The WPL fixture list provided me with another opportunity to visit a city that was fast becoming one of my favourite places, Glasgow. Both Rangers and St. Mirren were at home on the Saturday. I decided to go for the Rangers match, with St. Mirren as back up. I saw the Rangers match as an opportunity to do two things; I could laugh at Rangersâ predicament and I could conduct a sociological study about why Rangers fans are so abhorrent. Everyone should go under cover as a participant observer once in a while. When I was finally able to buy a ticket for Ibrox I knew that Iâd have to play safe with my attire as the environs of Ibrox are not the place to get caught wearing the wrong colour, and getting caught would compromise my study. I went for the 1986 Denmark shirt, a navy tracksuit top and red trainers. My sartorial choice appeared wise when a Swansea fan came over to me in Llandudno Junction station. The Swansea fan was on his way to London to watch Swansea play QPR. My new friend took the two facts in front of him â He was going to a ground where Swansea hadnât won for years and I was wearing a shirt adorned with Michael Laudrupâs number â and surmised that their coexistence on this particular day foretold of good fotune. Hence I was given the title of lucky charm. It turns out I already knew Medwyn through twitter and Medwyn also knew people from Bangor. Unfortunately this was the last brush with human warmness for the rest of the day. My train journey was fine until just after we passed Motherwell. I needed the toilet and passed a bloke in the buffet car on the way to it. He eyed my shirt suspiciously. When I passed him again he enquired about my shirt âItâs an old Denmark shirtâ said I. âI hope itâs noâ a Celtic shirtâ said he. I hadnât even reached Glasgow and Iâd been plagued by a Gob****e that didnât know much about the club he hated, when have Celtic played in red? When I sat down I suddenly realised what I was doing and where I was going, dramatic music filled my head. I was never going to make the same allowances for Rangers as I had for Millwall. When I saw my first large groups of Rangers fans the dramatic music became louder, not even the pleasant young lady in Greggs could take the edge off my trepidation. The underground to Ibrox was hardly a joy, packed, cramped and roasting hot thanks to singing Rangers fans. The fresh air outside Ibroxâs underground station didnât bring relief; I was part of a massive crowd that was walking slowly past screeching merchandise hawkers on roads embellished with copious amounts of horse **** (when you donât got to matches with large corwds as often as you used to you forget about things like horse **** all over the road.). I was stuck behind a women in a union flag pac-a-mac and Loyalist paraphernalia seemed to be everywhere. As I queued for my ticket I started to feel genuinely uncomfortable. I desperately tried to remember that Rangers was a famous historical club and it wasnât hard to do this as the evidence was everywhere; from the size of the ground to the edifice of the main stand, from the statue of John Greig to the stalls selling historic programmes. When I heard two blokes chatting about car insurance in the ticket queue I thought âOh Rangers fans are just normal peopleâ. As I was feeling overjoyed about thinking Rangers fans were just normal a bloke with a flag depicting the Battle of the Boyne walked past. Then I walked past more stalls selling RAF flags and Loyalist flags and scarves commemorating World War One regiments. Who the **** would buy this kind of thing to show their support for a football club? Taking an RAF flag to a match as a symbol of support for your club? I believe the correct phrase is, What the ****? It wasnât just the memorabilia that was off-putting, there was something about the atmosphere. When I took photos I felt stares boring in to me. When I walked around I avoided the twats with puffed up walking stride, the men intoxicated by the heady cocktail of testosterone, perceived injustice and belligerence. Other people just pushed past me, or avoided eye contact as they walked in to me. By the turnstiles I let two blokes go past me I didnât receive acknowledgement, not even a flicker. Ibrox looks like a dilapidated Villa Park on the outside but when you get on the inside you realise that itâs a rather good venue for football. Ibrox looks massive on the inside. It was mostly full by the time I got there. Due to my chronic knees I always buy a ticket on the end of a row as this make stretching limbs a bit easier. The Rangers ticket office had led me to believe that Iâd bought a ticket on the end of a row. When I got to the correct row I saw that my seat was actually in the middle of it. Curses! Itâs not only the comfort I like about the end of a row it means I donât have to push past people. Donât get me wrong, Iâm as dainty as a ballet dancer when I have to move past people in a confined space I just donât like seeing the visible effect I seem to have on people when I turn up at their row. I sense the frostiness when a conversation is interrupted , I see the disgust when a person has to stop reading their programme, I feel the annoyance when lids are replaced on polystyrene cups and a safe resting place requiring a stretch is needed. The only reward for offering thanks is a clipped and obviously insincere âItâs alright!