Once upon a time, not too long ago, we took a day out in Manchester We all fall down, there's not enough hours in the day Played a bit of football, fell into the union Barged our way into the toilet with the kung fu king There's not enough hours in the day
'Whippin Piccadilly' - Gomez.
I mean, there I was saying to Sam Peckingpaw and John Huston at an illegal bevvy session in Bridgeton in the early 1960s, (I was two years of age at the time) you just don't know what lies ahead.
The fact is, there are two types of hardened booze merchant in Glasgow these days. And the key word here is 'Quentin.'
A - There is of course the San Quentin variety. You know the type, scar on the moosh, scans the boozer constantly for outsiders and a chill fills the room when a stranger ventures forth into the bar and orders the tipple of his choice. And that's just the females.
B - Then there are those of a Quentin Crisp hue, who possess a sweet-toothed thrapple. These nancy boys exist on double Smirnoff's and Bacardi Breezers and still they evoke contempt, even though we drink our fluorescent girly drinks WITHOUT a straw. Sometimes, it seems you just can't win.
So remind me again, who was it that dragged our club's reputation ever downwards once again down in Manchester.
A - was it the real drinking men?
OR
B- puffs like myself? (nae straws, mind)
If Manchester, on the park was dire, then Manchester, the experience just had to be lived out.
Dateline Tues 13th May, 2008, 05:15
Me - 'Sweetheart, would you like your coffee stirred clockwise or anti-clockwise?'
Sweetheart - 'Aw for goodness sake; I told you last night I was going into the office today, therefore I had an extra hour in bed!'
But what do you say or do to a near fifty year old wean that can dilute the excitement of waking up on this sunny, Christmas Eve morn?
I got through that May Day Xmas Eve, but it was a drawn out experience. But as night fell, off I skipped off, nay hopped, to my parents' house. My bruv and I were getting picked up at four the following morning from one of his mates, to 'beat the traffic', so we thought it was a good idea just to hook up Chez maw n paw and take it from there.
I have to say I was still in Xmas Eve mood. Now I know that life goes on, and some people get old apparently, and my parents now have a posse of grandkids and great grandkids and not just my bruv and I. But there we were, just the four of us, for the first time in goodness knows how long. Maw, paw and the two original brats.
I have to mention, that at this point we had no tickets, no real hopes of getting one (I had already knocked back a couple of offers because I wasn't prepared to pay silly money) and just wanted to 'be there.'
But hey, Xmas Eve was coming to a close, and Brat #1 decided to call it quits at eleven pm, and I even got the top bunk, too. Brats #1 & #2 de-bunked at 3:15 am the next morning, made their ablutions and our mum was making our breakfast. Yup, Santa had arrived.
A wee PS here, As we were going to bed, our old man stuck a score in each of our hands; 'Get a drink on me for the troops tomorrow'. So there we were getting money at 11 pm and four hours later, we were getting breakfast laid on. There's not really much more I can add to that scenario; I am a product of the greatest couple I'll ever meet. Quite how they produced a pair like my brother and I though, will forever remain a mystery.
However, there was a slight anxiety around 3:40am when my brother received a text from the guy (Big Gordy) who was driving us down. 'He shouted through to our mam in the kitchen; if she had such a thing as a first class stamp'?
Nearly four in the morning and a stranger was asking about first class stamps? Was this a code word for drugs, nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say no more? Could it really be true my mother was a Mrs Big in the narcotics underbelly of Glasgow's south side that is Castlemilk? But thankfully all was revealed. Big Gordy was sending his season ticket renewal by post that morning and did in fact need a first class stamp. What can I say? I was excited.
Anyway, the Glasgow accent on the car radio soon turned into a north of England one and Gordon and his brother Graeme decided we would stop off at the service station at Carlisle as they wanted a bite to eat. It was now six in the morning and the place was awash with red, white and blue. Oh, and there were plenty of empty beer bottles, but Breezer bottles were conspicuous by their absence.
Back on the road we went, and the sights of the buses and cars was truly remarkable. But what's to explain, if you were part of it then you don't need me to tell you what it looked like, this 'blue tsunami'.
We were now in Lancashire accent territory on the radio and it seemed like every ten minutes they were mentioning this phenomenon, this Cavalcade jauntily heading down the M6 to Manchester.
One guy, Joe from Blackpool, phoned into say every three cars in four, was awash with Rangers scarves and banners. I think he mentioned there was the odd Union Jack thrown in too. He said he had never seen an explosion of colour like this in his puff. Neither had we Joe, neither had we.
