Got locked out with thousands of nutters around the ground.
Tried to surreptously stroll up to a copper outside tge away end and say “my brother and I are Rangers fans”.
His loud reply of “Well you’d better f uck off back to London” luckily was drowned out by achearty “we are Leeds erc” rendition by the nut jobs around us.
We watched patches of the game from a hill outside until we gave up. Then someone somewhere says “oh f ucking bollocks”. Oh hello! I heard no roar inside but sidle up to some random northerner and say in my most fluent Watford accent “have they equalised,” his exploitive s were loveingly accepted.
Game is now running down and this place is making Dodge look very dodgy indeed. Bus back to the pub.
As we’re queuing up for the bus about five people behind me is a man mountain of a bloke wobbling about all over the shop. With his todget out, that is getting within kissing distance of his knee caps, pissing from left to right.
And then.
Leeds score. Oh Christ. Each woman and her child is thrown in the air. And mister giant piss cock is spraying his love all around. No seems to notice or care that they are being covers in eight pints of regurgitated Tennets Super.
Rangers are out of the FA Cup for the 189th consecutive season.
Later that night I sing QPR songs in a Leeds city Center pub, my brother drags me out and I fall down a drain.
1987. That was a long bloody time ago. |  |
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