Re: The Poznan (An extract from a forthcoming article).
I Poznan, mainly because I have to. A lesson I quickly learned about this dance found on a cold Thursday evening is that if you don’t join in, the horror comes out. One of two things is certain to happen. The most frequent is that when the crowd turn their backs to the field of play, they turn their faces on you. Immediately in front of you will appear the bouncing face, generally, of a male Mancunian. They’ll look delighted, engaged in frivolous, unifying behaviour. Submitting a spectacle to those on the pitch, a waving mass of blue, a tidal wave of celebration. However, the face will see you and turn to a scowl. You’re the dickhead. Just like the time you went to a Halloween party without fancy dress and people are like ‘well, don’t you look stupid?’
‘Not really. Have you SEEN my jacket. You’re wearing a bin liner. Fuck off. Where’s the drink?’
Alternatively, the guy bouncing up and down next to you will take you roughly by the shoulder, spin you around, and keep bouncing, all the while with a vice-like grip on your shoulder. He may even break skin. He doesn’t give a SHIT.