I say hybrid because, to my mind, it a cross between Association Football and computer literacy. The referee plays an ever- decreasing role in the outcome of games with VAR making the bulk of decisions. The human factor has gone to a large extent and, coupled with all seater stadia and various rule changes on the pitch it is a mere shadow of the game I once knew and loved.
It was once a game of four seasons with good pitches in August, September to mid-October when the surfaces would turn heavier. Into December, January and February when conditions were hard returning to good in March and April culminating in May with the FA Cup Final, a time when players had to demonstrate their skills in all weathers. It was a time when football fans were loyal and faithful to their team no matter how bad their performances were. Those were the days when I, and thousands of others travelled everywhere with Manchester United, home, away and abroad, and the craic was mighty.
Perhaps the most memorable trip (which I believe was/is unique in away travel, certainly in England) was to Videoton, Hungary, away in the UEFA Cup Quarter Final second leg back in 1985. The British Coal Miners had been out on strike for a year and despite an orderly return to work ordered by the NUM leadership on 3rd March, by the 17th of March many were still out on strike. The reason for this was local union representatives were trying to negotiate local deals with area managers to prevent discrimination and recrimination against their members who had stuck it out for the year. It was at this point that we decided to organise a bus trip to Budapest from Pontefract in Yorkshire for the game. This would make it cheap, and for the lads on strike free travel. No need for hotels or any of that silliness just transport would do. The idea by Tommy from Pontefract and Gov, a striking miner from Barnsley would prove popular, and only hand-picked drinkers could go, we could not afford stragglers.
We hired a 52 seater bus with rear seats reserved for alcohol, making it a mobile pub in effect. The game was played on 20th March and we set off on Sunday 17th March, Saint Patrick's Day, which most of us celebrated. Union flags were banned though the normal English flag along with the tricolour were permitted as well as United flags and union banners. We all had something to eat before we left, as it would be the last meaningful food for a week. The Manchester lads, some striking Lancashire miners, made their way to Barnsley Miners Club to await the bus which made its short journey from Pontefract. Most of us were in a semi state even by this time, but we set off to pick the London lads up at Victoria, telling the driver these were “Kent Miners” (the tiny coalfield which was still out to a man on strike). From there it was to Dover and the ferry as the chants rang out, Arthur Scargill, we’ll support you evermore, along with various football chants popular at Old Trafford in the day, like Reds are here, Reds are there, Reds are every fuckin where. We awaited to board the ferry.
On board the craft it was straight to the bar and more alcohol was consumed by our intrepid bunch of football heroes, as we saw ourselves. About half way into the voyage two of our party decided to streak naked around the vessel, much to the shock of other passengers some of whom found it funny. Others, the more prudent, called it a disgrace. That did not bother us in any way or shape. Some passengers who enjoyed the spectacle joined us at the bar and got pissed, until their wives called them to heel! At Ostend we boarded the “Drunkard Bus” as it was now known, and headed on in the direction of Nuremberg. We decided to give Big Kevin’s bar a miss (he was a Man Utd fan who had a bar in Ostend) deciding time would not allow us a booze up there, we would go on the way back. It was full steam ahead to Nuremberg, that city of the war crimes trials (or some of them, many Nazis who should have stood trial were given protection by the USA because they were of use) I could imagine what these bastards would have made of a bunch of trade unionists, drunk, pleasing themselves. Their faces would have been a picture!
Around this time we had our first argument with the coach drivers. What these fellas did not realise was that in the pit villages miners and their trade union allies attitudes towards women had changed. The old stereotype image of the woman being an object of sexual satisfaction for men had changed. This progressive change in men’s view of women in these areas was due in no small part to the rise of the “Women’s Support Groups” without which the strike would have crumbled long ago. Women were no longer items of kitchen furniture, and neither would they return to that status but our drivers could not see that. They insisted on playing pornographic videos, which were tolerated for about an hour at which point they were asked to turn them off and put football on. They failed to comply with this request so one passenger, a socialist from Hatfield, said; ‘if you don’t turn that fucking video off, I’ll put a bottle through the screen.’ This had the desired affect and normal viewing of football matches, old Man Utd games resumed.
