By noon, the streets around Carrow Road had turned yellow and green.
Tables, which had been full and well seated earlier, were now left with pints half-finished and abandoned as fans spilt onto the pavements, drawn toward the stadium as if it was the only place that mattered.
Like always, you had the intense crowd that followed the regular fans with drums and the like.
And then you had someone else, the ringleader, who had climbed onto a low brick wall and was leading a chant that didn't bother with rhythm so much as volume.
When the first broadcast drone buzzed overhead, a few supporters spotted it and pointed.
"There!" one of them shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth as if the lens could hear him better that way.
"Get that on camera!"
A group beneath it began jeering upward.
"Death for Wigan!" someone roared, half laughing, but it still felt feral and threatening.
