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A Typical Ulsterman's Match-Day Journey

DarcheVinny

By DarcheVinny
in Jimmy Bell's Kitroom

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DarcheVinny

DarcheVinny 1,003

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A Typical Ulsterman's Match-Day Journey by JCS

[imgleft]http://rangersmedia.co.uk/images/resized/images/wv41rangersvmotherwell_200_200.jpg[/imgleft]Often, in the depths of dismal and dreary winter’s nights, when the rain hammers incessantly on the bedroom window and the wind howls mournfully along the dark and deserted street outside, I wonder about the wisdom of being a football fan – in fact I often seriously question my sanity!

As I struggle to extricate myself from the snug duvet pulled tightly around my ears, and tear myself from the alluring warmth of my soft, comfortable bed, I realise with a groan that it’s only 4.30am, and that all sane and sensible people are still tucked up in bed, blissfully unaware of the fact that the Belfast to Cairnryan ferry leaves at 7.30am, and that I, and the many Bears from across the Province, need to be on it.

Tired and bleary eyed - a man barely alive in fact - I stagger downstairs to brew up and get something substantial to eat before luxuriating in the crucial, revitalising shower, so therapeutic and so vitally necessary to the long day ahead - particularly if the evening before has been spent in convivial company over countless pints of Guinness!

Then follows the ritual donning of the club ‘colours’ before enclosing myself in multiple layers of Rangers branded, arctic resistant clothing before venturing into the pitch dark and unrelenting weather of a gloomy winter’s morning.

I’m pretty lucky, in that the supporters bus picks me up not far from home, just 5 minutes away in fact, so the walk to the main road often through torrential rain and impenetrable blackness in the winter months, is tolerable and, assuming no hold up’s, the bus picks me up around 6.15am for the ride to the ferry terminal in Belfast.

Waiting for the bus on the Upper Newtownards Road on a bleak Saturday morning can be a lonely vigil, only rarely punctuated by the odd lorry racing down the windswept and rain-soaked road, seemingly making every effort to splash through the nearest large pool of rainwater in order to give me a deliberate soaking. Across the road, through the almost impenetrable gloom and the dark, swaying shapes of twisted trees, I can just about make out the vague outline of Stormont Castle, bleak and forbidding against the night sky.

When the bus eventually arrives it is full of inanimate objects, barely awake and barely alive. If I’m lucky I’ll get a few grunts by way of welcome, although the reception is normally one of vacant (if not belligerent) stares that cry protest that the bus door has been inconveniently opened and the cold, damp air is getting in.

My mate invariably keeps a seat for me near the front, so I don’t have to disturb the Bears trying to catch forty winks on the short journey to the Stena Line terminal. A stop or two along the road sees’ the bus fill rapidly, and by the time we are leaving the Newtownards Road behind the Bears are becoming a little more animated, and muted conversations can be heard all around, often decrying the early start or bemoaning the hangover from the revelries of the previous night.

But, quite miraculously, by the time we arrive at the ferry terminal, the Bears have thoroughly revived and are gearing up for the race from the car deck, through the shops and restaurants of the new Stena Superfast ferry, to our favourite place of relaxation and repose for the crossing - Bar 55.

Once there we ‘bag’ our tables for the stimulating discussion and debate - liberally interspersed with pints of one’s favourite brew - that characterises the 2 ¼ hour sailing to Cairnryan. This, of course, is the period during which we are assailed from all sides, by sellers of all things Rangers and Rangers related, from ballots, badges and books to tickets for the next RSC function. Then, having deliberated, analysed, dissected and resolved all the ills of Rangers Football Club (and cursed the Dark Side a few times) we disembark in Cairnryan revitalised and thoroughly ‘refreshed’ for the monotonous journey to Glasgow.

Now, my apologies to the indigenous population of Scotland, and particularly the inhabitants of the little hamlets of Ballantrae, Maybole and Minishant through which we pass as we wend our way toward the metropolis of Glasgow; I use the word monotonous not because the scenery isn’t beautiful or the countryside green and verdant; it’s just that I’ve done it so many times that it’s barely noticeable any more. It’s a two hour bus journey to be endured rather than enjoyed, and even the rousing (and raucous) strains of ‘the tunes’ playing on the sound system tends to shred the nerves a little after numerous renditions of the ‘Blue Sea of Ibrox’ and ‘Penny Arcade’.

But, eventually, around noon (assuming no hold up’s, diversions, mechanical failures or police harassment) we arrive at Ibrox where we are unceremoniously expelled from the coach at the Albion Car Park by our diver who is impatient to secure his parking spot in Helen Street where he can enjoy a well earned doze having started out around 4.00am to rendezvous with the Bears in Newtownards and Belfast. To his shouted warning of, ‘the bus will leave at 5.30 sharp!’ we disembark for the delights of the local hostelries.

At this point, those who wish to do their Rangers shopping head for the Megastore whilst the rest of us - who do not wish to waste valuable ‘discussion’ time – immediately head for the Wee Rangers Club just around the corner. Now I hasten to add that the fact we tend to end up most Saturdays in the Wee Rangers Club does not necessarily indicate a preference for it but, rather, that it is closest to our drop of point and, therefore, the nearest ‘watering hole’ for those of us parched by the tortuous (and ‘dry’) journey from Cairnryan to Ibrox.

