My memories from a memorable few days ...
Follow Follow, we will follow Rangers,
Everywhere, anywhere, we will follow on,
Follow Follow, we will follow Rangers,
If they go Dublin we will follow on.
The UEFA cup draw gave me a chance to put that line from the club anthem to the test, matching Rangers with Bohemians of Dublin. I wasn’t going to fail that test.
Travel-wise, the most obvious route was through Northern Ireland, and then south into the Republic. I decided to do it differently, going with the Edinburgh Union Jack; they had an alternative plan, to go via Liverpool and sail directly into Dublin by ferry. This would avoid any of the potential flashpoints that might be encountered when crossing Ulster’s border bandit country and looked to be the safer option – it didn’t quite work out that way!
We left Edinburgh early on Tuesday morning, and arrived in Liverpool at lunchtime, spending the afternoon and evening in the city. The bus was booked into the Derry Club and most of the travellers settled down for a few pints, a good few pints! Not fancying an eight-hour drinking session, I went for a stroll round the city, taking a look at Anfield and Goodison Park. I did have a couple of beers, but only a couple. Deep down I had a feeling that this was a European adventure where a clear head might very well be advisable. Eventually, it was time to head over to the port, and catch our Dublin-bound ferry.
On the ferry, we were immediately welcomed by some Irish youths making gun and rifle type gestures. Pointing imaginary pistols at us they gleefully announced that the Provos would be waiting in Dublin. Ignoring them we settled in the bar, knowing that pretty soon the ferry would be full of Rangers fans, and the youths would be well outnumbered and unlikely to be quite so cocky. The ferry left on schedule, and we were on our way across the Irish Sea. The first indication that all was not well came an hour or so into the crossing, when the bar was suddenly shut. This was always a bad sign, as the bar is a big money spinner for the ferry operator and is only closed as an absolute last resort. It seemed that there had been some bother on one of the decks. I guessed it involved those Irish youths and some of our less tolerant supporters. Whatever had occurred though had clearly been serious enough to necessitate the return of the ferry to Liverpool.
Back in Liverpool, the police came aboard to investigate and some arrests were made. With tempers raised, trouble erupted and the police called for back-up. What followed was like a scene from a swashbuckling pirate movie. The police re-enforcements tried to board the ferry, but were repelled by angry supporters, bombarding them with deck chairs, life belts, anything that wasn’t nailed down. The battered and bruised police retreated, but soon returned. This time in battle gear, their shields raised to deflect the barrage from the decks above. Gaining the upper hand, they swamped the ferry and rounded up all the passengers. Everyone was herded into one small area; supporters then separated from other passengers.
We were corralled into a corner, formed into single file, and then marched away like prisoners of war. Sensing what was about to happen, I took my scarf off and discretely stuffed it into my travel bag, then slipped on the casual jacket I’d thankfully brought with me. We were clearly going to be ejected from the boat, and I wasn’t having that, I was determined to follow-follow my team to Dublin. My chances of escape though were diminishing with every step. Under the watchful eye of Merseyside police we were directed closer and closer to the exit sign. The situation looked hopeless, then, at the last minute I was given an opportunity. In front of me the supporters were being directed to the right, towards the gangway. When my turn came, I took a deep breath, and kept walking straight on ... waiting for a hand on my shoulder, or a shout to return to the line, but nothing happened. So I walked ... and walked ... desperately fighting the urge to run ... heart racing, ‘til I was out of view. I then searched out the darkest and quietest corner that I could possibly find. Cowering behind a discarded Irish Times I managed to blend into the background, so well disguised that I managed to elude a further police sweep of the boat.
With calm restored and after an age, the ferry made its second departure for Dublin. I kept a low profile for an hour or so, before eventually feeling confident enough to venture away from my sanctuary. Wondering if I was alone, I searched out any friendly faces. Spotting a few, we exchanged knowing looks, without actually saying anything. The sound of a Scottish accent would have been a huge giveaway. This was now more like a scene from
The Great Escape! Morning dawned, and we docked in Dublin. Once safely on dry land the escapees gathered outside the dock. From the full bus of fifty that had left Edinburgh, eight had made it to the Irish capital.
We spent a very quiet and uneventful day in Dublin, it was clear though that we were the only supporters in the city. The buses coming from Ulster and Scotland were obviously being held back ‘til closer to kick off time. We visited a few pubs, and as it was Dublin I felt obliged to sample a Guinness. I bought a half pint of the stuff but struggled to finish it, perhaps it’s an acquired taste! At this point all the Dubliners we had met were very friendly. That sadly was to change. As kick off approached, the tension started to mount. More Rangers fans were appearing in the city, and as they did, the atmosphere grew more and more hostile, with gangs of local youths looking to pick off any unsuspecting supporter.
Inside Dalymount Park the atmosphere was no less tense. With the Garda lined up around the Rangers section of the ground, it was becoming quite clear how this day was going to end. Supporters from the Bohemians end seemed to gain access to the pitch with impunity, to wave Irish tricolours, and to burn Union flags. Anyone foolish enough to try the same from the Rangers end was swiftly set upon by the police. The sporting tussle on the park was mirrored by persistent battles between the Rangers fans behind the goal and a tooled up Garda, quite clearly spoiling for a fight. It has to be said though, that the Ulster boys in the Rangers support, no strangers to civil disturbance in their homeland, were easily giving as good as they got.
Rangers lost the game 3–2, with Nicky Walker, the Rangers keeper, not having one of his better games. Hardly surprising, as he spent most of the first half thirty yards off his goal line, trying to avoid the constant barrage of bottles, coins, golf balls and various other missiles that were hurtled at him. The police, for some reason, totally oblivious to this bombardment. Game over, we made our way back to the port, trying desperately to avoid the swinging Garda truncheons as we left the ground. Our troubles, however, were far from over!
At the port the police were waiting, and quickly culled the Rangers support from the other passengers. They were pretty efficient and managed to snag all eight of us, pushing us into a corner. We were clearly not going to be allowed onto the ferry. At this point I started to get a little concerned – no, a little frightened. The police were in full riot gear and looked to be in the mood for a little retribution. My mind went into overdrive – were we about to be beaten up, or worse? A black van with darkened windows drew up, and we were pushed towards it. My mind went into hyper drive – were they about to take us to some Dublin ghetto? Maybe the Provos were waiting for us after all! I was standing next to a phone and quickly called my mother. I told her that I was okay. I told her over and over that it was eleven o’clock and I was fine. I was convinced that I was going to die, or at least be seriously assaulted, and I didn’t want the police to get away with it scot-free.
We were bundled into the back of the van, and driven away from the port. In the gloom, we all sat in silence, contemplating our fate. After twenty minutes or so the van stopped, and its doors flung open. We climbed out, fearing the worst. Those fears quickly turned to relief, though. We weren’t in a downtrodden Dublin ghetto. We were in fact parked in a leafy suburban street, outside a small hotel. The police advised us, no, ordered us, to book in, to take to our beds and not to leave ‘til the morning, when we were to board the first train for Belfast. As an alternative to being murdered it seemed like a good option, and that’s exactly what we did!
The following morning, we did as we had been ordered, and boarded the Dublin to Belfast train. I felt a lot safer in Belfast, but couldn’t really relax ‘til I arrived back in Scotland. I was glad I’d made the trip, pleased that I’d followed my team to Dublin, and wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Would I do it again? Probably not. No, definitely not!
Another memory, bus stopped out in the middle of buck %^*& nowhere for a pee stop. Ulsterbus draws up not a window on the thing. All the bears pile off and start stripping the stone dyke wall for ammo. Mental b@stards
