I remember walking up to Solitude with other Glenmen a good few times back in the 80s.
We'd assemble on the Lower N'Ards Rd and the peelers would escort us over the Queens Bridge where we'd meet up with another escorted Glens crowd who'd come over the Albert Bridge from the Woodstock and Cregagh, and up Laganbank Rd. By this time, especially for a big Saturday match, there could be up to a couple of thousand.
We'd then be escorted through the city centre to Crumlin Rd - where, and this is true, we'd be joined by hundreds of Bloomen from the Shankill, all quite peacefully - the Blues were banned from even playing at Solitude at that point - and then through Old park to Cliftonville Road to Solitude.
It was the homeward journey that the trouble always started - if not at the ground during the match. The crowd back was usually a lot smaller as some of them, included the temporary Linfield allies, had melted away to do whatever they had to do (you could usually hear them taking the fight to the Chickenville support somewhere in the near distance).
I remember one midweek Co Antrim Shield game, that some of we Bangor lads realised that if we split from the crowd at Central Station there was a train in 15 minutes and it would get us home quicker than walking up the N’Ards Rd and catching our bus home at the Arches like we usually did.
Very bad decision.
As soon as we split off, there was a crowd of Leftfooters from the Markets waiting for us. We got chased into the station and got onto the deserted platforms and shut the platform security gates behind us, only for some poety bastard of a station worker open the gates for about thirty of them to let them on to the platforms. There's was only about seven of us. We managed cross the tracks, up the other tube walkway into the main station again, to get through to the bogs and lock ourselves in.
They started to blatter down the door as we held it shut from inside.
It was an eternity - but probably only a few minutes - until an army patrol arrived and we heard an English voice tell us it was safe to come out.
We told him to fúck off as we suspected a trick.
It wasn't until we heard yelps of pain that we tentatively opened the door to see the army boys wailing the shíte out of some of the Markets scum they'd caught.
We then started to go after the wee station cúnt who'd opened the gates for them.
But the army guys shoved us off and the nearly empty train had arrived (it was now about half ten at night on a wet winter Wednesday in the city centre) and they shoved us on it.
As it trundled off eastwards the adrenaline was still kicked in and we regaled each other with personal heroic tales of how we valiantly held a ravening band of poets at bay Rorkes Drift style.
Ignoring the obvious fact that our brave last stand was all of us cowering, and in one case almost blubbering (I ..um...also had a toothache....er...honest) and holding shut a door in a station bog.