Now this is Millwall’s original Den. This was different gravy.
Even Maximus Decimus Meridius wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in here with the wrong scarf on. Give him the Tigris of Gaul and his prancing pussycats any day of the week. Give him a dozen chariots with spikey wheel attachment thingies rather than the Old Den.
The Old Den was un-matched in regard by opposition supporters. Replace ‘Oh that’s a tough place to go’ with ‘You’ve actually been to the Den’ and you begin to understand the meaning of the word fortress in footballing terms.
It wasn’t a physical fortress, more of a mental one. Neither was it a big ground. Wedged between old, rusting, suburban railway lines and commercial properties, it oozed confined exposure.
Old slam-door, electric multiple units and ancient, diesel shunting locomotives rumbled past leaving a layer of brown brake dust on everything around. Once inside, the first thought was how to get out. Watch one of the first episodes of The Sweeney to get a small whiff of the general aroma of the place. I once worked with a fanatical Millwall supporter, called John, who went to every Millwall home game. Strangely, he was one of the nicest blokes I ever met.
A true gladiator.