After Gordon and Graeme had checked into their hotel, just outside Warrington, we got the train into Manchester Piccadilly. By this time their brother in law, Steve, had joined us (and more about him later) and the hunt for our hotel was on.
The Hotel Britannia was soon discovered and after more ablutions were made, it was time to greet the brand new day. By this time it must have been around 10:45 and all you could see was a city awash with blue. Van Gogh might have done yellow and sunflowers in a medium sort of way. We do blue, extra large.
What was noticeable though even this early on, despite the fun and the carnival atmosphere was the amount of booze being carried from the streets and supermarkets into the 'fanzone' under the benevolent eye of the Constabulary. And I mean real booze drunk by real men, not those poofy Breezers. And I would assume this was happening at the other zones and in every other part of the city.
Now I'm not blaming Plod at this point or the punters, but I did ask myself at the time, 'if the troops were hell bent on shifting slabs upon slabs upon slabs of beer at that time in the morning, what would they be like at tea time?'
Anyway, we were in the zone and the hunt for the FF bash and match tickets was on for real. The Barman did a little jig in the middle of a street as he received a phone call from GS telling him that there were two tickets awaiting us when we entered said bash. Which was nice. Or so I thought.
Said nightclub (The Ritz) was found and a bouncer who looked very much like GS greeted our wee party. The conversation went something like this;
GS - How you doing lads, safe journey I assume?
The Barman, - 'Where's the fc*king tickets!'
A to Z in nought point 3 seconds, I think the Yanks refer to it as a charm offensive.
Anyway, the conversation resumed.
GS - 'I've only got one ticket on me at the moment, the other ticket is with a punter in the hall who asked for you, Gub, earlier today. (This gentleman knows who he is; and thanks once again)
Me - 'I'll take this ticket off your hands just now, anyway, thanks; I'll square up with you next year.'
The Barman wasn't there to hear this part of the conversation, as he was in the main hall desperately looking for someone he didn't know.
The conversation between us siblings now took on a touch of farce that Brian Rix would have been proud of as we scoured The Ritz dance hall
TB - Is that him?
Me - Naw
TB - Is that him?
Me - naw
TB - Where the fc*k is he? (pointing at someone else)
Me - naw (I knew the script by now)
We scoured the bottom part of the dance hall two or three times and still we couldn't find this blue clad pimpernel, and he was wearing a skip hat apparently.
Me - Where the fc*k can he be?
TB - How the fc*k do I know, I don't know what he fc*king looks like!
Me - Calm down, calm down
TB - Calm fc*king down, ya bastard, I notice you sneaked in and got that fcuking ticket from GS.
Me - Let's look up the stairs
Up the stairs
TB - Is that Him
Me - Naw
TB - Could it maybe, be her?
Me - Naw, that's Salome Maloney
TB - Who the fc*k is she?
Me - Doesn't matter, she still doesn't have your ticket
TB - Fc*k you and John Cooper Clark
Me - Let's go back down stairs
Back to the front door
Me - GS, that guy ain't in there
GS - Yes he is
TB - he's fc*king not in there
GS - Maybe he's went out for a bit of fresh air?
TB - Why didn't he leave the fc*king ticket with you?
GS - I don't know why, but he expressly said he had a ticket for the Gub, he won't let you down.
Back in the main hall, we two siblings philosophised over a drink
TB - GS, said this guy had a ticket for you, so that means the ticket GS gave you should be for me, then, am I right?
Me - Naw
Ten minutes later
Odin - Did you get that extra ticket?
Me - Not yet
TB - And we're not going to fc*king get it either
Odin - Calm down, calm down
I do believe steam came out of my bruv's ears on hearing that expression once again.
At this point I should add, that Odin is one of the mates we meet up with every other Saturday before home games and he knows the lengths TB will go, to provoke an extreme reaction.
For example on the Saturday previous, before and after the Dundee Utd match, TB was talking about the lengths he'd go to getting a ticket in Manchester. I'm pretty sure the phrase 'spit and swallow, and maybe even both' was mentioned.
Well, here we were three days down the line and my brother wasn't remotely interested in spitting or swallowing, he was hell bent on castrating someone, even me, his brother, to get his mitts on a brief for the final.
