T'was a bright still day on 27 Feb 2002, when I made what was possibly my last ever trip
to see the old stadium. As the rusty tube approached Wembley Park, there she was, a
galliant and remarkable silhouette on the horizon, the towers and floodlights untouched,
the Wembley Walk a desolation row. What a gladiatorial sight!
Its a bit of a miserable wasteland now that the Twin Towers have been abandoned for well
over a year, and it seems the whole area has been run down for some time. The criminals
in power have driven everything into unsavable dereliction. Obviously this advanced state of degradation has served to direct
public opinion into increaed negativity. The building now has the feeling
of something that deserves to be condemned, obliterated. But even in its darkest hour,
that collosal old stadium and its towers strike a mean pose to be reckoned with. If they
dare light them at night, it would be a great spectacle.
It was splendid to see the thick red bastion gate to the Wembley tunnel, a gorgeous
timber clad medieval barracade worthy of any fortress, and so far, left untouched by
the thieving magpies that have inevitably haunted and ransacked the Stadium of various
trophy type decorations for their own devious benefit. Its a shame that its neighbourly
items have been plundered. The 1966 Crest has disappeared, as well as the bust of Arthur
Elvin. Total vandalism is achieved by heisting the double commemorative Olympic Game
tablets. Devastation is complete through the removal of the
tablet columns, probably hoping the structure would collapse into hell.
Oh what a beautiful sight you are you marvellous monsterous Towers, the envy of the
world, symbol of sportsmanship, epic entity of architecture. Theres no mistaking the
wealth of design novelties that went into the elements of windows and domework and
battlementation of the Twin Towers, a mighty statement from London to the
world. How could these loving national symbols be the subject of such betrayal. How could
they be mercilessly cut down, only to be replaced by typical crap multi-cloned cobblers
that may disgrace any amateurs drawing board.
There is no doubt that this, the greatest of stadia, is modelled on works of old, and
bears the marks and traits of many a Roman arena and castle keep. Its not a watery
wet shopping mall design of today. Its a defiant statement. The twin towers of strength. Jealous developers are at this moment breaching the battlements. They would kill us
all for the hunters bounty. Nothing is sacred.
And looking down on all the malaise, these bold and splendid towers that have for
generations been a momentous beholdment. They were the super strident figureheads that
fathered almost a century's worth of sporting and musical workouts.
Percieve seventy thousand heartbeats as you
pass in the shadows of its peaks. Game on!
Drool at the artistry and sculpturing of edwardian excellence. Limitless love of delirious
designs mutate into marvellous manifestations. This is not something to be ignored, this
is something to be celebrated and preserved forever. Someones heart and soul went into
this building Its not the throwaway idiot clone that we see polluting every
city on earth. This is emotionally grand statement that dare not be disturbed. Look upon
Wembleys great Towers and dispair!
Many a man hath troddeth the path to Wembley Stadium, many a crowd bayeth for and against
sporting contingents, or sang along out of tune to their ear shattering mentors. Its all
still echoes here, somewhere, absorbed and secreted from the mighty stone slabs.
This old Wembley Stadium gave a warmth and sympathetic resonance to every cacophonic
delivery. Its an old friend whos been run down and neglected. Show every mercy, deliver
it from evil.
I circumnavagated the stadium. Was quite sad that but for a few million quid the old
ship could be salvaged and upgraded. But this was unlikely. And the mystically quiet
and windswept building stood before me, taking, it seems, its final curtain call. It
was all too eerie, and yet astounding, and then again lonely, in total abandonment.
Thats what its like to stand, shattered in heartbreaking rejection.
It was always a pleasure to climb the main staircase to the Banqueting Hall, whenever
this delight was not barred by the flotsam of hospitality. And from the balcony, one could
survey London's burning horizon, before slipping inside for a discreet gin & tonic. Just
the thing as a prelude to some luscious sporting event.
Breaking off momentarily from the proceedings, I went to check out the remnants of the
sister British Empire Exhibition. Now only a few examples of this sprawling giant of an
ornate and glittering fair are left. The frontage below is next door to the Wembley Arena,
just near the main road. I believe it was the Homelands part of the exhibit, housing a
collection of then modern marvels. This deteriorating facade, once flanked by concrete
lions, has been left to waste. It was never built to last, and from the rear it looks
like part of a feeble film set, but it's lasted 75 years. But just to dream what it once
looked like, what the whole exhibit looked like. Now these realised dreams seem to be
going the way of the Stadium. Ignored, rotting, betrayed.
Once again I stood head on to the towers for possibly a final farewell from Wembley Way.
I sat and stared for what seemed a millenia, taking in the sights and sounds of the
poor quaking relic. Then I retreated, away from the terrifying boundaries of the
emotionless wrecking crew. Now the boards are up, seats and turf sold off, I think its
all over. It is.