In my defence, I have often argued for ‘pastures new’, perhaps a rare visit to the New Louden, the more sedate Rolls Royce Club or one of the many hostelries along Paisley Road West. But, alas, I am often a forlorn voice in the midst of the cacophony in favour of the hustle and bustle of the Wee Rangers Club.

Don’t get me wrong I’m quite relaxed about the WRC, in fact I’ve met many a good Bear there over the years; Glaswegians and life-long Rangers fans who I’m now proud to count as friends. Indeed, quite often, I’ll bump (quite literally) into a few Bears that I shared a pint or two with on past European trips. So I’m not unhappy in the WRC, and I can normally endure the ‘loud’, raucous, rambunctious nature of the place, but I find it almost impossible to tolerate the inordinate wait for a swally! Having to fight my way to the bar and then stand in a seemingly endless queue for the bar does tend to try my patience a bit. And, if that’s not enough, the room (downstairs) is always so tightly packed that I’ve often thought that the Nawab of Bengal, who was entirely responsible for the horrors of the Black Hole of Calcutta, must have had some presentiment of the Wee Rangers Club on a match day afternoon when he thought up his gruesome torture!

Nevertheless, I endure it. Despite the assault on my ear drums, I am prepared to listen to the same ‘tunes’ over and over again for three hours, have my ears assailed by music (if, indeed, you can call it that) played at a decibel level far in excess of what is surely legally permissible, have my aging body pummelled and crushed and, most annoying of all, be denied the pint of Guinness I so look forward to!

Yes, horror of horrors, and unbelievable as it may seem, the WRC (much to its eternal shame and discredit) removed the Guinness last season in favour of some barely passable brew called Caledonian Best (I think); so how, I ask you, can anyone ever accuse me of not being loyal to my mates when I make such sacrifices for them?

Anyway, after, three hours of the aforementioned ‘sacrifice’ I tend to be just a little inebriated (I suspect the Guinness sampled on the way over also makes a contribution), so a brisk walk to the nearest burger van around 2.45pm is imperative as sustenance is advisable (indeed, vital) before heading to Ibrox for the game.

The Game! That’s what it’s all about. Me, and the many hundreds of Rangers fans from across the small Province of Ulster, are here for one reason only - to watch the most successful team in the world – Rangers.

No matter that we’re now plying our trade in the 3rd Division of the Scottish Football League. No matter that we have been ostracised, marginalised and vilified for months, and subsequently banished to the fourth tier of Scottish football. We are Rangers fans and we ‘follow on’, no matter where, no matter what. So to be lucky enough to have a season ticket and be able to watch the mighty Rangers every couple of weeks is an honour and a privilege – despite the ‘three day camel ride’ and the obvious wear and tear on my aging frame.

Quickly scoffing my cheese burger, I head for the Govan stand and my seat in GR1, where I sit amongst a varied and vocal group of Rangers fans. I don’t really need to say ‘friendly fans’ because, in all honesty, no matter where I’ve sat at Ibrox over the years, I’ve never felt anything other than welcome….but then I take that for granted simply because they’re Bears!

At half time it’s down to the concourse for a swift ‘comfort break’ and into the queue for the obligatory hot coffee and pie where, from time to time, I still see some of the lads I met in Bucharest when we played the Romanian side Unirea Urziceni in 2009. That was a trip not to be forgotten, having spent the afternoon, and early evening of match day with the guys in some locally owned establishment masquerading as an Irish bar, imbibing copious amounts of strong liquor and exchanging Rangers’ stories and experiences, before sharing taxis out to the Steaua stadium for the game. Those were a good bunch of lads, good company and a good laugh, so typical of the Rangers fans you meet on Rangers’ away trips in Europe. I’ll miss that for the next three years!

After the game there’s little time for hanging around, so it’s a brisk walk to Helen Street for the bus at 5.30pm, and the tiresome journey back to Cairnryan for the ferry to Belfast. Thankfully, the journey back is almost always enlivened by the buffoonery, tomfoolery and the ‘Gawd awful’ singing of the travelling Bears; and it’s against that noisy backcloth that the game is discussed, dissected and analysed; individual performances minutely scrutinised, critically assessed and ‘expert’ recommendations for improvement and change advocated and argued. But for those of us more ‘advanced’ in years, it’s simply an opportunity to read the match programme and the various fanzines that are circulating and, perhaps, snatch a dose on the way down the road.

The return ferry trip is almost a mirror image of that on the way over except, of course, that everyone is just a little bit more tired and travel weary. But once again firmly ensconced in Bar 55 with a pint of Arthur’s black magic in hand, it’s amazing how the fatigue disappears.

It’s 11.00pm by the time I get home, a little ‘worst for the wear’, dog tired and ready for bed. A quick cup of tea and I’m ready to pull the duvet up around my neck once more after another satisfying day in the company of the Bears, and another satisfying day at the heart of the Rangers Family.

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JCS

JCS 649

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A great piece and only to familar,just add on a couple of hours each side for us poor souls west of the bann..WATP

Yes mate, you're right, I should have included a paragraph about the Bears from west of the Bann - hardy souls indeed! I'll give you a mention in my next effort.

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