EWE ‘N WHOSE ARMY??!! (Sheep … 1 GERS … 1, PART 3)

I want to dedicate this rant to a mate and a fellow Bluenose. He’s not dead, ye understand. No. He’s very much alive and I’ll be dead a long time before him. In fact, on Saturday it was me who was going through the surreally familiar role - picked up vicariously from a zillion Victor, Warlord and Battle annuals, as well as a trillion black-and-white war films watched in my World War II-obsessed youth - of saying to him “You must go on alone … I’m not going to make it, Old Chap … please - save yourself - save yourself for goddsakes, man! Just leave me behind … Just leave me …”. But he wouldn’t. This mate of mine - for the sake of anonimity, to protect him from the Celtic and Rangers Zealots of cyberspace who want to Fatwah anyone who knows Fat Eck, let’s call him Mr White … after the colour of the jersey he was wearing on Saturday … which I saw stood outside those awful Pitto-dire iron gates from the distance of the driving range between the infamous ground and the even more infamous beach - this mate of mine is a True Blue, a stalwart of Walter Smith’s Blue and White army. And, on Saturday, he went above and beyond the call of duty. He don’t want no heroe’s medals on his chest - so this is the best I can do: To recount the selfless valour of the unknown Teddy Bear.

Mr White is a young man, In his early twenties. He lunches every weekday with myself and another old coger, of Celtic persuasion but footballing love. We tell Mr White he’s daft to be bad-mouthing Sir David Murray and to be doubting the wisdom of Walter Smith. When Mr White breaks his heart about the sale of Alan Hutton or Carlos Cuellar, when he wonders about the way the media reported the UEFA Cup final of 2008 before the trouble even started, us auld yins tell him to take it on the chin, to be loyal, to abandon this “Follow Follow” mindset, this “back of the bus” polemicizing. Us Old Firm codgers go on about the eighties and crowds of less than 10,000 at both Ibrox and Parkhead. We tell him there are no real upheavals going on at Rangers these days - that he should, in effect, think himself lucky.

But we have a cheek. Because Mr White has missed one domestic Rangers match in the last three years. He is not, in fact, a Follow Follow type. He does not go looking for reasons to be outraged. He just gets plain broken-hearted because his team suffer setbacks and because his team is everything to him. He has more right to speak about Rangers than most and he certainly has more knowlegde of the recent facts than most. When I was his age I was EXACTLY the same. I had an almost pathalogical dislike of Ally McCoist because Super Ally represented the difference between what we were in Scotland - all-conquering and superb - and what we were in Europe - generally shite with occassional flourishes of mediocrity. When I look back now I’m embarrased by what I thought about a Rangers legend in those days. And when I look back to last Friday and Saturday I’m even more ashamed because, no longer enjoying the excuse of youth, I berated a legendary Rangers fan.

I spent a few hours on Friday night in The Admiral (the PUB!!!), “celebrating” a bank holiday weekend by slating Mr White’s opinions on The Rangers and the fallout from Kaunas. I was playing the “I’m older - I know better” card; more bogus than a Queen of Diamonds with a moustache scribbled on her top lip and a “K” scrawled over the “Q” in green felt tip. We were both a bit pished and I later apologised to Mr White for being so intractably opposed to his views - it was nothing personal for a nicer bloke you could not hope to meet - but as I steamed into my haggis supper (with gravy) in Queen Street station I remained frustrated that the future of Rangers could be in the hands of people who took a line which deviated in any way from my own 100% sane, sure-fire, intellectually and morally pure and all-round winning approach to life.

Aherm.

Next day, I stir from my kip, wanting to go to Pittodrie. Mostly because that’s just where we happened to be playing and because things are finely balanced for Rangers right now. They need all the backing we can give. As Mr White says, it’s a drug and ye can’t help yerself. I had neither the time, the money, the match ticket nor the total sobriety necessary to drive up the Ms and A 80s, 9s and 90s but the thought of watching it on Setanta depressed me. Why watch porn when ye can actually get yer end away? It was a Saturday morning at 8:30 and I couldn’t sleep - say no more.

