STADIA: LOFTUS ROAD AND KENILWORTH ROAD

A chair was hurled against the window, which quivered on impact. The line of policeman stood outside The Green did not see fit to enter the pub and merely held formation, censureless.

Certain fans of Plymouth Argyle Football Club had chosen to drink there on account of the name The Green reflecting the colour of the shirts that Plymouth Argyle play in. The Green had been invaded by The Green Army. We drank our pints swiftly, for although we too were supporters of Plymouth Argyle, the launching of furniture towards plate glass fenestrations was not something that particularly interested us. Moreover, the group of people from whence the chair had emanated were surely capable of lobbing chairs in other directions too. In spite of our shared desire to see Plymouth Argyle defeat Queens Park Rangers, the sort of mind that sees fit to toss around furnishings in confined spaces does not tend to discriminate.

Loftus Road in Shepherd’s Bush is a favourite stadium of mine. Unfortunately, the locality has rather a harsh reputation. The gloomy West 12 shopping precinct might have something to do with it, and the West Cross Route is grimmer still. Embedded betwixt Hammersmith, Acton, White City, Notting Hill and Kensington, Shepherd’s Bush can feel squeezed. Shepherd’s Bush Green itself, at its centre, is airy and arboreal, and much of the surrounding housing dates back to the late 19th century – Victorian terraces mainly, which is no bad thing. Still, the environment at Loftus Road is a physical hindrance, prohibiting expansion and limiting development.

Practically speaking, Loftus Road reached its extremity when QPR concurrently rebuilt the School End and Loftus Road stands in 1980 and ’81 respectively. Loftus Road backs onto terraced housing, while the School End overlooks a school – Jack Tizard School precisely. Built in 1972, the Ellerslie Road Stand, on Ellerslie Road, is encumbered with similarly residential concerns. Finally, The South Africa Road Stand (1968/69) is hampered by both its namesake and the four storey structure that has been tacked on its rear, as functional in its appearance as its purpose dictates: office space.

The overall impression is of rectangular cuboids and of the colour blue. The ground is almost as straightforward as this crude reduction suggests. The South Africa Road Stand is its centre piece, a tidy two-tiered structure with a single row of executive boxes in between and an outward appearance that belies its age. It is of ‘post and beam’ construction, but the posts – one at each end and two equidistantly between – are relatively unobtrusive. The Ellerslie Road Stand opposite is similarly supported but offers just one tier. It is the least remarkable stand of the four but by no means unattractive. The School End and Loftus Road are virtually identical and also the most interesting. They comprise of two tightly packed overhung tiers almost running the width of the entire ground. Their roofs converge with those of the South Africa and Ellerslie Road stands, not seamlessly but coherently enough to present the stadium as a single entity. That the fasciae are all painted the same shade of blue augments this impression. The stadium is completely enclosed, and the boundary between the stands and the pitch is contiguous. Incidental features include a video screen mounted above the School End, a television gantry suspended below the roof of the Ellerslie Road Stand, and four elegantly slim floodlight pylons emanating from behind the School and Loftus Road ends.

Problem: a limited capacity of 18,439. For the last forty odd years Queens Park Rangers have oscillated consistently between the top two strata of the English football league. Currently competing in the second, they’re averaging an attendance of between 14 and 15,000. If they were to be promoted this capacity would be found wanting. It is reasonable, then, that QPR are examining the possibility of relocating to Old Oak Common with the intention of building a new ground with room enough for 40,000 fans. This sort of thing takes time. Should QPR face relegation, rather than promotion, these plans will more than likely be shelved. In such an event, their fans can console themselves with their continued residency at Loftus Road.

The football hooligan is afflicted with what could be described as ‘combat envy’ – a sort of collective guilt for having not fought in the Second World War. Aware of the horrors that became his ancestors, the hooligan wishes to atone in some way, but not to the extent that he’ll join the actual army and put himself in any substantive danger. The sacrificial element intrinsic to combat does not interest him. He considers only his reputation: that people might think he somehow isn’t up to the job of his forebears, that he’s not ‘hard enough'.

