THE BIG KICK-OFF: A Day Oot At The Erinbra Festival

At the height o Ebbe reign (the bit where we qualified for the UEFA Cup), a group of us decided we were gettin a bit fed up getting up earlier than we did for work on a Saturday morning if the Dons were awa just to sit in some godforsaken shithole of a pub that we'd been in hunners o times before for opening time.

Anyways, for some reason that probably made sense at the time I was appointed 'Bus Convener', this is the most piss easy job in any Supporters Club...simply make a phone call and hire a bus - piece o pish.

However leave it to some lazy-arsed dope fiend and he'll leave it until the Monday before the first game when every bus in Aberdonia and the Shire is booked.

So I thought it was a message fae the Gods when I stumbled on this Newtonhill number and the guy not only had a bus he had one available for £165...superb - not even a 10 spot per head.

Now I think a'body visualises a beautiful hot sunny day when they look forward to opening day, unfortunately on this one the Gods decided it would be pishin it doon in Aberdonia.

I should have taken this as an omen...for as I turned on to Crown Street a drenched gaggle o Reds sheltering on the old Post Office Steps were glowering at me and a rather rusting and decrepit work van.

Oh shite, I thought, dinna let that be our bus...it was, but the driver assured me it was only until we got our real mini-bus in Cove. Putting on ma best smile I explained this to the muttering malcontents who'd paid a tenner, but if looks could kill I would've used up at least one and a half cats there and then.

Things didnae get much better when we picked up our final two passengers fae Cove and we pulled into the car park to get our 'mini bus'. Any hope I had for rescuing the situation evaporated when we pulled up beside an identical works van...I did vent a bit of steam by haranguing the driver that this it "isnae a mini bus it's a f*ckin van wi seats" but it was our only transport to Leith and once again I went thru a Cat and a half o lives, so much so that I was secretly hoping the rusty fracture at my feet in the floor would open up and I'd be swept to a thankful death under the wheels of an artic.

Thankfully the patented bottles o 'Coke' wi an unfeasibly high abv chilled the mood and the rest o the journey to Erinbra was completed in high spirits until that is we hit the traffic jams in Reekie as the pre match drinkin time shrank exponentially.

Now the chairman o our sorry wee band o travellers was doon in Reekie already; he'd taken his bird doon tae see the Albanian Lesbian Nun Calypso Band's interpretation of Macbeth or summat, which did nothing to assuage ma view that any 'festival' not involving bands and the compulsory copious consumption of recreational drugs probably isnae worth the hassle.

So the look of 'what in the name of f*ck is that' he gave us as our clapped jalopy hoved into view will shame me until the day I die.

I didn't know it then but from that point on, I entered what can only be described as sub-standard Irvine Welsh novel sorta world. What follows is 100% genuine and I can produce the witnesses to prove it.

It started as we passed a bar called 'The Stag and Turret' and were challenged to a square go by a midget Franco Begbie wannabe wi the obligatory 'target' logo on his elbow..."Moan en ya c*nts we're the HSC"...I assume he expected us to cower in fear he was therefore a tad stunned when his kind offer of pre-match fisticuffs was rebuffed wi: "The HSC? Piss off ye twat, that's a f*ckin bank" and "Come back when you've started shaving".

We then devoted our time to trying to find a boozer on the London Road which became increasingly frustrating as we were either kb'd for bein Reds or the bars were closed for some reason and so we headed back to the Regent...exchanging the approved international w*nker hand signals wi 'Mr HSC' and his mates in the Stag and Turret as we passed.

We'd just sat doon to enjoy a much needed libation when 'Mr HSC' and his band o Merchant Bankers attacked the bar, clubbin a Stirling Red wi a bottle and panning a few windows.

There was initial confusion amongst the Reds; after all everybody on the East Coast knew the...errm...Aberdeen Swimming Club was having its meet wi the Capital City Swimmers doon in Meadowbank. However, an almost Churchillian 'lets get the c*nts' speech fae a certain well kent Early 80's Cartoon Sidekick character meant a mob of 60-or-so Stirling and Peterhead Reds steamed oot the Pub, I believe they caught up wi Mr HSC and the Merchant Bankers and blootered them all o'er the London Road. An act of leadership which brought a round of applause from the Swimming Club and an invitation to come on down fae the Swimming Club members in Easter Road who'd been frustrated by a no show fae the CCS.

Now part of me did of course want to take part in this, but even I was aware that having a Bus Convener rampaging doon the London Road was nae the done thing. Now you may say that's just the excuse of a lightweight jessie bottler and in a way you'd be right.

However it did have the effect of clearin the bar and masel, another ex-Stoney Steamer and Cuerv saw it as a chance to get a few more quick rounds in...as they say ye can take the man ootta Stoney...

As we downed our pints we were joined by the local resident barfly, now I've got nothing against barflies, I served a long apprenticeship as one in the Dutch under the mentorship of Red Army leg-end 'Fiel Bill' but this one was a complete pain in the arse and was eyein up oor pint slops like a fly hovering a dog turd. My patience wi him finally snapped when he tried tellin us Reds and Huns got on great...thankfully he finally got the message when I grabbed him by the throat and advised him I would be insertin a bottle of Beck's into his arse sideways wi oot the use o a lubricant if he didnae get to f*ck quickly.

I apologised to the bar staff but they were more pissed off we hadnae given him a slap...pretty certain the barfly's name was Boom or Cent or summat.

Anyway wi a couple o belts in us we made our way to the ground...obviously keepin our eyes peeled for any more wandering Financial Institution Hooligan's firm...I mean the last thing we wanted was to go toe to toe wi the Barclays Business Crew.

Once in the ground we hooked up wi the usual associates fae the Dutch including a portly English chap who saw himsel as The Freddy Laker o Red Travel when he wisnae making dodgy porn movies in the Dundee Travel Lodge.

For some reason best know to himself had decided to show up for the game in dressed from head to toe in Aquascutum check...a sartorial look that had many enquiring whether he was Rupert the Bear's Fat Gay Uncle.

The corpulent one did however provide some incidental amusement as he caught a Ben Thornley cross and held on to the ball for a considerable period of time which had both Reds and Hibs putting aside tribal differences to chant 'You Fat Bastard, You Fat Bastard'.

The Fat one lobbed the ball back and was basking in acclaim when another Thornley cross hit him on the back of the head, and his frustrated comical attempts to kick the ball back over the wall lead the Reds around him to demand Sven select him immediately for England.

Now I don't actually remember much of the game itsel, they scored early we got a second half equaliser. What I do recall was Clarks 97th minute winner, a scuffed trundler as I recall though actually what I recall most was the bounce over three rows of seats in one bound and get on the wall style bounce afterwards.

A bounce that got ma ugly coupon on the back page o the Sunday Mail...a pixellated version o this pic exists on a certain defunct site. I'm nae pixellated cos I'm some sorta 'face' more the fact ma coupon resembles David Dodds' uglier brother after a heavy night.

Anyway, we managed to regally piss off the rest of the bus for goin for a post match sherbet or two and they were distinctly unimpressed at our claim it had helped them miss the jams. Our journey home was uneventful and surprisingly folk signed up for the next trip.

Now, if you're like me and of a certain age then I'm pretty certain the my wee badly written tale pretty much ticks off all the boxes of what a day at the fitba should be like...sod yer 'family friendly' away days...

Now I'll miss Saturday's game but I wish the 1900 jammy bastard Reds wi tickets have a similarly enjoyable day out...a prediction? Okay then, I'll go for a repeat of that day 4 years ago...2-1 the Dons.

Slater