They came with their camp chairs and their flasks. They put on their thick coats and woolly hats and for hours they nudged their way down the winding queue in the freezing cold towards the ticket office.
Those who made it strode away from Rodney Parade clutching the prize and phoned family to give them the good news. Those who didn’t get to the front before the shutters came down trudged home and returned the next day.
The first man there, knowing what chaos had come before, arrived at 4am. The ticket office wasn’t meant to open until 10am.