Number_Eight recollection of Bohemians away split over 2 posts
If we go to Dublin
Watch Out, Chaps - Bandits At Six O`Clock
This year will mark the twenty-fifth anniversary of Rangers' trip to Dublin to play Bohemians, and as the events surrounding this match have often aroused much curiosity, particularly in younger Rangers supporters, I`m going to attempt to give you a flavour of the day.
I was keen to attend this fixture. It was an affordable trip to a European away game, and there was no need to be away from work for too long. I spoke to a pal of mine about this excursion, a regular buddy for Rangers away games, and he too was eager to head for Dublin.
Arrangements were made to go on a supporters' bus, and on the day of the game my friend and I met up, somewhere in Glasgow, at around 8.00am, and we wandered into the basement of what appeared to be an unused building. We were rather bemused to see a largish bar going full-swing with people milling around and drinking as though it was eight o' clock in the evening. We made contact with the guys who had organised the trip and had a seat near the bar. Neither of us had a drink, or if we did, it was a soft drink. At this stage it was envisaged that we'd be knocking back a few pints in Dublin, and anyway, firewater at that time of day held little appeal for me.
Within an hour or so, we departed on a bus to Stranraer, and I wrongly assumed we'd be doing the whole journey in this vehicle. On the Ferry there was quite a sing-song, and although my alcohol abstention continued, many of us were enjoying a wee drink or two. Remember, this was a time when "the troubles" in Northern Ireland were high profile so there was an extra bit of tension in the air.
At Larne we boarded another bus, a single-decker Ulsterbus, but it was hardly state-of-the-art. Soon we were off on the second leg of our journey, and we had little doubt that the timing of our arrival in Dublin would allow us a generous spell of over-indulgence.
As many of us had never been across the Irish Sea, it was an education just observing Northern Ireland from the windows of the bus. Curiously, it reminded me of the Scotland of my youth. Strangers to Northern Ireland might like to note that it's a far more affluent place than many of us in the mainland would ever imagine. I once heard that there are more Mercedes and BMWs in Ulster (pro-rata) than in any other part of the UK except London.
As our Ulsterbus meandered around the Ulster countryside, we noted signs to a variety of places, some renowned for atrocities which had taken place there. It transpired that the driver had been instructed to drive around aimlessly and only cross the border at the last minute. We were seeing signs that Belfast was twelve miles away, then eight, six, five, seven, ten and six. We were on an Ulster mystery tour, and only late in the day would we cross the border, just in time to make the match. I hadn't eaten and was thirsty too, but I had to bide my time until an opportunity presented itself.
The border crossing just past Newry delayed us briefly. We had the RUC to pass at the first checkpoint, and then the Guarda(the Irish police) at the second. As the bus pulled away from the Republic's checkpoint, there was a powerful sensation that we were on foreign turf now, and on our own.
After a fairly short time, we entered Dundalk, reputed to be infested with Irish Republicans, and a well-known IRA stronghold. The locals appeared to be interested in us, a Rangers bus in Dundalk was a rarity after all, and the onboard troops launched into some well-known ditties. Some of the locals were making the odd rude sign, but a few of the women were smiling at us. It's quite possible of course, that it was just me they were smiling at!
I actually thought that Dundalk appeared to be a homely wee town with everyone going about their business as one might expect. My thoughts were soon interrupted however, as one of the bus windows was smashed after being struck by a missile thrown by one of the locals. With hindsight, this might not have been such a bad thing. No serious injuries had been sustained, but we were on our guard now.
When we arrived in Dublin it was too late for a pint, even a quick pint, and I noticed an unfriendly area near the foot of a hill in the city where our presence didn`t seem to meet with the approval of some of the locals. If memory serves me well, a cash payment of three Irish punts ensured entry to Dalymount Park (most of us handed over three pounds sterling) and we made our way to the terracing where my mate and I took our places beside a group of Rangers fans, mainly from Ulster it seemed, in an area opposite the main stand.
There was a venomous atmosphere in the place and a real hatred flowing from each side to the other. A variety of incidents occurred which would have been nipped in the bud had the match been properly policed, but the Dublin guarda had no experience of handling high profile volatile football contests, and it showed. Individuals were invading the park at will and being attacked by rival supporters. The police didn`t know how to respond to the pitch invaders, and at least one guy was reputed to have been thrown out of the ground once, only for him to re-invade a second time. The Irish support produced a Union Flag in the midst of the Bohemians end, and tried to set it alight. After several failed attempts, a roar went up as an Irish Tricolour appeared in the Rangers end and was quickly incinerated.
The Rangers goalkeeper, Nicky Walker, spent most of his time thirty yards or so from his own goal-line such was the intensity of the variety of missiles aimed in his direction. In circumstances like this, it was impossible for him to do his job properly. Behind the Rangers end, and from the roof of a block of flats, further missiles were aimed at the Rangers support. Amazingly, there were no serious injuries.
At half-time, my compadre disappeared for some relief and I continued to observe events around the ground. The most serious incident was happening in the Rangers end. The Irish police had decided to charge the Rangers support, but were soon rebuffed. Yet again the police mounted a charge, and once more the Rangers support sent them back down below terracing level to the launching point of their assault. I noticed what appeared to be a railway sleeper being positioned by our supporters near the edge of a wall above the tunnel from where the police had emerged, ready to be dropped on the next police charge. As the only sober person in the place, it was clear to me that the next police onslaught was going to take casualties - serious casualties. Fortunately for all concerned, that next charge never came, possibly because it would have been a futile act, or perhaps someone had noticed that carnage was the certain outcome.
When the game was over, and we'd suffered a 3-2 reverse, our thoughts turned to extricating ourselves from this vile part of the world in one piece. We had a feeling that the evening ahead might be incident-strewn as we began to leave Dalymount Park, but we had little idea of just what lay ahead of us.
As we exited the ground, everyone had to turn right, but a glance to the left saw a line of police kitted out in riot gear and with batons drawn. As we shuffled along, the police began beating their shields with their batons, and it was evident that a confrontation of sorts was on the cards. As my pal and I walked away from the ground, the crowd behind us stirred and then began to rush past us. The charge had begun. As the advancing police moved amongst the Rangers support lashing out wildly with their batons, the pace of the Rangers fans quickened until it reached the stage where if a move wasn't made, being trampled or baton-whipped was a distinct probability. The police were effectively driving back the supporters to where our buses were, and some were relishing the opportunity to demonstrate their weapons superiority along the way. I made it back to our bus alongside my mate, unscathed, but tempers were up and chaos reigned. There were already supporters back on the coach, but some were still out on the street and several had been separated from friends. Within a short time everyone who'd been on the bus for the outward journey had made it back, some with baton-induced injuries.
I should mention one incident in particular which had the potential to become ghastly. One of our lads had leapt on to the bus whilst being pursued by a single policeman, and when he landed, just inside the door, he had to move swiftly as the officer tried to take one last swipe at him. The policeman, having missed, overbalanced slightly and two or three of the lads in the bus tried to haul him on board. It was probably for the best that the officer managed to make his escape. I dread to think of the consequences if this policeman had been "captured". Bearing in mind the climate of hate present that evening, forgiveness was the last thing on the minds of the support, particularly after the baton charge.
With all present on the bus, I picked a seat at the front and to the left, next to the window beside my pal in the aisle seat. We knew we were going to be subjected to missile attacks on the road home, and believe me, home was Ulster, even for those of us from Scotland.