However, the thug does not aspire towards meting out random acts of violence upon disinterested parties. Instead, the mob – or ‘firm’ in football parlance – will simultaneously seek out pitched battles with complicit rival factions while also engaging the local constabulary with impertinent acts of antagonism. Indeed, if the police presence is significant enough, or sufficiently equipped, the respective firms may enter into coalition and direct their aggression solely towards the state apparatus. In this sense, the thug supporter sees himself more as some sort of fifth columnist. The role being played is not one of an occupying force – even when brawling at home – but of insurgent, guerrilla, or terrorist.

One should appreciate that the British police officer is not a gendarme: his or her role is primarily that of keeper of the peace. This plays perfectly into the deranged fantasy of the yob. As tensions rise, it can be imagined that the uniformed police are in fact infantry – a modern day Wehrmacht – whereas the firm is some sort of people’s army fighting against the odds, in civvies (but completely free from the threat of long term incarceration – or ‘disappearing’). If in Britain there existed something approximating Italy’s Carabinieri, these naive re-enactments would take on a much darker and improbable dimension. When the Metropolitan Police (or Waffen-SS for the sake of the metaphor) are involved, they sometimes do. Yet this is no incitement to riot but merely an opportunity for the deconstructed idiot to exhibit in front of his mates, cosy up to a horse and protest innocence when the mounted police officer tells him in no uncertain terms to back off. Then, as the fans are marshalled to the ground as a collective, the mob will sing about how they’ll never capitulate to the IRA – official, provisional, continuity, or otherwise.

Kenilworth Road is as confined as Loftus Road, but with added eccentricities. Comprised of five separate stands, the shape delineated is actually of an irregular hexagon. The A505 (Hatters Way) and the Luton to Dunstable Busway interrupts the Main Stand at an acute angle, and the crooked David Preece Stand fills in the gap awkwardly. It has the appearance of a diminutive two-tiered structure that’s been bent in the middle and had the lower tier removed (to provide access). It holds 711 spectators.

The Bobbers Stand is odder still, comprised of what passes for executive boxes. Whose idea was this? It was never a very big stand on account of the housing behind, although it used to accommodate 1,539 seated supporters. I have not been able to find out how many it seats now but it can’t be much more than a few hundred.

The Oak Road Stand (capacity 1,800) and the strangeness doesn’t let up. Its roof, pitched, is comprised of three staggered sections that rise in height to meet the Main Stand to its right. The entrance occupies what at one point must have been the ground floors of two neighbouring terraced houses, yet the top floors, and the front doors leading to them, remain intact. Once the fan has passed under these tenements they must climb a set of stairs that offer an intimate view of the terraced gardens either side. Loftus Road’s surroundings appear boundless by comparison.

Then there’s the Main Stand, which isn’t without eccentricity either. It appears at first glance fairly cohesive, but not only does it have to put up with the David Preece Stand’s clumsy incursion on its territory, three floodlight pylons blight the lower terrace. These aren’t the spindly stanchions incorporated so successfully at Loftus Road but more substantial latticed steel affairs. The club’s offices and utilities and the Nick Owen and Eric Morecambe suites are built on the back.

Finally, there’s the Kenilworth Stand, which has a flat roof, 3,229 seats, no significant visual encumbrances and room enough for a carpark out the front.

Kenilworth Road, looking from the Oak Road Stand, the Bobbers Stand to the left.

The stadiums of early antiquity were nothing more than acclivities with the ground levelled before them. These grassy verges were later fashioned into actual terraces, but they were still built upon naturally sloping land – there was no exterior to speak of. Practically speaking, it was the Romans who built the first freestanding amphitheatres, radically changing how such structures presented themselves. From possessing just one functional aspect, the stadium now possessed three: the façade, the interior, and the cavea.