Anyway, sometimes stories can have a happy ending and this one did; our intrepid pimpernel, came back into The Ritz, handed over the ticket and my brother was off and running to the promised land. Think Homer Simpson with free coupons for a pork chop BBQ Restaurant and you get the picture. We could all have a fun day now.
The above conversations weren't strictly verbatim, but they do describe hopefully in a light hearted way just how antsy my little bruv was on the day. I'm not into taking the piss with my own, publicly, but if you read this bro, and I'm sure you will, take it from me, that was a tough 'ticketless' couple of hours for the rest of us to endure.
As for the FF bash itself, with the relief of getting tickets, we hadn't even dared hope for previously, there was now a relaxed mood and we enjoyed the show. The heart strings were touched when we remembered 66 fans that couldn't be there to join us. Surely Rangers couldn't let them down?
Oh, and there were a couple of real life Salome Maloneys on the dance floor dressed in tutus and ballet skirts, to keep the rest of us occupied. That Dennistoun mob can be an awfy bunch.
The DJ who had everyone rocking and rolling, was one of the Delmonte brothers and a quick word about the man, himself. Despite having a heavy boozing session from the Tuesday into the wee small hours of Wednesday morning, the wee man was up at 7:00 am sharp to dot 15,000 Union Jacks around the 'Rangers end' of the stadium. What can you say? The wee man's heart is pure and he puts the rest of us to shame.
Anyway our company, which had grown from initially five, (well four and a fully sprung human Vesuvius) into something like twenty, all decided to head their separate ways and The Barman and I made our way back to the hotel to freshen up for the main event.
This was possibly the most surreal part of the whole extravaganza. It's around 5:00 pm at this point, he's lying on the bed, I'm on a chair, there is this constant buzz, and honking of horns outside, that must have reverberated across the city. We just looked at each other, looked at our tickets, shook our heads and smiled. It was at this moment maybe, finally, it had dawned on us, we were actually going to this game. The biggest Rangers game for a generation and we'd be there.
I won't dwell on the game itself as we were well beaten, and there can be no debate that the better team won on the night. But I was behind the goal that the Russian fans were in, and you have to admit they were a smashing support. Okay, it was their sheer impudence that provoked us into the best 'bouncy' in history, but you had to admire them. Although the section of Russians that were bouncing about in the bare scud from the waist up freaked me, out slightly.
You see, we had went to the stadium early, when it was still a lovely early summer's evening, and when we got to the stadium both of us were now starting to complain that it was a wee bit cold. I had taken down a woolly cardigan that attracts admiring glances from Polar Bears on a winters day in Glasgow. I had used this to cover me when I had a kip in the car on the way down. My brother had an anorak with him.
There was still plenty of time at this point to go back to our gaffe and get the garments to keep us warm, but we didn't do it. (Sod knows why). So therefore apart from the disappointment of losing that final, I'll remember Manchester for being as cold as I ever have in my life, coming out of a football match. At least in the winter you go prepared; I was now galloping towards hypothermia this dark and bleak Manchester night.
We met up after the game at a pre arranged point and my bruv comes out wearing a sweatshirt that he didn't have on him when he went into the stadium. It was my turn to get a little antsy now
Me - Where the fc*k did you get that?
TB - A big bear from Ulster gave me it. He saw I was shivering.
Me - Can I get a shot of that I'm bloody freezing.
TB - Naw
Anyway, he relented and we spelled each other with this sweatshirt from a big Ulster bear that was bought in Manhattan just last year, until we got back to our hotel. Some of us don't do failure AT ALL and all we wanted was a kip and get back home as soon as possible.
On the way back to the hotel he told me he'd received texts telling him that trouble had kicked off in Piccadilly and that the screens didn't work. You just knew this was the manna from Heaven that our scum press had been waiting for.
Getting back into the city centre you could feel the electricity and the tension in the air. It was crackling. We tried to get through Piccadilly Station as a short cut to get to our hotel, but Plod had barricaded those inside in, and those outside, out.
Some of those inside who wanted out, just barged open the barricades, and that was our out, to get back out on the streets and get to our hotel.
Cold, depressed and by now fully sober, we went to our kip, he on the left side of the right and me on the right. And when I say I was on the far right? I could have been visiting the Vatican. The party was over, we had to go home!
But fate had another wee surprise in store for us. Roundabouts 11:45pm. We're settling into our slumber and Steve (Gordon and Graeme's brother in law) a-rat-a-tat-tats on our door.
Steve - Are Gordon and Graeme here?
TB and me bleary eyed reply (in unison) - Do you fc*cking see them?
