Rangers 3-2 Hibernian, Thursday 15th December 2022

Rangers 3-2 Hibernian, Scottish Premiership, Ibrox, att. 48,671

I’ve not seen a game in a month, a mix of no car, the cold….and a warm living room for the ‘Human Rights World Cup’ in Qatar. So, with the DVLA finally giving me permission to get the car back on the road, what does one do but peruse the fixtures? And there it is, a Thursday nite in Glasgow. No World Cup fixtures this evening and a Rangers home game where there’s actually tickets available (albeit singles only). I’m inbetween employ, so why not stay over? I don’t really fancy driving there and back in the day, do I? And a drink would be nice.

It’s just over 3 hours drive from my County Durham base. My plan is to park up near Ibrox, take a few pics, then get on the subway and check-in at the Glasgow Youth Hostel. The plan works a treat, and included the bonus of walking through a snowy and relatively deserted Kelvingrove Park. Beautiful, as is the hostel. How’ve I never set foot in Kelvingrove Park before? An oasis in this dreich place.

I head back to Ibrox via dinner and Leffe in the Wetherspoons on Sauchiehall Street. I make no apologies for my lack of standards. Besides, there didn’t seem much up by the ground, the Louden Bar outside Ibrox station not looking welcoming at all. I’d earlier bought a couple of pin badges. Where else could I get a pin of the stand I’m in!? Turns out I got the wrong stand, so I went back for a swap, being in the Copland Stand, not the Broomloan. I went lower tier, and if I’ve learnt anything about Scottish football this season, it’s the overpriced nature of it. £34. Still, you only do these things once.

After admiring the grandeur of the historically listed main stand facade, I walked round to the Copland. Union Jacks adorned the gates inbetween, in homage to monarchs both recently deceased and appointed (anointed?). This is not something I’m used to in little old England (I’m not a regular at the tennis at Wimbledon), but obviously there’s a few ‘issues’ in this neck of the woods. Souvenir stalls further offered me ‘No surrender’ badges as well as an array of flags celebrating our armed forces and/or monarchy.

Inside the ground is, as you would expect, very smart. 3 two-tier stands, with the corners filled in and giant video screens, handy for showing highlights, pre-match (strangely, they didn’t show their 1-7 Champions League spanking to Liverpoo). A long way from the old Ibrox, massive terraces, oval ends, and an almighty record attendance of 118,000. These days, blank spaces behind the Copland and Broomloan stands show the potential for greater development, especially now Rangers play regularly in front of sell-out crowds. The 4th side is the Bill Struth Main Stand, with its historically listed façade. Inside, a 3rd tier has tastefully been added so as not to intrude upon the original Archibald Leitch features.

Tonite the visitors are Hibernian, 8th or summink in the Scottish Premiership. Whilst ostensibly being neutral, I have an interest in the game. Rangers include former Barnsley loanee Ryan Kent, a winger so fast he could only run in a straight line, while Hibs are managed by ‘Little’ Lee Johnson, the only manager I know to have avoided the sack despite losing 8 games in a row, twice (Barnsley and Bristol City). I have yet to come across a manager who talks such a good game but who delivers so little. The Boris Johnson of football management. (Maybe they’re related?)

Tonite is the dawn of a(nother) new era, as Michael Beale takes over for his first game. A month ago, he was pledging loyalty to QPR having turned down Wolves. But alma mater Rangers come knocking (and, perhaps crucially, QPR have been losing ever since) and he’s off. He was Gerrard’s assistant as Rangers won their 55th title. (55th? Since they’ve gone out of business and forced to re-form, wasn’t this their first? Isn’t it a completely different legal entity?)

He receives quite the welcome too, as the Union Bears have organised a massive tifo. It looks amazing, though by the second half, many fans have liberated the plastic vests they were given. Please tell me they’re biodegradable…(well, I suppose everything is if you wait long enough). Pyros are lit and smoke covers the pitch. Meantime, in England, we do all we can to minimise the atmosphere by banning such things. At least we’ve banned ‘Simply the Best’ from being played on PA systems up and down Albion. Rangers walk out to this and I am instantly transported to Roker Park, circa 1989.

The match is a thriller. Or at least it is for an hour. Early on, Rangers 40 year old keeper MacGregor tips one over and the resultant corner sees an unmarked Porteous head in. With Rangers red favourites, I find myself pulling for the underdog. Go Hibs! Also, there’s lots of moaning around me (this is the EIGHTH minute!) and the 2 little kids in front of me can’t sit down. At least not for any length of time. The lead lasts 7 minutes, as Sakala drills it in from 8 yards. Here we go. However, I have not even sat down from the celebrations when Nisbet goes clear to bang into the roof of the net. There is carnage in the away end, while I find myself alone, laughing my head off. Go Hibs! So much for Rangers’ motto: ‘Ready’. The moaning becomes even more vocal, as Rangers dominate possession, but Hibs look dangerous on the counter.