This multi-dimensional perspective does not normally apply. Where form follows function, a building’s relationship with itself is more usually binary, symbiotic. Its innards cater to its functionality – a place to sleep, eat, work, etc. – and the external walls are present by default, to bear the roof and to demarcate the territory. The same cannot be said of the stadium, where the inside is outside too because what goes on inside is taking place outside. Its exterior then is continuous: it can be interpreted as both its inward and outward appearance. In its rawest form, what might be referred to as the stadium’s walls are in fact the underside of the cavea: they are not designed to protect this exposed internality but to physically uphold it. (Where an actual interior is present it is subservient to the building as a whole, providing toilets, ticket offices, changing rooms and other extraneous utilities. In this respect, the stadium is comparable to the railway station.)

Unlike those early auditoriums of antiquity (or even some of the Soviet ‘superbowls’ that were dug into the earth after the Second World War: Warsaw’s 10th-Anniversary Stadium; the Kirov Stadium in St Petersburg) Loftus and Kenilworth Road are freestanding structures. Except, so hemmed in are they, if you tore their floodlights down you might struggle to find them. There are no boulevards, concourses, squares, parks, or any other types of open space from which to view these buildings as independent structures. But where one can ascertain an external presence at QPR – if you look for it – it’s a real struggle at Luton. From Ivy, Beech and Clifton roads, one encounters fragments of breeze blocked walls and corrugated steel, random brickwork and wooden doors, peeling paint and corroded air-conditioning units. For all the onlooker knows, they’ve come up against something like an industrial estate or the back-end of a bingo hall.

I do not mean to disparage Kenilworth Road. A football ground can live with a shabby exterior, the atmosphere within unaffected; who is to say that a stadium’s aesthetic appeal rests upon the ability to perceive it from a variety of angles. I suppose the problem for many of these smaller grounds is the uncertain choices that their clubs face: to move on, redevelop, or settle for what they’ve got. And if move on, then where to?

STADIA: WEMBLEY STADIUM AND THE EMIRATES, LONDON

The fad in England for fabricating stadiums from scratch is relatively new. Take the Premier League. Anfield, Goodison Park, White Hart Lane, Old Trafford, Selhurst Park, Stamford Bridge, The Hawthorns, Turfmoor, Vicarage Road and St James's Park have all evolved over time, unbeholden to any overarching scheme or long-term vision. Like Theseus's proverbial ship, they have mutated, in fits and starts, and resemble little their nascent self. (At Old Trafford they have aspired to create the illusion of architectural forethought, but those horribly disjointed corner sections fool no-one.) Conversely, the Emirates Stadium, Britannia Stadium, King Power Stadium, Kirklees Stadium, Liberty Stadium, Vitality Stadium, St. Mary’s Stadium and Falmer Stadium are all ‘new builds’. That’s a lot stadium, constructed to replace grounds that were deemed variously to be too small, too old, too awkward, too dangerous, too uncomfortable, or too ugly – and irredeemably so. Unfortunately, from an architectural perspective many of them can be found wanting. Much of them look like they have been assembled by the same firm that knocked up your local supermarket (and may well have been). They have also been divested of their original name, to be rechristened in honour of the patrons who pay money to be honoured.

It is a matter of cost and spatial constraint. The clubs that have developed their existing homes remain where they are. Those that have built new stadiums have done so out of town, or – particularly in London where out of town can manifest itself as somewhere else entirely – on derelict land, probably at greater cost. Indeed, out-of-town developments appear to be all the rage, again echoing the sort of cheap and prefabricated buildings that are more usually built on the fringes of urban conurbations – supermarkets, factories, storage facilities, head offices.

Other stadia have neither been razed to the ground nor replaced stand by stand but built upon and expanded upward and outward. This has certainly happened at Old Trafford, and it is in the process of happening at the City of Manchester Stadium (upon a stadium purpose built in the first instance but now regarded as lacking capacity). This approach has precedence elsewhere, particularly in European countries lining the Mediterranean: the San Siro in Milan; Bologna’s Stadio Renato Dall'Ara; the Stade Vélodrome in Marseille (hard to tell since they wacked a roof on it); the now demolished Estádio das Antas in Porto which was extended downward to increase capacity; Barcelona’s Camp Nou, Estadio Santiago Bernabeu in Madrid, and stadiums in Spain generally; as well as the Philips Stadion in Eindhoven, where the effect is reminiscent of that at Old Trafford.

