...Or, Round Scotland With A Caley Thistle Scarf

Lossiemouth

In the summer of 2002 our programme of pre-season friendlies included the usual visits to various Highland League clubs. After spending a long day in Speyside, visiting Ballindalloch Castle with my family, I made my way to Grant park, Lossiemouth on a chilly Tuesday evening.

The previous time I had visited this ground, I had been soaked to the skin. This time it wasn't raining, but it was a gloomy, overcast evening nonetheless. There were a couple of dozen Caley Jags fans huddling in the enclosure, watching the RAF jets tearing across the sky. It was all we could do to stop our fingers, not to mention our minds, going numb. I stood with a few friends: Programme Editor Bryan Munro, Mr. and Mrs. Guzz from Ardgay, Brian Wingrove from Hertfordshire, Peter McCallum and my cousin. We enjoyed each other's company and not for one minute did the football distract us from our conversations.

Only club statsistician Ian Broadfoot was missing from our little gang. He was covering the match for the Highland News and had planted himself in the little stand opposite. At half-time Bryan, wanting to know how Ian was getting on with his match report (and to wind him up a little), tried ringing him on his mobile, which was inconveniently switched off.

"Can't you get him?" asked Peter.

"Phone's switched off."

"Typical."

At this, with a wicked glint in his eye, Bryan inflated his lungs and let rip with a yell.

"HAVE YOU GOT THREE HUNDRED WORDS YET???!!!"

Bryan's voice echoed round the ground, sending a nearby flock of sparrows into a terrified frenzy and making several dozen startled Lossie fans look up from their half-time cups of tea. In the houses around Grant Park, windows were opened and people leaned out, wondering what the noise was. Despite all this, Ian made no indication of having heard.

In the second half there was no improvement in the game, with Caley Thistle eventually losing 2-0. The embarrassment. The sun came out for five minutes in the middle of the half, probably the most exciting event of the evening. In the end, we dragged our cold, bored carcasses out of Grant Park, lamenting the fact that we hadn't even got on the scoresheet. It had been a good win for Lossie and their fans had enjoyed every minute of it. Pity we couldn't say the same.

Bryan with the Fly
Bryan (on the right) treated us to a display of his vocal talent at Lossiemouth!

As a fan of Caley Thistle, I've racked up a few journeys following them round the country to away games. I've also visited some interesting Highland League grounds.

Firhill (not) For Thrills
My first introduction to Glasgow, the city I now call home, was on a cold December day in 1998, when I went to Firhill to see Caley Jags take on Partick Jags.

The ground was pervaded by a horrible creeping chill, the sort that leeches into your bones and leaves you with stiff fingers, numb toes, a running nose and a feeling of abject misery. Once I got inside, I took my seat and shivered in the grey light.

It was an overcast day and Firhill, not in the nicest part of Glasgow to start with, had about as much life in it as a cemetery. The Jackie Husband stand, as well as housing the Caley Thistle fans, also held about 500 of the home support and their relentless racket. Opposite us was the original stand, a fire marshall's nightmare, constructed as it is from old planks, boards and lolly sticks.

Having found a seat after my travelling companion (my cousin, Kerr) had wandered away, I sat looking around for a while until Ann Nichol, then chairperson of the Supporters' Club arived and sat in the row in front. As we watched a mediocre first half, we chatted about football and life in general and Ann tried several times (unsuccessfully) to get a chant going.

At half-time, with us 2-0 down and my fingers about to snap off with frostbite, I decided to queue for a cup of tea. Normally I don't drink tea except to be polite. However, I needed to get warm somehow and would have drunk aviation fuel if I's thought it would help.

I should never have bothered.

When I'd got the tea, I spotted Kerr with a small bunch of other fans and ambled over to join them. Unfortunately, I didn't get a chance to join the conversation. One sip from the steaming cup in my hands rendered me temporarily speechless: the scalding brew that it contained seared my mouth the moment that the first agonising drops hit my tongue. I gagged quietly, resisting the urge to spit the superheated liquid onto the floor. I stood quietly for a while, then noticed that the burning hot cup was beginning to char my fingertips. I mumbled some pleasantary or other to the others as best my poor burnt tongue would allow, excused myself and made an exit to my seat, where I could put the cup down and watch it burn a hole in the bleachers, instead of in my hands.

Another problem with the tea was that the string on the teabag broke when I tried to lift it out of the cup. Consequently, the teabag sat in the cup and the tea got stronger and stronger. By the time it was cool enough to drink comfortably, it tasted like rat poison. I discreetly shoved the cup under my seat, where it stayed, probably till the following week.

The moral in this? Don't drink the tea at Firhill!!! Unless you enjoy being poisoned. It was also a lousy game and set the tone for most future visits to Maryhill. Do yourself a favour and stay away.

London Road, Glasgow

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