At half-time I move seats, a propitious move which takes those bloody kids out of my eyeline and provides the chance to chat rubbish with a couple of brothers who see my Barnsley hat and engage. Would I like a swig of the 25 year old Macallan whisky they have decanted into a Co-op water bottle? After initial misgivings (I’m not a big whiskey lover) I relent. It was quite the most beautiful thing I’ve tasted in forever. (A trip into a ‘The World of Whiskey’ – or whatever it’s called – the next day suggests a potential price tag of over two grand a bottle. Well, it WAS purloined from the wedding of the son of a Rangers director, so possible…

I ask about Kent. Every time I catch a bit of highlights, he’s tearing up that Scottish league (shows how bad it is!) but my new friends suggest this not the case. ‘He’s been ‘s*** all season’ came the judgement, though it was acknowledged that tonite was his best this season. There was a little more thought given to my other question: ‘Is it not boring supporting Rangers? Every home game apart from Celtic being attack v defence?’ Of course, no-one admits it’s boring to support your team, but I’ve seen enough games at Arsenal to see a tedious pattern (one that usually results in constant griping if you’re not winning).

Sadly, the second half resorted to type. Hibs retreated, trying to protect their lead, and couldn’t get out of their half. Rangers consequently bagged two by the hour mark and the game was effectively over. Though I was roused from my stupor by a rendition of ‘Rule Britannia’ (WTF?) and, as I contemplated leaving early in an effort to get the subway, the National Anthem broke out. Later on, my new friends explained this happens EVERY home game in the 89th minute. Really? How come I’ve never heard of this? In the curry house afterwards (them and their mates cunningly go and have beers here, rather than a pub…waiter service and no crowds)…eyebrows are raised when I declare myself a republican. What is heard is that I’m a member of the IRA. No, I say, I don’t believe we should have a king or queen. So that rules out supporting Rangers. As for Celtic….well, I’m not a believer either. Still, everyone took it in good humour and I got out alive (via another whiskey) to walk back the 3 miles home. The subway has long since packed in for the night.

The Damage:
£55.50 travel (£52 petrol, £3.50 subway return)
£34 ent
£3.50 programme
£7 pin badges
£23 accommodation (Glasgow Youth Hostel)
= £133

The Tunes:
Astro Tough (Audiobooks)
The Seduction of Ingmar Bergman (Sparks)
Doubt (Jesus Jones)
Surrender (Chemical Brothers)

Australia 30-10 Samoa, Saturday 19th November 2022

Australia 30-10 Samoa, Rugby League World Cup Final, Old Trafford, att. 67,502

Today is Rugby League World Cup Finals day, for both women and men, at Old Trafford. A day for celebration, a day of joy, a day of battling the transport infrastructure to attend (and get back). Welcome to northern England, 2022.

With my car off the road (awaiting change of ownership…how long will THAT take, DVLA?) I had to take the decision a week ago to buy train tickets to get to Old Trafford. Durham to Manchester. How does that work? Well, first up, there apparently IS a direct service, but no, there’s no tickets. Thus my partner and I are going to change at Huddersfield. We get to Durham station. Oh no we’re not – service cancelled. Trans-Pennine instead direct us to York, to change. Although getting us in 20 minutes or so later than advertised (thus cutting it fine if we want to see the women’s final kick off), it has the bonus of at least getting us seats….while several folk couldn’t even get on the train at Huddersfield. ‘Don’t worry, there’s another service in 20 minutes.’ With a rugby league World Cup final to get to, from the heartlands of rugby league (the M62 corridor) what chance this next service also being full, coming from Leeds?

Armed with our lunch (Greggs’ festive bakes, the very best thing about Xmas) we’d got off at Oxford Road and decided to walk along the Bridgewater Canal. It was a beautiful sunny day, a second consecutive weekend, surely a Mancunian record. It was lovely, up and down the cobbles, seeing various barges and towards Old Trafford itself, seeing the tram bisect the Bridgewater and Manchester Ship Canals. A far cry from my only previous visits to Old Trafford, both 97/98, where my abiding memories were of a Bladerunner-esque urban hell of darkness, empty car parks, disused factories, with oil drum fires only adding to the sense of forboding. These days, it’s all plush architecture, no more exemplified than by ‘Hotel Football’ adjacent to Old Trafford.

My partner, a little more open to the idea of watching ‘sport’ (as opposed to football) than me, was eagerly looking forward to her first Old Trafford experience. So that lasted the 5 minutes we nosed around outside before making our way in, keen to see the opening women’s game. No, we can’t come in with our bags. Hers, an average ladies’ handbag, mine, a satchel around A4 size. ‘Can I bring a plastic bag in?’ I inquired. (My satchel could easily fold up and be put in a plastic bag.) ‘Errr…..no.’ However, it seems ok to enter with a plastic bag if it’s from the Old Trafford Superstore, teeming with merchandise ill-spent. (We’d looked in from outside; it is the size of Sports Direct.) My partner enquired where we’d been told these regulations, where they were written, etc. I think she blamed me….till meeting other like-minded individuals (females) horrified to discover that daring to travel from Ireland and being up at 5 was no excuse for bringing a handbag to Old Trafford. All concerned had no choice but to find a portacabin 5 minutes away to queue up, pay a fiver and hope to luck that your bag was still there afterwards as their legal blurb said anything was ‘left at the owner’s risk’. Still, it’s donated to charity, so the Manchester United foundation, or whatever it’s called, gets to be seen as the good guys. I wonder how much is donated via this manner, as a percentage of what they make through sponsorship deals, et al? Of course, I put my partner’s bag inside mine.

