The Premiership gate crashed the sporting calendar in 1992 and as I walk to the ground, the same way I always have, I can't help reflecting on the game in the 21st Century and those that now surround me.

They were different days, simpler, less complicated. Am I old, or did things make more sense back then? If you wanted to go to the match, it kicked off at 3pm on Saturday afternoon, you turned up at the ground at 2pm and you queued, you'd stand clutching your pound note and slowly the snake would carry you in through the stiff noisy turnstile. You'd never quite know where you'd stand and you'd never quite end up where you started?? These days, you pre-book your matchday ticket on something called the Internet, assuming you're a member, or you can pay for a season ticket, via direct debit assuming you're 'au fait' with eCommerce and be whisked through the executive swing doors at the side, be shown to your own special seat, or even watch the game from an armchair, through a large glass screen.

I can't help reminiscing as I sink into my sofa, in front of my 40 inch plasma screen TV, with a plate full of crispy chilli beef, in golden batter, served on a bed of rice and drizzled in sweet chilli sauce, about the times when we couldn't watch every minute of every game, we couldn't enjoy the pleasures of "Player Cam", online goal technology and 'telestrators complete with whirling sound effects'. My pleasures came in a more simple form, Friday evening 6:30pm Gerald Sinstadt would bring me the news I needed to know, on Granada's Kick Off. Then, after the match I could return home, with a bag of chips and a can of Tizer, praying, PRAYING that Jimmy Hill had chosen our game, the game I had just seen, to be one of the 3 games anointed by the BBC and be on the show that night. For, if WE were selected, that meant that the whole country could share our pleasure, or have to wait another 7 days before the 'TV Football Bus' stopped again at our house.

People in the 21st Century have more choice, they can wear any one of 30 different officially sanctioned hats, they can wear baseball caps, beanies, Bronx hats, the gangsta chic 'Graffiti Pull On', or even the celebrated Jester's Hat. We had choices to make in my day too mind, you could wear the red bobble hat or the black bobble hat. When it's cold, you can now choose from fully endorsed hooded sweats, full zip jackets, fleeces and puffa coats, we had a more simple solution, tie your scarf tightly around your right wrist. Even the kits are changing, these days the players get to wear lightweight, vaportech, polyester 'go faster' shirts with asymmetric swooshes, drop shadow numbers and Premiership logos (£3 each), all we had were heavyweight cotton with the number stitched on the back. They may not have cost as much as the modern ones, but you'd never dream of swapping one, because you'd need it next week.

Your modern footballers have a lot to contend with, they are now forced to wear sleek 'football shoes' with names like Pulsado, X400SG and Predator Manic. These shoes have blades, which allow them to turn quicker than their body should allow and the lightweight synthetic materials make it feel like you're wearing nothing at all. Players of old used to have to muddle through with leather boots, laces and 6 nylon screw in studs AND there was no such things as broken metatarsals and ruptured ankle ligaments to contend with, in those days either!

UEFA have refined the game, made it more exciting, freer flowing, a better spectacle. If you went beyond the last defender before the ball was played, you were offside, these days that isn't the case, you may well be passive and only become active during the second phase possession assuming you've tracked back into an onside position. These days players must leave the field of play if they have blood on their shirt, 30 years ago, they were sent back out if they didn't. These days, you can be sent off for 'simulation', previously you were only sent off if you actually knocked the fella out. These days the game can be stopped for many exciting and diverse reasons, kicking the ball away, leaving the field of play, managers getting out of their box and even head injuries.

In olden days we used to enjoy the old "North Westerns", shoot outs at the "OT Corral", "Big Jim" Holton and Denis "The Lawman" would come up against "Crazy Horse" and Tommy "The Tanker", they'd meet at High Noon, before the saloons opened and do battle, last man standing owned the town. Modern footy is more a case of Crouching African, Hidden Brazilian as players from all four corners of the globe, pitch their tents in the Premiership Halls Of Fame. We have Ivorians, Togans, Peruvians, Canadians, I believe there's even a Scotsman at Old Trafford. There's Koreans, Chinese, Japanese, Dirtiknees, it's more like a Far Eastern than a North Western. These players turn up, play for a while, then are contractually obligated to represent their country in the ACN, CONCACAF, MFI and HMV every other winter, or inopportune moment, which ever is the more frequent. We had Nobby from Collyhurst, now we have Ji-Sung from Korea.

Is football such a different game these days? Me and my mates used to travel the length and the breadth of the country following our idols. We would run the gauntlet at Burnden Park, Highfield Road and Filbert Street, these days you'll find yourselves at out of town train stations looking for such grandiose locations as the Reebok Stadium, the Ricoh Arena and the Walkers Crisps Bowl. Don't get me wrong, back in my day we had a 'Special One', but that 'Special One' was called Woody and his parents had saved up and bought him the 78 Away Tracksuit for Xmas, people used to stand and stare in the street, he was the proud possessor of a "proper, real, kit", now they stand and stare if you aren't.