Steve, - It's just that I was supposed to meet them back here.
TB and me (in unison) - Well, they ain't here.
Steve - I'll just go back down the stairs and see if I can find them.
Me - If you can't find them, then get back here, at least you've got a floor for the night.
As the door closes
TB - Are you fc*king crazy, apparently this bampot can snore for Russia.
Ten-Fifteen minutes later
The door a-rat-a-tat-tats once again
Steve - I couldn't see them (Gordon and Graeme had already given up on this pillock who was happy to watch the Russians' cup celebrations after the match)
Me - Well, just bunk down on the floor.
Steve - Cheers mates. But I do have to warn you that I'm supposed to be a helluva snorer.
TB - Shut the fc*k up and get to sleep
Three am in the morning (There is snoring aplenty going on)
TB - (I've been given a kick on the back of the leg from Cuba) Have you got anything at hand to whack that fc*k with?
Me - Naw
TB - His napper is at your side on the floor at the bottom of the bed, have a fc*king boot at it.
Me - Okay
Have you ever witnessed, or been in the company of a Wart Hog who has throat problems as well as possible acute Tonsillitis? Very well then, let me introduce you to Steve.
Fate wasn't done with us just yet though.
Morning came around all too soon, the sun was up and all that. It was eight am and the wart hog fecked off into our toilet, as we thought, to have a morning slash. Two minutes later a sloshing sound was heard in our bedroom and the conversation between siblings resumed;
TB - Is that noisy, snoring bastard taking a fc*king shower?
Me - Bloody sounds like it!
TB - That fat bastard is going to use up all our towels
My brother had a fair point; it was after all OUR hotel room and it was OUR towels that had been paid for. At the very least he could have asked first.
After a full ten minutes the toilet door opens
The wart hog - Cheers lads, I only used the two wee towels.
Me - But they were our two WEE towels.
The phrase; 'that vacant look' came all across him at this point.
Me - Are you married?
The wart hog - Yes, why?
Me - I can only assume your missus must be stone deaf then, or do you have separate rooms?
The wart hog - I have to admit, I was conscious of the fact that I DO snore, and thought I slept very lightly last night.
TB - The only people who slept lightly in this bedroom last night was me and my brother because of the noise coming from you!
Anyway, we utilised the two remaining big towels, made our beds, and checked out. Phone calls to home were made to find out the actual fall-out from the night before. You just knew it was the land of milk and honey for the filth.
There have been all sorts of stories have came out since the 'trouble' in Manchester, most of them not that complimentary towards our fans. I'm not going to defend mindless and drink induced stupidity, but Manchester as in a Police Force and as a city Council were hopelessly unprepared and underestimated the tidal wave of humanity that descended upon it and they must take their share of the blame.
Brace yourself Manchester? There was a smashing article written by a Manchester Utd supporter defending the twenty odd thousand Rangers fans in Barcelona back in November and the lack of facilities laid on for them. It's a pity Manchester's City Fathers didn't have a gander at that article to at least give them a glimpse into what was coming their way.
No wonder Man Utd supporters look on the City of Manchester Stadium with disdain. The toilet facilities outside were a joke; a joke, if you were wearing incontinence knickers, that is.
At one end of the ground, there were half a dozen port-a-loo things and supporters of both clubs waited diligently in line (we waited about twenty minutes) to get rid of that unwanted slash. What would have happened though if we had not been playing the Russians, but some mob whose fans think it would have been okay to wind us up by wearing a yahoo scarf?
It was definitely a friendly final between the fans, although the stabbing leaves a sour taste in the mouth. I'll say it again, the Russian fans were superb and you have to take your hats off to them. But it was a friendly final because of the behaviour of 99.9% of the fans and despite Manchester Plod and Manchester as a city.
Despite the negativity of the manager, his team selection and a garbage performance from the team in general, I wouldn't have missed Manchester for the world. But I am left with the feeling that only Rangers FC and a section of our fans could fess up the largest ahem, mass displacement of people witnessed in this country for more than half a century.
Who knows, if possibly the real men, the San Quentin drinkers, swapped their slabs of beer for a few fluorescent girly drinks, we'd all chill out together. And remember, straws are for puffs.
Oh, and Mr Suck, the next time you host a day out, get somewhere that sells Smirnoff and not Totov Vodka which retails at four pounds a litre at Haddows.
Yours,defeated but unfortunately not whipped in Piccadilly,
The Govanhill Gub.