It has been suggested that by the time Wembley Stadium had been rebuilt its design was obsolete. The conceit is that it was the last of a generation of stadia constructed in the mid-1990s through to the early 2000s that might be said to include grounds such as the Amsterdam Arena (opened in 1996), Stade de France (1998), Cardiff's Millennium Stadium (1999), Lisbon’s Estádio da Luz (2003). The supplanting of the original Wembley Stadium (and whether or not its iconic twin towers could be incorporated into any notional design) was conceived in the late 1990s, scheduled to commence in the year 2000 – ground was eventually broken in September 2002 – and completed in 2007, by which time it was one of the most expensive projects of its kind.

The economics, politics and general shambles of the whole affair aside, the new Wembley Stadium, with its iconic new arch, appeared to go down rather well. I suspect that those who applauded it didn't bother too much appraising its exterior but were pleased with the scale and uniformity of its interior, which wouldn't look out of place hosting American Football (which it does from time to time). In comparison to its predecessor, the thing is luxuriant.

And what of its exterior? It is inoffensive enough, and from the air the roof imparts a certain fragmentary appeal. The arch, which can be illuminated, seems less of a gimmick now than when it was first proposed as some sort of conciliatory exchange for those famous twin towers. Overlooking the decision to install bright red seats, it is a decent enough stadium, albeit, in an architectural sense, a very predictable one. It presents as a rotunda of glass, steel and plastic, just like any other inner-city edifice.

It was perhaps Munich’s Allianz Arena that underlined the fact that stadium presentation had moved beyond more familiar modes of urban planning. From within, the Allianz Arena doesn’t appear to break any moulds, although the seats are a pleasing shade of grey, which in itself is refreshing. From outside the stadium’s ambition is immediately apparent. Shrouded completely in Ethylene Tetrafluoroethylene – a fluorine-based plastic – when illuminated the effect has been compared to that of a paper lantern, or lampshade. You get the feeling the whole structure could at any moment float upward like some benign zeppelin. Moreover, the roof can be scrolled backward in sections to let in light and aerate the interior as required. Wembley’s roof can move about a bit too, but more laterally and with a greater sense of burden.

Wembley’s lack of imagination is not confined to its sense of inertia or its garish seating. The matter is not one merely of materials, or that it could so easily be mistaken for something else. The removal of the twin towers, and the arch in its place, is forgiven. What disappoints is that the design for Wembley Stadium was so obviously derivative. It looked around at what other cities were building and elected to do blandly the same, just on a slightly larger scale.

The Emirates, home to Arsenal FC, doesn’t suffer from the same deficiencies. By embracing its financial limitations, and making a virtue of them, an idea relating to its specific purpose is embraced. Ostensibly, this ground is as conservative as Wembley: oval, the seats are red again, oscillating top tier, plenty of glass and steel. But these constituents have been arranged differently, with more thought. The almost perfectly elliptical perimeter of the building is broken up into alternating sections of glass, then concrete, glass, then concrete, etc. The fashion for cladding has been resisted, nothing is hidden, utility defines it. There are pleasing touches, such as vertical slits cut out in these concrete sections that reveal the stairwells behind them. The glass fronted portions of the building are canted and protrude slightly, overlapping over the joins with the concrete. The underside of the roof is smooth, reflective, and supported by steel trusses painted in white. Overall, the structure is not as cumbersome, more airy, and doesn’t impose so evidently upon the surrounding (and less industrial) environment. It conveys that what goes on here is something out in the open. I stare at Wembley Stadium and imagine a thousand office workers sat at their desks.

