I had such a good time over the Christmas holidays. Three weeks of merry-making with friends and family left me revitalised and reminded me how lucky I am to be able to return to such riches.
Among the old friends that came to visit was my continuing inability to moderate food and drink intake. Now, I’m not about to dive into the still-warm soup of January contrition. I was, however, looking forward to taking leave of such temptations and returning to the simple pleasures of island life on Erraid… with a night’s stopover in Glasgow.
The idea was simple: find the Airbnb, have a shower, and collapse into what would hopefully be a comfy bed, maybe even with a TV.
It was 5 pm and dark when I turned off the M8 into the city. Maps was behaving well and my eyes were smarting from seven hours behind the wheel. Turning into the road of my accommodation, it struck me as odd that, considering there were only eight houses to be seen among the medium-sized industrial units, I was looking for number 92.
Doubling back, I drove more slowly up the poorly lit street, eventually identifying number 92 as one half of a large Georgian semi. Its looks belied its immediate environment. A wooden swing seat stood in front of the freshly painted white exterior, which almost glowed when the sensor light tripped. As if looking at a parasitic Siamese twin, I then noticed that the other half of the building had no upstairs windows, chipboard downstairs, and a metal grate for a front door.
I also observed that, for a largely industrial street, there were few parking spots available. Finding one a few minutes’ walk from the Airbnb, I left my rucksack in the care of the rear-tinted windows of my car and sashayed back along the already freezing pavement.
A large wooden Buddha smiled at me as I walked in, and the smell of curry leaves and coconut wafted from somewhere towards the rear. My room was huge, with a nice firm bed, fridge, kettle, and separate seating area—not bad for £36.
Before collapsing onto the longed-for bed, I drew back the curtains to close the window, which was slightly ajar. It was then that I saw it. One street away, looming high and floodlit in the damp, frozen early evening, was Ibrox Stadium, home of Glasgow Rangers Football Club.
Funny things happen to me when I am close to large stadiums. I get very excited and start to imagine what it must be like to be inside, with a full crowd cheering and singing away. Adrenaline starts to flow. But this was a Tuesday night—an unlikely evening for a match. Or so I thought.
A man and his son sporting football scarves walked briskly along the street. Already feeling a weird sense of inevitability, I lowered myself into one of the faux-leather chairs provided and looked up the BBC Sport football fixtures page: Rangers v Aberdeen, 8 pm.
What could be the harm in having half an hour’s rest and then wandering down just to soak up the atmosphere? I didn’t even manage that. More excited than I realised, I found myself putting my boots back on straight away and heading out the door.
A police motorcyclist cruised past as I turned the corner. Already, at 5.30 pm, hundreds of supporters were standing in the chilly street chatting away. I made my way to where the buildings opened out, and there was the stadium, with its illuminated insignia and lovely old red-brick main stand.
Before I knew what I was doing, I sidled over to an aged steward and asked if, in general terms—and for no specific purpose—Rangers sold tickets at the stadium on match days. (Not something you can do at Torino FC, as I found out a year or two ago.) The steward answered in the affirmative, and I was heading in the direction specified when I was stopped by two chaps who asked if I could take their photo.
They were from Austria and were on a football holiday, starting with Rangers and finishing in Newcastle the following evening. Of course, they had a spare ticket.
Such serendipitous occasions need to be celebrated, so we made our way to the Louden Bar—a bar which, for good reason, had no windows. On entering, it felt like being inside a massive Rangers shirt in a few different ways. Benny, Paul, and I chatted over popular ’80s hits and continued our conversation by shouting when various unionist anthems came on at double volume.
It was one of those moments where one has to decide whether to silently mouth something that looks like the lyrics or to just carry on talking and hope that one’s continued presence is not contingent on knowing the chorus.
After a couple of pints and handshakes all round, Benny and Paul went to soak up the pre-match atmosphere inside the ground.
I decided to see what knowledge I could glean from the locals about the very mixed fortunes of their beloved club in recent years, which included going out of business entirely in 2012 and having to start again at the bottom of the Scottish league system.
After an amiable but short exchange with an elderly season-ticket holder, I put my pint down on a table at the edge of the room and was greeted by a chirpy, slight, grinning woman.
“A-right?”
Jeanette introduced me to Davey, her stocky husband wearing a short-sleeved Rangers shirt, and Alan, their friend of over 400 matches. As soon as I confessed that I’d never been to Ibrox before, Alan immediately went to the bar and came back with another vodka Irn-Bru for Jeanette and a Tennent’s for Davey and me.
This carried on for a while. Friends came to say hi. I was introduced to all of them. Two bought me pints, and all of them wished me a great evening and hoped that I would come back. I got the sense they really meant it.
About twenty minutes before kick-off, we parted. I was told in no uncertain terms that I was to call them if I was ever up that way again.
Moving towards the main stand in the throng, I was reminded that Ibrox is an alcohol-free stadium. They have got around this by building the biggest bar I’ve ever seen right next to the ground—essentially, a beer stadium.
The game itself was a tepid affair, which Rangers won 2–0. I was disappointed to discover they had sold out of macaroni pies at half-time.
My energy crashing fast, I left a couple of minutes before the final whistle. I managed to circumnavigate the stadium completely before finding my road and was very happy after that to capitulate into bed.
At 1:13 am I was woken by a very loud, very close noise I couldn’t place. I lay there, too tired to get up and have a look, and instead tried to imagine what it could be.
Was someone attempting to machine-gun the alphabet into a piece of corrugated iron? Perhaps a flange of baboons were fighting over one of those bass drums you get in marching bands. Or could it be that there were, after all, occasional residents in the dilapidated shell next door?
Seeming to answer this question, the next time I woke was to the sound of someone being horribly, horribly ill on the street below my window at 6.30 am.
I took this as my alarm call, had a quick shower, packed, skated over the ice past the IRA graffiti, found the nearest place serving coffee, and headed for Oban, for Erraid, and for a wee bit of calm.
Erraid life 