had settled the fans started to slowly filter out - it was time for us to carry on our own celebrations elsewhere. 

Post-Match 

After a quick burger from one of the vans outside the stadium, we attempted to take the direct route down Wembley Way to the fan zones to be with our fellow reds to celebrate. But the masses of people attempting to get to the tube station was like the Swinton Interchange at 8:30am on a Monday. Needing a rethink, we decided to head to one of the hotels located on the other side of the stadium. 

We ended up in the ibis, where the queue for a drink was snake-like, but we thought it’d be like that everywhere, so we stuck it out for twenty minutes or so till we got served. We managed to find a seat and I immediately felt the rush of fatigue. I was emotionally drained from the pulsating 90-minute rollercoaster. 

After our solitary pint we headed the long way around to the Man Utd fan zone, passing through the City zones, where a few of the fans appeared quite bitter in defeat. I saw a number of different fans shake hands with United fans and then say, ‘Congratulations, you’ve finally won something.’ This wasn’t done as light-hearted banter; this was done passive aggressively and they continued to call us ‘Shit’ as they carried on walking. 

The smaller pubs in the United area didn’t look too appealing, so we ventured up to Crock of Gold and The Torch further past Wembley Park station. However, both pubs refused us entry, stating that they were closing at 7pm, which was baffling. So, we decided to head back to Kilburn, where we’d had a great time before kick-off. 

The station was relatively quiet after the hordes of fans had passed, so it was easy enough jumping the tube back down to Kilburn. I checked my phone as floods of messages had come through from various people and WhatsApp groups. It was all Man Utd related. My cousin and friends, who could’ve gone but chose not to, expressed how gutted they were about not taking a chance to experience one of the best FA Cup triumphs Man Utd had had since 1999. 

The North London Tavern was full of reds and the atmosphere was energetic and boisterous. MUTV was on in the background for good measure too. It wasn’t long before the singing started up and the celebrations continued. We spoke to fellow fans, getting their perspective on things, relishing the moment. Talking to fans is what it’s all about on match day. The camaraderie is instant as you feel like you’ve known each fan you talk to for years. They mirror you in so many ways, unified in our love for United.

One particular fan made me laugh when he asked if we’d seen Erik Ten Hag’s post-match press conference. We hadn’t, so he said, ‘Well when you get in tonight and after you’ve had a wank, watch Match of the Day.’ 

The music was fantastic and apt as the United songs played in their original form so that we could all belt back the lyrics in a full, united voice. Songs of players past and present, legends of our club were roared out. There is the sense of passing on these stories to the next generation and keeping certain players memories alive forever. We sang about Busby, Best, Wes Brown, Andrew Cole, Michael Carrick, Robin Van Persie, as well as many others. I may be wrong and will hold my hands up if I am, but surely no other club in English football has as many songs and will still sing songs from players who left 5, 10, 15, 30, 60 years ago. This became more evident when I posted a video on my Facebook of everyone singing ‘Oooh Ahhh Eric Cantona’ to the tune of ‘Go West’ by Pet Shop Boys, only for a Liverpool fan to comment, ‘I can’t believe you still sing that song’, seemingly trying to mock us. Singing his name, and others alike is a sign of respect and I see it as motivation for players to succeed. If you want to be a legend at this club and have your name live forever, then United fans will give you that opportunity, if you give your heart and soul to the team. It’s testament to how special this club really is. 

The best part of the chanting came towards the end of that Eric Cantona rendition. It slowly turned into ‘Ooh Ahh Erik Ten Hag,’ and it carried on like that for about thirty minutes solid after the music had been switched off. There was no let-up whatsoever as the whole pub was joined in song. It was simply incredible and a show of support and fan intent, wanting our manager to stay for the next season. The man deserves one more year. Our fans know, and INEOS must take heed of that. 

That was the final act in the North London Tavern as they were shutting at 9.30pm. It seemed a bit early for London, especially when there’s obvious money to be made before standard last orders at 11pm. But I’d heard that London is not quite what it was and shuts early these days. Other friends had said the same about Soho when they went there later that night. 

We went into the Sir Colin Campbell for one, where it was a different tone. A bit less rowdy and a guy with a fiddle singing from the comfort of his chair tucked away in the corner. We were winding down after a hectic day, maybe flagging a bit. We moved onto McGlynn’s for one, before getting a gruelling Uber back to our hotel next to Heathrow. A forty-five-minute journey was not ideal at the end of a long day. 

Once we arrived, we couldn’t resist one final nightcap in the Moxy next door, just to finish the night off and then took the slow walk back to our hotel, where sleep was a lot easier than the previous night. That night, basking in the glory of the club’s win, we slept soundly. 

Sunday 

We woke up relatively early and got ready to leave at around 10:30am to make good time to get back to Manchester. We had a blip with a thirty-minute delay on the M6, so I didn’t get home until 4pm. We did pass a couple of City fans with their scarves flying out of the car. My mate showed a picture of the Man Utd badge via his phone to them as we passed and started cheering wildly, just to rub a little more salt into the wound. 

The drive home was quiet as we were all tired, but it gave me time to reflect on the past couple of days. How could a team that struggled vs Coventry make such light work of Man City? It’s what we expect from this United side, to expect the unexpected. After a frustrating season of more lows than highs, it was great to end on such a monumental note, which we hoped would give renewed confidence going into the new season. Before the game I was willing the season to end, but now I’m looking forward to it starting up again with hopefully a few new solid additions to the squad under our new structure. It’s an important transfer window, and I’m anticipating good things to build on. With no obvious choice of a manager to replace Ten Hag, I think it’s important to give him one more year and see if he can turn this around and build on the emphasis of youth again. Our young players will have one more years’ experience and have had that winning feeling which they need to get greedy for. That can only hold us in good stead. But for now, I’m going to enjoy the summer knowing we’ve won an enormous FA Cup. 

It’s been a pleasure writing this blog about our two nights in London. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading it. I wanted to give an insight into how the two days played out and give fans a chance to relive and remember their own journey that day/weekend. Who knows, maybe I’ll get lucky and get to a domestic away game or one in Europe some day… or even another final and I can do all this again. My final word on the weekend is that we have once again proved that you can never write United off! We’ll never die! And the red flag will always be kept flying high! 

By N J Cartner