Half-time Blues

The last time I went to Old Trafford, Norwich City won the match, Manchester United (with Nobby Stiles and all) played their thundering roles, a courteous Matt Busby wandered the corridors with a tear in his eye, and cars belonging to several Sunday tabloids chased the City team bus all the way to Derby, where they were booked into a restaurant. Someone paid for lots of champagne, and for once the Canaries - who as a group seemed as astonished at their achievement as the rest of the country - were the hot story of the day.
It was so exciting and memorable, and so unlike my second visit to this fabled ground, where the sides played out a passionless cup-tie, fielded clutches of reserves, only grudgingly gave out the team news, and Norwich City took to the pitch in black and white as the away fans sang, 'Come on you yellows.' (Explain that to me, someone, please).
It was nearly as dispiriting as a visit earlier in the day to the National Football Museum in Manchester, where context is confused and chronological order a game of chance. You can go from the 1930s to the 1970s and back to the 1880s within a very short distance. In another room, archive films are obligingly projected on to a wall and seats provided nearby. Unfortunately, a line of display stands are also placed in front of the projection wall, so that if anyone looks at the displays the seated audience cannot see. And all this accompanied by a strident cacophony of background sound.  
Alas, we left at half-time.
We did stay at Old Trafford even until the very end of the eleven minutes of added time, and there was much to enjoy - the crowds, the lights, the vast stadium, the occasion.
But has football lost something?