Last night I was fortunate enough to visit Old Trafford for the Manchester United versus Newcastle United game, my first visit to the Theatre of Dreams in around two seasons, maybe more. Things have changed, more than I thought they might have done.

From 2000 I was a regular at Old Trafford and held a season ticket for a few seasons before giving it up on principle when the Glazer family bought the club. I used to enjoy going week in, week out, especially on those special European nights. I’ve seen some of the best players in the world grace that pitch, including the memorable night when the Brazilian Ronaldo scored a hat trick for Real Madrid and was applauded off the pitch for his sublime display by everyone in attendance.

Last night I learned that those days are probably gone. But this isn’t one of those usual moans about the state of the Manchester Unted match-going support. Not really. The passion is still there but it exists only in pockets now. Roy Keane’s infamous “prawn sandwich” rant of several years back was inaccurate at the time. I’m sorry to say it applies now, however.

Not that they have no right to attend Man Utd games. Of course they do. But those of us in our mid-30s and older remember a more raw experience, a less pampered experience, when attending Old Trafford. Certainly a louder one.

From my seat in the South Stand, while I was able to enjoy the game without missing a single minute, I was subjected to moans and groans or virtual silence. Only when a goal is scored do you get a hint of what things used to be like. There are a number of reasons for this watering down of the match day experience.

Firstly, Old Trafford itself is not conducive to creating the wall of noise that used to exist these days. One side cannot connect with the other. When the Stretford End began a rendition of “We Are The Busby Boys”, the opposite East Stand only managed to join in two lines later, utterly out of sync. It quickly died.

Secondly, and sadly, many of the old style passionate supporters – and I don’t include myself in this number – have given up their season tickets, either through principle or necessity or changing priorities. Without the vocal leaders those more like me, happy to join in but not begin, sit meekly and mildly.

Finally, the new generation of supporters, aged around 10 and up, have barely known a pulsating, seething, crescendo of noise and emotion and therefore don’t miss it and have no desire to recreate it. Football has moved on to quieter, more thoughtful times.

Old Trafford, like Highbury and now the Emirates before it, has long been criticised by visiting fans for being a quiet place but let me tell you something. Newcastle fans like to claim they are loud, inventive and witty. Well I had the dubious pleasure of sitting right next to them last night and it’s not true.

Yes, they sang throughout the game, I’ll give them that. But they weren’t particularly loud, they had four songs, each of which lacked inventiveness, and there was nothing witty in their vocals aimed at the Man Utd support.

The wittiest exchange began with “Shearer turned you down” to which the home support’s retort was “Shearer took you down”. Mildly amusing but not a patch on the exchanges that would have taken place even five years ago.

I’ve accepted that the crowd at Old Trafford has gradually changed over the years but when the visiting away support is almost as bad I begin to wonder about the future of the match day experience. This is not a dig at the Geordies, it’s a dig at the changing face of football.

(THIS is a dig at the Geordies – you may claim to be the most loyal fans in the country but you’re not. An average gate of 9,000 before Sir John Hall took over underlines that. Oh, and you are far from the best away support to come to Old Trafford. That honour lies with, in my experience, Portsmouth!)

Football (at the top tier at least) has become sanitised. This is good for the families, women and children that want to attend, no doubt. It’s also good for the gate receipts for clubs, no question. It’s just a bit disappointing for those of us who remember the “good old days”, when barely checked hatred was vented via volume and wit.

That said, I loved every minute of my return to the Theatre of Dreams. I got to see Paul Scholes put in another masterful performance, Berbatov to look interested and classy, the home debut of Hernandez (no more Chicharito on these pages thank you) and yet another goal from my own personal hero, Ryan Giggs. And a Manchester United victory is always a joy to behold.