Visiting the Neighbours

I have ventured a few times to the home of our Highland League neighbours, Clachnacuddin. Interesting experience, the first time.

In the years since the merger, the Clach fans have still not forgotten the bitterness and resentment traded between the three Inverness teams since time immemorial. Even now that we're in a different league to them they still enjoy ripping a strip off us. This was brought home to me in January 1999, when I went to Grant Street Park to watch Clach's Scottish Cup replay against Queen's Park.

I was surrounded on all sides by a heaving mass of loud Clach supporters. The clach hard-liners had all gathered around me in the little cowshed enclosure behind the far-end goal. The corrugated roof amplified their chanting to the level of a cathedral choir. However, the words they were singing would have peeled the frescoes off the inside of a church.

When I got there, things were still pretty quiet, save for a bus-load of Queen's fans milling around in the car park. I filed through the turnstyles surrounded by them. Once inside, I familiarised myself with the surroundings and chose the covered enclosure at the far end of the ground, as opposed to the tiny stand. The best atmosphere at a game is usually on the terraces. How unfortunate that the Ess Pee Ell has a phobia of them.

The ground filled up nicely. This was by far the biggest gathering Grant Street Park has seen since decimalisation. It seemed that the whole poplation of the Merkinch had turned up, along with their cousins from Raigmore and Smithton.

The cow-shed end was a sell-out for sure. What seemed like several hundred (but was probably more like several dozen) die-hards packed themselves in and were making a noise worthy of Hampden itself. The cold air rang with their chants well before kick-off. This continued when the players took the field, the home support serenading their Glaswegian counterparts with a song about how they love to sing and fight. I could believe that one all right.

The Queen's Park support were not exactly quaking in their boots. They had brought their famed trombonist and he began to chime in. The Clach fans returned the compliment by making interesting suggestions as to what he could do with the trombone.

In the meantime, a pitched battle was fought on the park between Clach and the Spiders, who had brought their hideous away kit of bright blue and orange stripes, complete with Irn Bru sponsor's logo. Ten walking migraines plus a goalie. Yeech!

Queen's scored first. However, Clach clawed their way back and scored twice to lead 2-1. Meanwhile on the terraces, their fans had taken a new musical direction by turning their attention to Caley Thistle, who weren't even playing that day! They sang a lovely little song, the jist of which was that "if you wear a big fat bonnet/With ******* Caley on it/You'll never get to heaven when you die!" Charming. Having condemned us to eternal damnation, they seemed content for a while, although I was beginning to feel like a spy. Thank goodness for that correspondance course from MI6.

In the second half, things continued along much the same lines. The Clachers sang some more songs and their team matched Queen's Park in every department except obnoxiousness of strip. It was an exciting game, added to by the **atmosphere** created by the fans. With ten minutes to go, it looked like we would have a cup upset on our hands.

I would have loved it to finish 2-1 to Clach; they would have deserved it, but unfortunately it was not to be. Firstly, Grassa Bennett, then player/manager of Clach (now our Director of Football), got sent off. Then Queen's equalised, meaning that Clach would have to try and hold on and clinch it in extra time. In the end it never reached extra time. Queen's struck once more to make it 3-2, and that was how it stayed. Clach, who had come within ten minutes of reaching the third round of the Scottish Cup and a rather lucrative home draw with Dundee United, missed out undeservedly. I joined in the standing ovation given to their players, sorry that they had not got the result that had almost been theirs. Ach well, that's fitba.

When I got home I had a long bath and washed the Irn Bru and fag ash out of my hair.

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