On arriving at Nuremberg our drivers had hotel rooms booked, fair enough their company were obliged to provide this, the rest of us it was potluck. We decided safety in numbers was the way forward. Anyone who left the main party was vulnerable, drunk and defenceless in a strange place, sitting ducks for the locals. We stuck together - it was only for one night. Two lads booked into a third-rate dosshouse, which the rest of us then jibbed into. Twenty to a room but better than sleeping on benches, and it was only for a couple of hours till the bars opened again. A couple of hours kip was better than none, and was needed. The hostels owners had no idea until around 5am when we trooped out. None of us had paid a bean, it was after all a flea pit. To Nuremburg rail station we headed where we were due to be collected by our drivers at around seven thirty. One driver had received a black eye off an irate German, he had gone to the wrong room, drunk, and the German and his wife were on the job! It was then off to Budapest, grabbing a couple of hours shut eye on the coach, now with cleansed toilets, and we had replenished our booze stocks at Nuremberg. It was about fifteen hours to the Hungarian capital, if my memory serves me right, so after a bit of kip the bar was open again. We limped into Budapest on the morning of 20th March 1985, the game kicked off in the evening. On crossing the border, the Hungarian guards were bemused to say the least, we had visas, and once they spotted the “Coal Not Dole” badges their attitudes softened greatly. The bars were open and we latched onto some local pissheads.
United took a 1-0 lead from the first leg at Old Trafford, thanks to a Frank Stapleton goal, but the Hungarians levelled the aggregate, meaning the game went to penalties. Here was where it all went wrong, from a football point of view, as the hero of Old Trafford, Stapleton missed his penalty. It did not take us long to make up a song, Stapleton’s shot went over the bar, the last we saw was a shooting star, which was added to to the end of our song about the bus; The Drunkard Bus came over the hill, hurrah, hurrah the Drunkard Bus came over the hill hurrah hurrah the last we saw they were drinking still, hurrah rah rah, never being sober since. And Stapleton’s shot went over the bar, hurrah, hurrah, and Stapleton’s shot went over the bar, the last we saw was a shooting star hurrah, rah, rah rah never being sober since. Videoton went through 5-4 on penalties, but not to worry that was football and the days of rioting were now behind us all, different generation.
We could not hang about after the game as we were at home to Aston Villa the following Saturday and we all intended being at Old Trafford for the game. We staggered back to the “Drunkard Bus” and set off on our return journey. We stopped briefly at Nuremberg again to stock up with booze, this time loading up and driving off, I’ll leave the rest to the reader's imagination! No bother on the border, the guards were expecting us and a quick check and on our way to Ostend. By now, of course, we were all showing signs of wear and tear, knackered in other words, and we were stopping off at Big Kevin’s bar for a few hours. It was hare we heard the news that most remaining striking miners were returning to work: most pits gave assurances against recriminations against the lads. It was not in the local managers' interests to hold a grudge, the last thing they needed was a series of localised walk outs.
We hired a 52 seater bus with rear seats reserved for alcohol, making it a mobile pub in effect. The game was played on 20th March and we set off on Sunday 17th March, Saint Patrick's Day, which most of us celebrated. Union flags were banned though the normal English flag along with the tricolour were permitted as well as United flags and union banners. We all had something to eat before we left, as it would be the last meaningful food for a week. The Manchester lads, some striking Lancashire miners, made their way to Barnsley Miners Club to await the bus which made its short journey from Pontefract. Most of us were in a semi state even by this time, but we set off to pick the London lads up at Victoria, telling the driver these were “Kent Miners” (the tiny coalfield which was still out to a man on strike). From there it was to Dover and the ferry as the chants rang out, Arthur Scargill, we’ll support you evermore, along with various football chants popular at Old Trafford in the day, like Reds are here, Reds are there, Reds are every fuckin where. We awaited to board the ferry.