Soon I sat in the bath mulling over all the reasons I should just leave it this time - just stay in the hoose. I came to not so much a decision but a deal with myself: If I could guarantee a ticket I would go. Who was my first contact? Yup - you guessed it - the young guy I had only a few hours earlier been lambasting for his “lack of loyalty” (he dared to say Walter was wrong to play Christian Dailly in midfield in Lithuania and ended up in a “six degrees of Paul le Guen” discussion with Yours Bluely):

His own supporters bus hadn’t managed to get enough tickets so Mr White was sitting on another RSC bus when he got my text. He doesn’t care how he gets there or how much it costs - the social aspect is secondary too - he just wants to be there when Rangers take the field. He has a word with stranger Rangers on this bus. He has me a ticket. I received that text while soaping my napper in the bath at 8:50am. Kick-off at 12:30pm. I’d made it to Shittodrie twice in the last year in less than 2 and a half hours in my present car. I said I’d meet him at the entrance to our turnstyles with the money for the ticket he’d be holding. I’d be here 12:15 at the latest. Maaah Raynjur!

Now, if you do your Speed/Time/Distance sums, you’ll quickly realise that there was something far more negligent and illegal going on than the faint trace of Fosters lager in my system. I also had to find time to shove some unleaded in my Astra’s pencil as well as doing my personal refuelling on coca cola and triple Bounty bars as I drove along Garscube and dropped onto the M8 for a blur of Embra-and-Fort-bound traffic before heading for my first sign for Stirling. But - fuck it - revenge is never pretty. Yes, revenge.

The 19th of January 1985 was not my first trip to Pittodrie. But it could so easily have been my last had I not had all the limitless hope of a 15 year-old with which to dilute the horrors which embraced the travelling Bears that day.

Stevenston Masonic RSC was formed in the 1940s. Four decades later it had still failed to take cognisance of the improvement in the Scottish roads network which had occurred in the interim. This bus left at 8am. For a 3pm kick-off. I had a paper round. For once, on a Saturday, I was doing it earlier than I delivered my Suns and Records during the week. I rose at 6am, did Kilgour Trout’s bidding, got down to the pick-up point at Stanley School in Ardrossan and was in Aberdeen city centre with my uncle’s mates by noon.

I hadn’t yet discovered the delights of booze - slow for an Ayrshire lad; In Saltcoats the legal limit is Primary 2 - so I had to sit in a corner drinking Coca Cola while the adults gleefully choked down the real reason for the early departure. We went along to Pittodrie, Rangers lost 5-1 and Frank McDougall, despite the weight of the largest crucifix in World Football, rattled in four goals. Even when he scored them at the home end he still turned and ran the full length of the pitch to goad us on the old, damp, freezing bleachers of the “Beach End” (Never have connotation and denotation been so bitterly parted). This was in the middle of a run of one win at Pittodrie in 12 years. I got home cold, knackered, gutted and intellectually ravaged by listening to three hours of conversation about fighting the police at Newcastle in 1969. The respite of sleep? Not for the spotty youth who’d imbibed 14 gallons of cola that lunch-time.

Every time Rangers beat Aberdeen I fucking LOVE IT. Every time we beat them at Pitto-dire I lust it. However, first point of vengence for me is on the itinerary of the Stevenston Masonic and the trials of alcohol-free youth: I left as late as I could when Scotland played South Africa at Pittodrie last season and when we drew 1-1 there with the resident bastards in December. On both occasions, with match ticket in glove compartment, I still found myself wasting a half hour or so before kick-off but usually with just enough Pepsi to wash down my KFC and the dulcet tones of the only Aberdeen fan I like - Richard Gordon - as I sit with the heater on in the car, pretending I’m somewhere I want rather than simply need to be. On Saturday, therefore, I took great pleasure in the knowledge that, once again, I’d leave later for a 12:30 kick-off we had every chance of winning than I once did for many a 3pm kick-off we had absolutely no chance of taking anything from.