â. When I finally reached my seat today I decided that I would rather piss myself than push past people again. The match was preceded by a little tub-thumping from Rangersâ new chairman. From one angle he hit the right notes; Rangers did have a full house even though theyâd been demoted, maybe this was a testament to the loyalty of Rangers fans, maybe they were the greatest fans ever. From another angle it was needless playing to the galleries. Today was always going to be a sell-out as the match was an ideal opportunity for Rangers fans to stick two fingers up at everybody they perceived to be against them, all they had to do was turn up. During the first few minutes of the match I couldnât help but notice the Rangers Ultras âThe Union Bearsâ as they were making a fair old noise. From my point of view the match got off to the best possible start; East Stirlingshire scored from a penalty. For the next 15 minutes East Stirlingshire looked very composed as they stroked the ball around, their attackers looked particularly composed as they showed an exquisite touch. After 15 minutes reality intervened and Rangers scored 5 goals in 75 minutes. In the light of the facts this shouldnât be surprising. Rangers had players with SPL experience, East Stirlingshire had part-time players that visibly tired in the August sun. The positive feeling that came from being in one of the historic places of British football lasted roughly 10 minutes.. For all the noise and colour, I found the Ibrox experience very uncomfortable. Firstly you know a crowd is not on your socialist, anti-monarchy wavelength when âGod Save the Queenâ and âRule Britanniaâ are belted out as celebratory tunes. I found uncomfortable things almost everywhere I looked; union flags proudly displaying the word Loyal, the Union Bears and their âNo Surrenderâ banners, the excessive amounts of Team GB merchandise, the gusto-filled renditions of âWe are the Peopleâ. Celebrating the outcome of a 322 year battle, anti-Catholic prejudice and the idea that Britain once ruled the waves is such a retrograde and reactionary stance. Whereâs the hope, the humanity, the desire to make society better? Itâs depressing to think that a person actually wants to display such reactionary symbols. Itâs bad enough if they do it in order to differentiate themselves from, or antagonise, Celtic fans. If they actually believe in the symbols well, contempt just isnât strong enough. By the end of the match I felt as though I was surrounded by defiant people in defiant blue shirts and defiant blue scarves. I saw an almost symbiotic connection between the defiant blueness and reactionary ideas. I wondered how anyone would conclude that there wasnât a widespread tolerance, if not acceptance, of reactionary symbols. These thoughts were really depressing because between about 2 and 5 Iâd been surrounded by ordinary looking people wearing blue. On the way out I noticed a few âcool and hipâ people and very attractive people, even model-esque, people in blue. Without the blueness Iâm sure I wouldnât have given them a second thought. With their blue shirts and scarves, or orange polos, they became reactionary in my eyes. They must accept reactionary ideas on some level otherwise why would they go to Rangers matches wearing the clothes they wore? As I walked to the underground station it was a relief to see shirts displaying messages celebrating Rangersâ European success in 1972 on the back. I was glad Rangers had won as Iâd hate to leave Ibrox as part of a dissatisfied crowd. Incidentally I saw a bloke outside Glasgow Central station wearing a scarf dedicated to the world war one regiment, at least I knew the sort of **** that buys this memorabilia now. On the train back I thought I was safe from all this ****, there was only a young father and son sitting opposite me. Then a group of slapheads from the Midlands took their seats. I had to listen to their tales of lairy adventures around Europe with Rangers. After a while I felt as though I was sat near the polite section of the EDL. At some point in the journey I found a Rangers fanzine on a seat, considering the fact that Rangers are the world record holders for the amount of league titles won there was an awful lot of paranoia within its pages. In a funny way, Iâm glad I went as I know Iâll never have a more disgusting experience as a football fan. In other news, Swansea won 5-1 so I was officially a lucky mascot. http://llandudnojetset.wordpress.com/
I don't want to start another Hun thread, so I'll stick this here http://local.stv.tv/glasgow/194041-...llers-advisor-warns-club-could-go-bust-again/
