It was with sorrow and much sadness that I heard of the death of my old mate Syd. I was informed on 12th January, the day of his funeral, that he had died before Christmas, but nobody had a contact number for me over here in Ireland. I thank Bill, another York Red, for finding out and getting a message to me. Syd had been suffering from Parkinson’s disease for some years and finally, as I understand, succumbed to it late in 2022 at the age of 74. We travelled everywhere with Man Utd home, away and abroad till I left York in 1986. Many trips bring back memories but two in particular back in the day.
Valencia away in the UEFA Cup back in 1982 was a memorable trip for many wrong reasons but also a great time was had. United lost that night 2-1 which was the icing on a bad cake. Syd and myself were in our usual state of intoxication, as were most Man Utd fans of the day as trouble erupted inside the ground between MUFC fans and Spanish police. We knew little about what was happening until I received a thundering crack over my back several times by a truncheon. That was bloody painful as most of us were chastised by these lethal weapons. Syd managed to escape, fuck knows how, must have been sheer good luck as these coppers were indiscriminate as to how they used their batons. As I say we lost the game and then boarded our coaches back to town and the various accommodation. As the coaches left the ground the locals, under police escort, began bricking (throwing bricks) at our coaches with apparent immunity from arrest. As soon as the United fans tried to disembark, Syd and myself included, the police were waiting with their truncheons again. Back on our coach a song was quickly made up to the air of Viva Espania; “we’re sick to fucking death of sunny Spain, oh fuck off Espania, we’re never coming here again, oh fuck you Espania fuck off” which at least gave us a little satisfaction as we all compared truncheon marks. Syd and myself retired to the bar till the early hours before departure from that hell hole!
Another game among many which springs to mind was Bristol City away which would have been around 1983 time, maybe earlier can’t quite remember. It was a long arduous overnight trip after the pubs had closed. We arrived at Bristol Temple Meads at around 10.30 am just in time for the pubs, or so the pair of us thought. Finding a shop that was open was an art in itself then having to act sober in order to get served was the second act. We managed to find a landlord who would serve us as we only numbered two at the time. The main body of United fans would arrive by train and coach later. The pair of us were well steamed on Bristol cider as we headed up to Ashton Gate, home of Bristol City FC. I recall it was a freezing cold day on an open bank of terracing with chilling rain pouring from the heavens. To cut a long story short we left the ground before the end to find a pub. After walking, or perhaps staggering would be a better description for what seemed like miles we realised in our state of semi consciousness that more and more greenery with less buildings made up the landscape. Also, a notable lack of people was perceived. The Summerset Hills were on each side of the road. Suddenly and without warning, eureka, we sussed it. We were going in the wrong direction! Had we been in sober mind this would have been apparent after about two minutes, as it would have been noticed everybody else was going in the opposite direction! Still not to worry, we were alright now.
As Syd and myself headed for the train station we decided to stop off in a pub for an hour, not having a clue what time the trains were. After topping up we got back to the station only to find out the last direct train had gone. A guard told us he could get us as far as Derby which was still some miles away from where we needed to be but it would have to do. We had a few cans and there were groups of other United stragglers in a similar boat, some on the wrong train going in the totally wrong direction. At least we were heading in the right direction of travel. On arriving at Derby, we just caught last orders in a pub but there were no more trains that night going our way. It looked like the station would be our hotel for the duration. We dossed down in the British Rail, as it was then, waiting room both drunk and reeking of booze. Suddenly and equally pissed the manageress and her mate from the station buffet came in. She nudged me as I reached up, “they’re nothing but a couple of drunks” she slurred which did not stop her and her mate sharing our cans, and that was not all she shared. A good time was had by all until I asked if we could stay at hers, at least it would be warm. She told me and Syd to fuck off, “her husband wouldn’t like it!” Christ, I thought she must make a habit of waiting for drunk football fans before going to meet her old man, he must be stupid I thought or very naïve and perhaps boring. These were just two of many, many trips with Man Utd Syd and myself embarked on over the years. Usually there were more of us often as many as twenty before meeting up with the main body of Reds at away games.
As the years go by funerals seem to be more and more common as the only way of connecting with each other. It is concerning really as one by one the old gang are dying off. We were a generation, as were those before us, who are now perhaps a dying breed. Modern football fans I find difficult to equate with as firstly their knowledge of the game appears limited and secondly, they do not know how to enjoy themselves, too worried about doing as they are told. In later years Syd could no longer get to games due to his deteriorating condition. The last time I saw him would be about twelve or thirteen years ago, I was visiting my parents, and we had a good yarn about the days of yore some of which he could not remember. It was sad to see a once big fella fading away. At the funeral I was told the first song played was Glory, Glory Man Utd as the reds go marching on, on, on, on. On Saturday Man Utd destroyed Man City at Old Trafford, a fitting result in more ways than one.
RIP Syd Rowlands 1948 – 2022 aged 74.
As the years go by funerals seem to be more and more common as the only way of connecting with each other. It is concerning really as one by one the old gang are dying off. We were a generation, as were those before us, who are now perhaps a dying breed. Modern football fans I find difficult to equate with as firstly their knowledge of the game appears limited and secondly, they do not know how to enjoy themselves, too worried about doing as they are told. In later years Syd could no longer get to games due to his deteriorating condition. The last time I saw him would be about twelve or thirteen years ago, I was visiting my parents, and we had a good yarn about the days of yore some of which he could not remember. It was sad to see a once big fella fading away. At the funeral I was told the first song played was Glory, Glory Man Utd as the reds go marching on, on, on, on. On Saturday Man Utd destroyed Man City at Old Trafford, a fitting result in more ways than one.
RIP Syd Rowlands 1948 – 2022 aged 74.
 Rowlands – MUFC York Red. It was with sorrow and much sadness that I heard of the death o...&p[url]=https://www.thepensivequill.com/2023/01/syd-rolo-rowlands.html&p[images][0]=https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPZk7Aow34W7XuuNnk4UEskXvKEB8A8F6ahALjj1ZXLaS9P8oF4OJ1ksqHGBeUrt9rmv-i80FU2oeo2VjvYunoz7rLEhgyo2blOkLclKgpFVMmGkBs_M2sbjstBC7ZT55ZA39LKv1uLAkzlK-CeKiSx4G9xN9soOlKZMj8yCVj2We7Y1fCrBV4Dotp/s1600/TPQ%20Obits.jpg){kind=link}
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