The "Fitba specials" on the train in the seventies were only special cause the normal rolling stock was replaced by really old knackered carriages from the fifties that only got used for football carriages, as they always ended up a lot more damaged by the time they got back. We'd try and get on without buying a ticket, as that saved our money for more carry-outs and were usually successful. We'd take a big carry-out on the train. The trains were covered with dust and when you jumped on the seats it was like a sandstorm. Remember racing through stations on the way to the likes of Edinburgh or Dundee, and cans and bottles would get thrown out at randoms on the platforms in places like Croy and Falkirk. On quite a few occasions I saw an occasional nutter going round unscrewing the wee night light/reading light bulbs and lobbing them out at unsuspecting folk on platforms.
The banter was great, the drinking was constant and we played cards on the way, I'd usually start off bad and be winning by end of the journey, but the winnings always went on an extra carry out when we got to the destination.
The safety chain would get pulled 4 or 5 times on the way and coming back which would add an hour or so to the journeys, and especially at Waverley the polis would be lined up with rows of big ferocious barking alsatians to keep us on the straight and narrow up the steps and down to Princes street.
On the way home the toilet's would be more bogging than the one in Trainspotting, and most just peed through the open door window, or in the guards van.
For some reason the Rangers special trains would always come back in to Glasgow via Springburn, then down to the lower Queen Street level, where we'd change train. The cellic fans coming back on the electric train from Bridgeton would clash with us occasionally but mostly they went straight through Queen Street stopping further up at Charing Cross.
On one of the few occasions we returned back on the high level at Queen Street after the tunnell doing about 20 miles per hour, one of my mates was peeing out an open door as we went round the curve and fell out on to the track, a 5 foot fall, and had to come running after, doing up his trousers as he jumped back on the train for the last 100 yards.
At Queen Street the fans just piled through and there was no chance of anyone checking tickets.
Ah the good old days.