On board the craft it was straight to the bar and more alcohol was consumed by our intrepid bunch of football heroes, as we saw ourselves. About half way into the voyage two of our party decided to streak naked around the vessel, much to the shock of other passengers some of whom found it funny. Others, the more prudent, called it a disgrace. That did not bother us in any way or shape. Some passengers who enjoyed the spectacle joined us at the bar and got pissed, until their wives called them to heel! At Ostend we boarded the “Drunkard Bus” as it was now known, and headed on in the direction of Nuremberg. We decided to give Big Kevin’s bar a miss (he was a Man Utd fan who had a bar in Ostend) deciding time would not allow us a booze up there, we would go on the way back. It was full steam ahead to Nuremberg, that city of the war crimes trials (or some of them, many Nazis who should have stood trial were given protection by the USA because they were of use) I could imagine what these bastards would have made of a bunch of trade unionists, drunk, pleasing themselves. Their faces would have been a picture!
Around this time we had our first argument with the coach drivers. What these fellas did not realise was that in the pit villages miners and their trade union allies attitudes towards women had changed. The old stereotype image of the woman being an object of sexual satisfaction for men had changed. This progressive change in men’s view of women in these areas was due in no small part to the rise of the “Women’s Support Groups” without which the strike would have crumbled long ago. Women were no longer items of kitchen furniture, and neither would they return to that status but our drivers could not see that. They insisted on playing pornographic videos, which were tolerated for about an hour at which point they were asked to turn them off and put football on. They failed to comply with this request so one passenger, a socialist from Hatfield, said; ‘if you don’t turn that fucking video off, I’ll put a bottle through the screen.’ This had the desired affect and normal viewing of football matches, old Man Utd games resumed.
On arriving at Nuremberg our drivers had hotel rooms booked, fair enough their company were obliged to provide this, the rest of us it was potluck. We decided safety in numbers was the way forward. Anyone who left the main party was vulnerable, drunk and defenceless in a strange place, sitting ducks for the locals. We stuck together - it was only for one night. Two lads booked into a third-rate dosshouse, which the rest of us then jibbed into. Twenty to a room but better than sleeping on benches, and it was only for a couple of hours till the bars opened again. A couple of hours kip was better than none, and was needed. The hostels owners had no idea until around 5am when we trooped out. None of us had paid a bean, it was after all a flea pit. To Nuremburg rail station we headed where we were due to be collected by our drivers at around seven thirty. One driver had received a black eye off an irate German, he had gone to the wrong room, drunk, and the German and his wife were on the job! It was then off to Budapest, grabbing a couple of hours shut eye on the coach, now with cleansed toilets, and we had replenished our booze stocks at Nuremberg. It was about fifteen hours to the Hungarian capital, if my memory serves me right, so after a bit of kip the bar was open again. We limped into Budapest on the morning of 20th March 1985, the game kicked off in the evening. On crossing the border, the Hungarian guards were bemused to say the least, we had visas, and once they spotted the “Coal Not Dole” badges their attitudes softened greatly. The bars were open and we latched onto some local pissheads.
United took a 1-0 lead from the first leg at Old Trafford, thanks to a Frank Stapleton goal, but the Hungarians levelled the aggregate, meaning the game went to penalties. Here was where it all went wrong, from a football point of view, as the hero of Old Trafford, Stapleton missed his penalty. It did not take us long to make up a song, Stapleton’s shot went over the bar, the last we saw was a shooting star, which was added to to the end of our song about the bus; The Drunkard Bus came over the hill, hurrah, hurrah the Drunkard Bus came over the hill hurrah hurrah the last we saw they were drinking still, hurrah rah rah, never being sober since. And Stapleton’s shot went over the bar, hurrah, hurrah, and Stapleton’s shot went over the bar, the last we saw was a shooting star hurrah, rah, rah rah never being sober since. Videoton went through 5-4 on penalties, but not to worry that was football and the days of rioting were now behind us all, different generation.
