The day Scots invaded Manchester

When I got called to a job interview in Manchester, I readily agreed. I like Manchester and more than that I like the fact that someone finally shortlisted me for an interview, so going there did not seem like much of a problem. Little did I know that my big day was to coincide with the big day of Glasgow Rangers. Due to my ignorance of sports, I had no idea that Glasgow Rangers were playing some Russian team in the Old Trafford, not that I would’ve bothered finding out.

I reached Manchester at 9am, feeling all professional in my business suit and giving myself a pep talk in my head, I made my way to the City Centre. I saw scattered groups of people wearing blue shirts with Union Jacks wrapper around their waists. At that point I found them amusing, thought it would be fun to cheer with them (whatever they were cheering for) after the interview. I did find people drinking beer at 9am a bit strange, but I thought its just beer, how bad can it be.

During the lunch break, I, along with some colleagues, went out to grab some lunch. The handful of blue shirts had, by now, turned into a sea of blue kilts, with beer bottles, cans, paper cups floating in it. We scoured many a street to find a peaceful spot to kill time, but failed to do so. In the end, we had to throw ourselves in the chaos and navigate our way out. We stumbled upon old, fat, weird men, scrawny teenagers, some hot chicks, tons of bottles and trash. After nearly spraining our ankles and giving some serious jolts to our joints, we emerged looking like train wreck for our interview. The afternoon experience was enough to make me want to dread the long walk from Picadilly Gardens to Victoria station. Totally exhausted, I entered the mayhem again. More than twice I thought I won’t be able to make it to the station. After taking detours and what I considered relatively peaceful routes, I reached my destination — what would normally have been 20 minutes walk took a good one hour.

I don’t have a problem with Scots, surely don’t have a problem with people drinking, but I do have a big problem with 20,000 sloshed Scots making it impossible for me to reach the train station after a long, stressful day. With my nerves all over the place and toes bleeding to death because of the new uncomfortable, but cute, shoes, a horde of topless, pot-bellied drunken fans blocking the thoroughfares, was just enough to throw my objectivity out of the window. I came home praying the Rangers lose (and they did).

What struck me the most was the minimal number of police in the area. It was expected that the pre-match party would be a big drunken orgy of football fanaticism, why then were there so few policemen? So much for all the talk about curbing anti-social behaviour.

~ by Amna on May 15, 2008.