Sure enough, 2 hours, a fleeting glimpse of Stirling castle, a glance over Perth and twenty five Dundonian roundabouts later, I was on Union Street. That’s the way I go. King George whatshisnumber Bridge - Union Street - the beach front. Park the car and, never wearing colours, try not to look like too much of a rampant hun as I clamber down the grass verge and stride off to the back of the Dick Donald stand where I suddenly and swiftly veer off to the left, flashing my “VISITORS” ticket at the polis manning the no-man’s land at the foot of the ominous cemetery. Done it so often, Got it off pat. At 10 minutes to 12 I texted Mr White as the traffic lights went the colour of the home team - “on unyon st - c u 20 past latest”.

But, by 20 past noon I was still on fucking Union Street.

Traffic works - post match I didn’t get OUT of Aberdeen until quarter past four - and shopping traffic. It was gridlock. Fuck the oil - this had all the competence of a fishing village trying to host the olympics. And, all the time I knew Mr White would not get in the ground until Mr Fuckup here had arrived to take up his ticket.

By the time I found a parking spot along the beach - I DROVE for FIVE MINUTES past the wee tunnel which takes ye from the beach to the back of the Dick Donald stand so ye know how far away I was - it was 26 minutes past 12.

The frustration of non-moving traffic in the ugliest street in Europe, watching my chaces of seeing The Rangers simply slip away in a fume of petrol and frustration had led me to send Mr White another text - this one full of blindly venomous expletives, cursing this hick town and its shithole roads. But, of course, the real anger came from knowing it was my fault. I should have tied up my match ticket weeks ago, I should never have fooled myself that I wouldn’t go to this game, and I should have been on the road at FUCKING 8AM!!!!.

Worse than that was the knowledge I’d put Mr White in a position. As I stumbled along the beachfront at Aberdeen, almost forgetting to lock the car as it was three minutes to kick off and I knew I had a twenty minute walk to the ground, I phoned him: If I hadn’t been choking to death with self-loathing rage and obesity, the ensuing conversation could have sounded like this:

“Just you go in mate. I’m fucked. I’ve had it. This CUNT of a town has fucked me over. You go in - it’s my fault - I’ll give ye the money for the ticket after the game …”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll wait for ye. Where are you?”

“I’m still on the fucking promenade or whatever the fuck they call it - on this shithole beachfront”

“Well that’s only two minutes away - no worries”

“Naw mate - naw - I couldnae get parked until I’d driven til the end of the fucking North Sea - I’m at the very end of the beach - the ground’s a fucking speck in the distance - just go in - I’m too fucked to run fast ..”

“Don’t be daft - I’ll wait outside - no worries …”

“Just go on without me, mate - you’ve been to every game for the last century … I cannae have it on my conscience that you missed twenty minutes - maybe even a goal - because of my stupidity …”

Mr White waited. Of course he did. He’s a proper Bluenose. And he didnae even give me a hard time when I arrived on the scene. In fact he was almost laughing as I staggered up that no-man’s land road, clutching my chest and apologising in profuse wheezes..

I’d slagged HIM, remember. The previous evening, I’d slagged HIM for his “lack of true loyalty”. Well they don’t come much more loyal than someone who doesnae want to tell a fellow Blunose they’re full of shite - even when it’s as patently obvious as I was making it at 12:45pm on Saturday 23rd August 2008 as I staggered up that suddenly VAST fenced-in stretch from public road to the Pittodrie away turnstyles.

Mr White - this rant’s for you, mate. Yer a fucking gentleman and a credit to The Rangers. If I ever grow up, I would hope, one day, to be as good a Bear as you .

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Published:
08.25.08 / 12pm
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