Acceptable in the 80's...

Disclaimer, this article contains language and descriptions that some may find offensive.

It would take a better wordsmith than me to describe what it was like being a travelling football fan in the 80s. It was exhilarating, dangerous, fun and scary at times but above all, there was a camaraderie with your mates.  The lads and lasses who you saw every week, often at home but occasionally on the road at some strange ground where the locals hated you.

Home games meant a few pints in The Trafford or if it was full The Dog and Partridge; now sadly a Spoons. Then the short walk down the Warwick Road to see the lads. Most games were pay on the door, a few were all ticket- Liverpool, Arsenal, latter games in the cup and City if they were visiting the top division that season. That meant getting to the ground in time to get in, Old Trafford especially. The Stretford End would often put the Full signs up with thousands still to get in. I eventually got an LMTB which was a standing-up season ticket which meant I was already counted so I could have an extra beer, stroll down at 5 to 3 and go in a special door past the thousands queuing.

An example of a LMTB from the 89-90 season

Night games were special: different sounds and different smells. It seemed a different ground. The floodlights gave everything a ghostly glow, it was more exciting and dangerous. 

Taking the away end meant getting their enclosure and being seen with a flag or a scarf before usually getting battered. Firms always boasted they'd taken the Stretford End but no one did.

There were some real hard men on it in those days. One Everton fan came flying in once windmilling his fists before being knocked spark out by a docker who stood near us. As they were stretchering him out the same docker said,

"Come on lads round of applause for him he was a game bastard!"

Standing up on the terraces is how football should be viewed. Being packed in, rolling with the crowd going nuts when we scored and ending up yards from where you'd started. 

(left, The Stretford End in the 80's and (right), a picture of Lee Sharp, above and Sir Matt Busby (below)

1989 was my year. Everyone has a year that they look back on in fondness and that was mine. The first year I travelled extensively with my first LMTB and went to about 80% of home games. However United were shite that season. Again. We had a cup run which resulted in a quarter-final at Old Trafford.  An all-ticket game but like every ground there were fiddles,  I've seen lads slip the turnstile operator a few quid and hop the turnstile which made the official attendance figure that day of 57,000 ridiculous.  There were 60,000+ in there that day it was so crammed I couldn't even put my hand in my pocket to get my fags out. We were losing 1-0 when it looked like Bryan Robson had bundled the ball over the line.  We all lost it and as we all surfed the wave until we realised it hadn't been allowed. The game finished and we lost. It then all kicked off on the forecourt and there was aggro everywhere. Forest went on to play Liverpool at Hillsborough in the semi-finals where the tragedy happened.

The Forest game was the last time United and City played at home on the same day. Whilst United were losing, City were playing host to Chelsea in the old Second Division in front of 40-odd thousand. After United fans were through battering Forest fans they joined with City in chasing Chelsea through Manchester up Market Street into Piccadilly Station; then fought between themselves and destroyed the McDonalds in town, happy days.

(A selection of genuine United-related editions in the late 80's. Bought for a lot cheaper than these days!)

The Liverpool game was hatred let's not beat around the bush. There's a bridge before you get to Old Trafford where police were separating the two sets of fans. One United fan broke the cordon to shove a meat pie into a scouser's face, it was hilarious and even some of their lot laughed. That game was the moodiest of all there was always trouble and we despised them and they hated us. Hillsborough horrifies me now but when you're young you just carry on. It was always going to happen to either us or them though, we both travelled mob-handed and had thousands of fans everywhere.  Police treated us like cattle but to be fair we acted like it often, turning up late, pissed up and causing trouble.  We were architects of our own downfall.

In a game at Newcastle, we had a copper coming onto every bus warning us against causing trouble before ending with "I hope you get fucking battered". We won 3-2 and Newcastle fans shit out when it kicked off like they always fucking did.

Players were approachable in those days if you hung around the forecourt on match day you'd see the players walking in. No selfies, no mobbing and no signs reading "Can I have your shirt". You'd get the odd kid asking for an autograph but it was usually just,

Mark Hughes in a game versus Luton Town on 17/9/1988. Photo belongs to Bob Thomas/gettyimages

"How many goals today, Sparky?" to Mark Hughes to which he'd reply,

"Only a couple today lads!"

I went up to Manchester this summer and walked up to Old Trafford a few hours after they'd finished a friendly hoping to get a player to have a picture with my Haverfordwest scarf.  I talked about it with a security guard who told me I had no chance 

"They're like bloody pop stars these days", he told me. Which is a shame.    

So what has all this got to do with the Bluebirds?  Well after Italia '90, Gazza and Sky, football got sexy. Everyone had a team, grounds went all-seater, prices went up and the lads that created atmospheres were priced out. When I was on the Stretford End in the 80s the average age was 17. It's now 40. The club would rather a family of 4 from Knutsford than a 17-year-old from Salford.  It's all about how much you can squeeze out of people in the Megastore and booking tickets a month in advance rather than just turning up on that day. I stopped going as much, just the occasional visit and then I had to sit down.

(A selection of old tickets from the late 80's/early 90's)

The Bridge Meadow now reminds me of The Stretty back then. A few pints our gang in our place singing our songs. Making a fool of ourselves but who cares? I compare us to the Bobsleigh teams. You see them all running and wonder where they all fit but they do and we do. Silas and his boys Rhiley, Iwan and his drum Iestyn and the Massive, Ben, Jack, and Harri with the younger lads and lasses. Not forgetting Dan, Steff, Dion, Liam, Jess and Samantha. 

Then there's me and Royy, the old ones reliving our youth.

We can talk to the lads after the games Corey, Dylan, Jack, Ben, and Martells lovely family on Boxing Day. Have a word with Tony and Rob. There's no side to these lads; genuine blokes. Clubs like Haverfordwest are a huge part of the community and with all the young people it is attracting now, the future is extremely bright. A traditional club but a forward-looking club with its You Can Have It All documentary and Ryan flying around with his camera.

Whenever you walk into any Premier League ground now you know you're getting ripped off from the price of a ticket to a half-time pint and hot dog to a scarf from the souvenir shop.  I remember getting onto the Stretford End, getting a programme and a half-time Bovril and meat pie for a fiver. Haverfordwest is £8 to get in, a fiver for a burger and chips; and a cheap pint or 2 afterwards.  People aren't paying through the nose for an hour and a half of entertainment, it's still the working man and woman's game in the Cymru Premier like it was many years ago in England.  After a shite week in work, college or school, you can let all your frustrations go and completely switch off.

Our Team.

Our Meadow.

Our Club.