I Belong to Glasgow

I got home early tonight with vague headache. From the first thing this morning wave after wave Gers fans arrived in Manchester in their tens of thousands (last estimate 120,000 to 150,000). It wasn’t too bad at first. They were noisy as in singing and shouting, but come the afternoon they were drunker and the air horns came out. It isn’t easy having a work phone conversation when it sounds like you’re in the middle of the Battle of the Somme.

It was all good natured mind, if you can describe sectarian songs as good natured. Personally I wouldn’t recognise one if it came round and gave me a haircut, but colleagues who had grown up in Northern Ireland found it very uncomfortable.

By mid-afternoon public transport had ground to a halt as the buses and trams simply couldn’t get into the city centre and I had to laugh when listening to Peter Allen interviewed a City fan on Five Live who said that they had to walk from Victoria because the trams were stopped by Scots on the line. You could tell from Peter’s reaction that he thought it was a joke, but it was true.

As I said, I left early because the traffic was pretty heavy. My journey took me close to Eastlands where the main event takes place tonight and from there onward every pub I passed there was a blue shirted or Union Jack bedecked figure going in or out.

But if I had a headache when I got home, it will be as nought to how the Gers fans feel tomorrow. Alcohol fumes wafted though our open office windows and Tesco got a telling off for stacking 24-packs of lager outside their doors (as did every other brand of store from what I could tell) and in Albert Square there were two tanker lorries of Carlsberg. (You could imagine the marketing men looking at the crowd and scratching their heads wondering whether it would be enough.

Anyway, despite everything I belong to Glasgow tonight, even if Manchester is twinned with St Petersburg, so come on you Gers. You surely can’t fear a team whose manager is named after an egg flip.

Nobody’s prefect. If you find any spelling mistakes or other errors in this post, please let me know by highlighting the text and pressing Ctrl+Enter.

3 comments… Add yours
  • Mosher 14th May 2008

    A manager who used to manage *them*, in fact! Been following it on the BBC sports pages seeing as I can’t actually *listen* to it over here. Silly flipping licensing restrictions. Because obviously I could find a French radio station broadcasting it in English…

  • Shooting Parrots 14th May 2008

    I spot a niche market here. Me, a telly, a webcam and me commentating on these web-restricted games. I could make a fortune except that I always choose the wrong pee-break, as in when Lenit just scored.

  • Mosher 14th May 2008

    I’ve already got it sussed. Set up an old laptop on a broadband connection in the UK as a proxy server. Just tap into it from wherever in the world and use *it* to connect to Auntie Beeb. BBC just sees a UK address accessing it and the “server” passes the data straight down to my laptop wherever I happen to be.

    Might well be trialling this in July…


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