We could not hang about after the game as we were at home to Aston Villa the following Saturday and we all intended being at Old Trafford for the game. We staggered back to the “Drunkard Bus” and set off on our return journey. We stopped briefly at Nuremberg again to stock up with booze, this time loading up and driving off, I’ll leave the rest to the reader's imagination! No bother on the border, the guards were expecting us and a quick check and on our way to Ostend. By now, of course, we were all showing signs of wear and tear, knackered in other words, and we were stopping off at Big Kevin’s bar for a few hours. It was hare we heard the news that most remaining striking miners were returning to work: most pits gave assurances against recriminations against the lads. It was not in the local managers' interests to hold a grudge, the last thing they needed was a series of localised walk outs.
We had a good drink at Ostend as one by one the heads began to hit the table due to lack of food and sleep, understandable really, youth could only carry us so far and we had all reached that point. All the same we gave renditions of Matt Busby’s Aces, We are the Busby Boys, Tommy Docs Red and White Army and other old songs as well as Atkinsons Red and White Army. Soon we were on the ferry, no streaking this time, just a few pints as the dry wrenching began.
When we arrived at our various drop off points in England each person took a black sack of rubbish with them, tipped the drivers, and were on their way. We left the coach, undamaged, and as clean as could be expected. No dirtier than an average day trip. The drivers complained we left a pig sty, which was not true, we cleaned up our mess. Perhaps they were trying to cover their own bad behaviour in their hotel, when the irate German clocked one of them for staggering in on him and his equally poised off wife!
I slept at Gov's in Barnsley that Friday night ready to board the train to Manchester the following day: no jibbing the train - it would have been too knackering. We were to meet in a pub called the Peveril of the Peak in Manchester, all of us looking like death warmed up. Looking back, with the gift of hindsight, it is amazing nobody died of alcoholic poisoning. We were all seasoned boozers but this trip would stretch the resilience of the hardest immune system. I look back and balk at the thought of undergoing such a journey ever again, we’re all in our sixties and early seventies now, but the memories of the football excursion, the likes of which the modern supporter will be unlikely to experience, are fond. We did what, to my knowledge, was/is unique. Many fans have hired minibuses, twelve seaters, for trips abroad making sure they have hotels and all the comforts to minimise fatigue. I know of no other teams supporters who have hired a 52 seater all the way across Europe into what was then the “Warsaw Pact” area. It was great, an experience showing true Man Utd fans of the day endurance.
When we arrived at our various drop off points in England each person took a black sack of rubbish with them, tipped the drivers, and were on their way. We left the coach, undamaged, and as clean as could be expected. No dirtier than an average day trip. The drivers complained we left a pig sty, which was not true, we cleaned up our mess. Perhaps they were trying to cover their own bad behaviour in their hotel, when the irate German clocked one of them for staggering in on him and his equally poised off wife!
I slept at Gov's in Barnsley that Friday night ready to board the train to Manchester the following day: no jibbing the train - it would have been too knackering. We were to meet in a pub called the Peveril of the Peak in Manchester, all of us looking like death warmed up. Looking back, with the gift of hindsight, it is amazing nobody died of alcoholic poisoning. We were all seasoned boozers but this trip would stretch the resilience of the hardest immune system. I look back and balk at the thought of undergoing such a journey ever again, we’re all in our sixties and early seventies now, but the memories of the football excursion, the likes of which the modern supporter will be unlikely to experience, are fond. We did what, to my knowledge, was/is unique. Many fans have hired minibuses, twelve seaters, for trips abroad making sure they have hotels and all the comforts to minimise fatigue. I know of no other teams supporters who have hired a 52 seater all the way across Europe into what was then the “Warsaw Pact” area. It was great, an experience showing true Man Utd fans of the day endurance.
It was my second trip to Hungary that season, the first against Rabba Ettor Gyor, (I think that’s how it’s spelt) again in Budapest (or was that the season before? Memories fade). Out of the two journeys the “Drunkard Bus” takes the first prize by a distance. Comradeship and solidarity were the watchwords, partly due to the strike, and partly down to how United fans operated in those days.
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Caoimhin O’Muraile is Independent Socialist Republican and Marxist |
Caoimhin - really enjoyed this piece. Oh, for the days when we had the stamina. That was an endurance test. Now we want flights and hotels. a weekend in Glasgow in comparative comfort was the extent of my marathons!!
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