SOME weeks are simply momentous, packed full of incidents to be recalled forever. The last seven days fall into that category.

I was lucky enough to get a face-value ticket for England v Italy for the final of Euro 2020, at Wembley Stadium.

I couldn’t sleep the night before, so excited was I at the prospect. 

I stayed up until the early hours watching Lionel Messi’s Argentina finally clinch a Copa America against Brazil — given further depth by James Nalton’s outstanding coverage in these pages. 

Yet upon reaching Wembley Park Tube station last Sunday it was clear the day wasn’t going to go smoothly. Not least because the levels of drunkenness were far beyond even what I expected. As was the undercurrent of menace.

I tweeted from Wembley Way that there were serious levels of drunkenness with a euphoria bordering on frenzy. That was only the half of it. I didn’t tweet that there were people literally insensible with alcohol. 

Or the young man who’d pulled his shorts down and lit flares placed where the sun doesn’t shine. Nor others thinking it’d be “hilarious” for them to push comatose pals around in piss-soaked shopping trolleys on a floor so full of empty cans, debris and detritus it was like balancing on a slippery carpet of crushed aluminium. 

There was no hint of organisation. No-one seemed to be in charge. I texted old pals who used to follow England away and said only half in jest that it was an “apocalyptic” scene. 

I would’ve tweeted that line too, if I hadn’t been so cautious in sharing what I saw. 

It was only when we got nearer the steps where stewards had previously checked my ticket and Covid result for England v Germany that the crush got worse and the inspections vanished.

Germany passed off without disorder. At that stage on Sunday it became clear to me the Italy game was going to be different. 

Apparently there were ticketless youths for the Denmark game, when an element realised that if you got past those flimsy lines, you stood a good chance of “jibbing” into the game — which is what I saw happen on Sunday. 

Youths scaled the walls of the steps beyond where stewards had been placed. Others kicked and pulled over fences and made a dash for it. 

Near me a large group of young men jostled their way through the crowds, making the squeeze worse by their insistence on pushing forward.

It was clear why. Their aim was to rush the lines in a bid to reach the concourse outside the turnstiles, which a large number succeeded in doing. 

Stewards with fear in their eyes ushered everyone through. I knew why. They were scared a deadly crush could form with terrifying results. I didn’t see anyone take a bribe. Maybe some did, maybe they didn’t. 

What I did understand was the £10 an hour they earn on zero-hours contracts is not a safety net when crowd disorder rears its ugly head. 

Nor was it enough to make them go the extra mile. And why should it? Perhaps something fat-cat bosses at the FA and Wembley should consider next time they sign a multimillion-pound deal with another sponsor. 

I finally made it to the top of the stairs before realising there was no wifi to upload my digital ticket on my mobile. That was without the all too real fear that someone would snatch my smartphone — and more importantly my prized ticket. 

The crush outside Gate K became worse, not helped by the authorities locking down the turnstiles, which only added to the uncertainty, fuelling an atmosphere of anger and aggression.

I saw women and children crying. I saw fighting between fans, while others berated and threatened outnumbered police who were powerless, on the whole. Not a steward was to be seen by then.

It was then I saw a group rush the gates of Gate J next door. Stories later emerged they targeted wheelchair users, smashing through doors for the disabled, while those without tickets already inside the promised land as kick-off neared, threatened violence, mayhem and menace.

They even managed to scare and hurt the families of the England players they had decided to watch illegally.

I somehow made it through the turnstiles and into paradise. Or was it heaven? Either way it was an escape from the hell outside.

Ultimately no-one tailgated me, no-one threatened me, no-one stole my ticket. Though that may have been more to do with my size and a large element of luck than anything else, as I made it to my seat moments before Luke Shaw’s goal. 

The game itself was momentous. But when Bukayo Saka missed the last penalty, handing victory to Roberto Mancini’s worthy winners, the racism towards him and his teammates afterwards was as predictable as it was depressing. 

What more to say, apart from what I have found myself repeating a lot recently. There has to be zero-tolerance towards racists anywhere.

Jail time and then education. Make the guilty spend time with those who have been the victims of racism — while social media companies need to do far more. 

As an antidote to Wembley I also spent 48 hours in sunny Edinburgh, covering Arsenal’s trip to evocative Easter Road, where a redoubtable Hibernian side beat them 2-1 on Tuesday. 

I also managed to interview Gunners boss Mikel Arteta pitchside. Another reason why I love pre-season friendlies, as the access you get as a journalist is always better. 

It was also good to see more than a flicker of recognition from Arteta when regarding yours truly through the facemask. It makes no difference to me either way if he does or doesn’t know me from Adam. 

But it’s a nice story to tell the kids. It certainly beats the story of my day out at Wembley this momentous week. 

PS: For more on all this, visit my new Substack account by searching Layth’s Take.