ASPECTS OF LONDON

Waterloo Bridge has no greater significance beyond the many other bridges that span the Thames. Every vault has its own history, and that any particular recapitulation may be considered more vital than another is surely moot – a matter for taste or self-interest. That said, Waterloo Bridge was rebuilt by a largely female workforce during the Second World War, which to some might seem remarkable. For those who lived through that conflict it should appear less so. In stark contrast to our Teutonic enemy, Great Britain embraced the potential of its female workforce and invested in them all sorts of heavy, menial tasks. What is worthy of remark is the fact that, on officially revealing the reconstructed article, there was no mention of the 25,000 female workers who'd put their back into building it. None the less, it is known to many Londoners as 'Ladies Bridge', which is an appreciation of sorts.

Hewn from Portland stone – a material respected for its ‘self-cleaning' properties, the process of lithification peculiar to this rock offering a resilience to the elements that appropriates its use in more urban settings – it is a graceful, contemporary bridge, cantilever in design. Its situation – breaching a north to east meander in the river – offers contrasting views. The riparian aspect to the south-west has changed very little in recent times. The London Eye has rested upon the south bank of the Thames for over 15 years now, its initial five year planning application having long been forgotten, renewed, and the matter presumably taken over by the GLA or the LDA. I'm not sure I like the London Eye being there – I like it, but maybe not there – but have come to accept it. I am grateful for the buildings that lie beside – the Royal Festival Hall in particular – for they are just about capable of bearing the responsibility of ensuring that this ridiculous Ferris wheel doesn’t completely detract from its surroundings.

The bank of the Thames that faces the London Eye represents a completely different proposition. Compromised of Whitehall Court, the Norman Shaw Buildings and Portcullis House, it is a spiky, perpendicular Gothic apparition very much in keeping with London's mythic pre-blitz past, and one that jars with the neoclassical Ministry of Defence building and the Shell Centre (more Portland Stone) on the other side of the river (post war developments both). This architectural disparity evokes visions of some of the formerly Soviet cities of central Europe – Budapest springs to mind. One barely notices the towers of Battersea Power Station, or the panelled, glass-clad buildings beyond that are coming to define present-day Vauxhall.

In any case, we have an amalgamation of architectural style that appears to seek concord with a vision of London as a low-rise city. Forget the towers – Elizabeth and Victoria – that protrude from the Palace of Westminster: they are mere aberrations and not all that tall anyway.

Looking east offers an entirely different perspective. It is to The City that I point this charge: The Gherkin, the Walkie-Talkie, Leadenhall Building, Heron Tower, CityPoint, and the many other developments that have filled in the gaps in and around Liverpool Street, St. Pauls and Fenchurch Street. The depth of field is deceptive and it’s not as clustered as it looks, but from Ladies Bridge it appears a symphony of glass and height. Add to this the Blackfriars Bridge development, with its fragmented solar panelled roof, and the illusion is complete. The City of London is beginning to resemble some sort of Oriental metropolis, like Beijing or Singapore.

A similar thing happened to Docklands not so long ago, but without the ancient physical characteristics that have been forcefully assimilated into this new City of London. Docklands was a waste-land by comparison, and seems less exotic. There’s more of an American flavour to it, laid out along perpendicular lines.

There are other areas of London that exhibit their own distinct architectural flavour, although this distinction in character is not always so perceivable from street-level. If The City represents some sort of futurist, Eastern vision with English Baroque elements, and the west a comfy tribute to both Europe’s Napoleonic and Soviet past, then Southwark offers up yet another schizophrenic tableaux. The South Bank extols the Brutalism that took hold after the Second World War: Bankside Power Station in the guise of the Tate Modern, and the whole of the Southbank Centre. Yet the area behind is a mix of Victorian terracing and low-rise tower blocks, and glass fronted buildings are intruding at any given opportunity. I like the atmosphere in and around Southwark, although it’s hard to put a finger on.

I wonder how much of this is deliberate. I speculate as to whether those in charge of town planning really know what they are doing. I entertain the thought that the whole of London is one circumstantial accident, and that its visual impact is entirely arbitrary. It probably is, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. My concern, however, is that over time these separate architectural enclaves will segue into one another, as land is sold and built upon in whatever style happens to be à la mode. And then one could stand on Ladies Bridge and whichever way one looked would reap only indistinguishable, homogeneous rewards.