How do I love thee? Let me count the ways...









We walk briskly from pubs, bladders bulging with anticipation. Streams of men in questionable coats converge with teenagers in shiny haircuts to cross the once ivy-covered bridge above Luton’s Saturday traffic.





On the other side we walk in the middle of the road, the traffic bowing in submission to the match day crowd. Rounding the corner of Hazelbury Crescent past the iconic Zobra Auto Parts, we recount tales of seasons past and dig deep for the final climb through the home cooked haze of Bury Park.



At the brow of the hill she appears like a used car dealership bolted to the shoulders of a housing estate. Portacabins, chip board and blue metal. Kenilworth Road.





I’ve walked the concrete concourse beneath the Main Stand with almost every member of my family. With friends, girlfriends and people I’ve just met drinking in the Nelson Flagship (RIP).





I’ve been drunker than you should be in the daylight, and more sober than anyone wading to the urinals at the back of the enclosure should ever advisedly be.





I’ve been a child in a fake replica shirt with the badge sewn on; an adult with things to do on a Saturday afternoon.





But once I climb the stairs that lead to the back of the stand - appearing between the wooden PA box and a disinterested steward - I take a breath and always feel exactly the same.





The main stand creaks and groans as seats are filled or flipped up to make way for soon to be bruised shins and calves.





The pitch is obscured by pillars from almost every seat in the ground. The leg room encourages standing and the proximity of the away fans can pull your eyes from the pitch.





In the daylight the years have been unkind. The wrinkles and the bags beneath her eyes squeal through the taps in the toilets and the turnstiles.





But at night she glows like a battered beacon in the Bedfordshire night, switching off all around her.





The old ground is the warm embrace of the house you grew up in.





A childhood sweetheart.





Your worst hangover.





A monument to our disappointment, and our best spent time.