Jumping to full-time, we left the game a few minutes early to avoid what would be outrageous queues to claim our possessions. Also, we hoped to be on an early train back to the city centre and be on the first train back, beat the rush. We headed towards Piccadilly, where the train started. Good job. One of the first there, we were two of the lucky few hundred who squeezed onto a service headed for York. 3 carriages. THREE. On a day when many thousands would be seeking to head back to Yorkshire from the rugby, or Christmas shopping, or all-day drinking (there seemed to be quite a bit of that). Apparently, it should have been 6 carriages, an exasperated driver having seen it all before, railing (forgive the pun) against his bosses who’d made the dubious decision to take them off. ‘Apologies for the disaster that is this service’. I got a seat at Leeds, lucky me.

Onto York, where the train was over half an hour late. But at least it arrived – the service to Liverpool Lime Street was cancelled and the next one, nearly 2 hours later, was being cut short at Manchester Airport. This in a weekend where there ISN’T a rail strike. (That’s next Saturday.) Train arrives, onwards to Darlington, then Durham…but hold on. It’s announced the train will be going to Newcastle ONLY. The display board confirms it. Hang on, you can’t simply MISS OUT a destination previously advertised. If we’d known, we could have got a different train from York. As it is, we’ll be landing in Newcastle after the last train fro Durham has departed. A bus leaves after midnight, which might be an option, given the cost of a taxi 20-odd miles from Newcastle. As it is, our stress and anger is wasted, as the train DOES stop at Durham. After the day we’ve had, I treat us to a taxi. £27 for 7 miles. I’d have needed to re-mortgage to get a taxi from Newcastle.

The match(es)? We walked the several staircases up the Sir Alex Ferguson Stand to our seats. Decent view of the pitch. We were high, but you could still make out individual players. But the rest of the stadium? We could just about see the lower tiers of the other stands, as the front of the monstrous roof was lower than our seats. (We moved seats at half-time, front of the upper tier, a wise move given there was NO-ONE in the central block. Why sit 3 rows from the back, with more of a view of the ROOF than the main event? Others joined us as the men’s game kicked off.) Yes, I’m not impressed with Old Trafford. Either I’ve a view of the roof (upper tier) or I’m in an away end with seats that I found cramped as a CHILD. ‘Theatre of Dreams’ my bottom.

The match was a hammering, as the ‘Jillaroos’ (terrible nickname) of Australia beat New Zealand 54-4. The loudest cheer was for the Kiwi try. Throughout this tournament there’s been a lot of love for the underdog, as fans recognise the development of the game in non-traditional far-flung countries. I’d have hoped for a closer game, but the Aussie game was too fast and powerful for a weak defence. Full-time, the players celebrated, a podium was built and trophy awarded to a backdrop of tickertape and flamethrowers. Then it was the men’s turn.

The Toa Samoa (men’s national team) were making their first ever appearance in a world cup final and like the New Zealanders and Papua New Guineans (?) we’d seen earlier in the competition, they had their own war dance, the Siva Tau. They were right in the Aussies’ faces and got the crowd going. Despite beating England with a golden point drop goal last week (27-26), the crowd were firmly in their favour. Well, it IS Australia. Cue pantomime booing of the Kangaroos at any opportune moment.

However, it wasn’t to be. After a couple of minutes defending, Australia scored with their first attack and rarely looked back. 14-0 at the interval, Samoan hope was extinguished when Australia ran in a try despite having a man sin-binned, 6 minutes into the second half. 20-0 down, Samoa showed some fight and managed a couple of tries in a 30-10 defeat. But we’d gone by then. We had a handbag to pick up.

The Damage:
£42 travel
£50 ent
£8 programme
£5 red wine (175ml) x 2 (The only ‘beer’ was Carling and Worthingtons. No thanks.)
= £110

The Tunes:
BBC 6Music (Radcliffe and Maconie)
The Downward Spiral (Nine Inch Nails)

ps, it was lovely to share a tram back into town with those cheeky chappy Leeds fans. ‘We are Leeds, we are vile, Mason Greenwood’s a paedophile*.’ Almost as charming as ‘Jimmy Savile, he’s one of our own’ which we also had to ‘enjoy’. Yes, it’s really great they’re back in the Premiership, as the media keeps telling us.

*actually, that’s not what he’s been charged with, so get it right.