I was raised in Kingsbury, north London. In case you’ve never been, it’s one of those places that you would describe as perfectly fine. Shops and houses, decent transport links and decent schools, people of different backgrounds living side by side; nothing to shout about but nothing much to moan about either.
Every so often, however, it is hit by a wave of visitors. They stream out of the underground station, take over the pavements and drink in the local Wetherspoon’s. Why? Because Kingsbury is next door to Wembley and thus the perfect place to go for a relatively quiet pint, or something to eat, before heading to the stadium.
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