Glasgow diary 2014: Ibrox - football stadium or office block?

The most ironic thing about us visiting Ibrox is that the stadium, in its current guise, was modelled on Dortmund’s Westfalenstadion (not something I knew before writing this piece, I admit). 

Following the Ibrox disaster of January 1971, in which 66 people were crushed to death and 200 more injured during an Old Firm game – a catastrophe which predated the Hillsborough disaster by 18 years – the club’s former manager and then director Willie Waddell decided to visit West Germany to attend the 1974 World Cup.

He returned with a vision of modern stadia that would be outlined in the Taylor Report 15 years later.

And despite representing the club as a player either side of World War II a total of 339 times (as well as a further 200 appearances in area divisional leagues during wartime) and leading the club to a European Cup Winners’ Cup triumph over Dynamo Moscow as manager one year after the Ibrox disaster, Waddell's legacy following his death on October 14^th 1992 remains the revamped Ibrox Stadium.

Today, it is the third largest stadium in Scotland with a capacity of 50,987 (Parkhead is the largest with a capacity of 60,355 with Hampden second, seating 52,025). Ibrox is located south of the river Clyde in the district of Glasgow from which the stadium borrows its name.

Of the three stadiums we visited, Ibrox was the easiest to get to as we simply had to board the Glasgow Subway in the city and alight at the stop called ‘Ibrox’. When we resurfaced and met daylight again, we were faced with a Rangers fan bar and a part of Glasgow that seemed rough and possibly not particularly friendly to two lads from Dublin on a day-trip.

"The Quintessential Rangers Supporters Club."

And from there, we went the wrong bloody way, wandering left and straight when we should have gone right. In truth, Anto and I were keen to avoid the two lads who got off with us – they had some sort of disagreement with a ticket inspector/conductor/employee as they were exiting their carriage, and in Anto’s words, they were “red hot.” I wasn’t about to disagree.

When we checked ourselves before we wrecked ourselves, we found that the stadium entrance is literally 60 seconds away from the subway stop. Somehow, the station obscured our view of the stadium and we needed to walk 100 yards in the wrong direction before a chance glance over our shoulders revealed our lack of directional sense.

Whether it was years of pre-conditioning or the thought of what my father’s reaction would be were he alive to know of my presence there, when I caught my first proper sight of the stadium I began to feel like I shouldn’t have been there.

Our first glimpse of Ibrox.

Thanks to my father’s early input, I have been a Celtic supporter since birth practically (I still have the “Celtic mad, just like the dad” baby bib as proof, though a photograph of a four year old me in Liverpool’s 92/93 green centenary away jersey could shatter my argument – that was my mother Lillian’s doing, I swear.)

Mercifully, it was dead around the stadium as Rangers weren’t playing at home on Saturday – they travelled to relegation-threatened East Fife where they required a 90^th minute penalty from Lee McCulloch to secure three points and put them two wins away from securing the League One title. There were still people floating around the Rangers Megastore, though, where I picked up my customary pendant to add to the collection of others whose stadiums I've visited.

Gallagher in front of the Rangers Megastore.

Anto and I then circumnavigated the stadium and came to one conclusion: for the most part, it doesn’t look like a football stadium. The sides of the buildings actually made it look like a set of office blocks. There were gates into the ground which were locked up. It was at one of these gates that we met a Rangers fan with his family.

He and his wife had brought along their three kids to see the stadium. They came along to the gate as myself and Anto were swapping photography duties, so we let them jump in ahead of us. The Rangers fan, who I’ll refer to as Jon for Jon Daly, asked where we were from. “Dublin,” I replied. He couldn’t hide the surprise from his face.

We got chatting then while his wife tried to coax their youngest, wearing a Rangers hat, to stay standing in front of the gate long enough for her to take a picture. He just kept running over to his two sisters, much to everybody’s amusement. Jon then asked if we were doing a tour of the stadiums. I saw no reason to omit it, so I told him that we were in Glasgow to see the Celtic-Inverness game and, having a few hours to kill, decided to visit Ibrox as well.

Me in front of the Rangers gates where we met Jon.

“Ah!” he replied. “That makes a bit more sense, it’s not often you get people from there coming here.” Myself and Anto then elaborated on our tradition and explained how we had visited stadia in Holland and Belgium. We also explained a predicament we’d been having regarding Firhill – we didn’t know how to get there and weren’t sure if we had enough time to make it as the Celtic game was due to kick-off at three.

Jon, taking out his iPhone, came up trumps then as he pulled up Google Maps and worked out that taking the subway to St. George’s Cross on the Outer Line – the line we had taken to get to Ibrox – would bring us within walking distance of Firhill, a straight-shot along Maryhill Road.

The bins are kept beside the visitors entrance to the ground. Sure they have to be kept somewhere!

While he was doing this, we were still chatting and I was explaining how I didn’t go in for the serious nature of the rivalry between Celtic and Rangers. That’s not to say a victory in an Old Firm derby is the same as any other win in Scotland – within a footballing sphere, there is no victory I’d rather more. It is the non-footballing factors stoking the flames of the rivalry that seems so unnecessarily stupid to me.

When I was young I bought into it because it was hammered into my consciousness, and not just from my father. Meeting a Rangers fan is a hard thing to do in the Republic of Ireland. I’m sure they’re there – one of my old football managers is a Rangers supporter, though we never spoke about it, really – but you would never see a Rangers jersey casually worn through Dublin city centre the way you would see a Celtic, United or Liverpool jersey on somebody’s back every day. I have seen England jerseys around Dublin, but never a Rangers jersey (not yet anyway).

Unfortunately, the Old Firm’s past battles are too fierce and the histories of the pair too vast for the identities of the clubs to be forsaken in favour of a little thing like reconciliation in all places bar the football pitch. Once Rangers complete their inevitable return to the top-flight of Scottish football – which, it has to be said, is a poorer place without them, especially from a competitive standpoint – the hostilities will resume hotter than ever.

“Some people are just –” I began.

“Fuckin’ idiots,” Jon finished. I can’t disagree with him. I was most likely going to say exactly that.

Statue of former Rangers player, manager and director John Greig outside Ibrox commemorating those who lost their lives in tragic events which occurred at the stadium. The small blue plaque bears Greig's name while the grey plaque below is a picture of an Ibrox crowd. The two larger blue plaques either side of the crowd picture lists the victims of the Ibrox disasters of 1902 and 1971.

Jon then told us a funny story which highlighted the conundrum perfectly. Jon has been a Rangers fan for his entire life, but isn’t too bothered if somebody he knows is a Celtic fan. His current familial situation highlights that. The children Jon had with him at Ibrox aren’t actually his, biologically speaking – he is their stepdad. The funny thing is, the biological father of those kids is actually a Celtic fan who gets annoyed when Jon takes the kids to Ibrox as Rangers supporters mingling with other Rangers supporters.

That will result in the young boy in the Rangers hat facing a serious ultimatum when he grows old enough to make his own decision. I’m sure Jon won’t mind what decision he makes so long as it’s based on footballing reasons.

Eon Hose: a potential nightclub name.

My advice to that lad would be piss both of them off by supporting Partick Thistle.