Wigan Athletic: The 12th Man reminisce on their memorable journeys following the Latics!

Paul Middleton:

Before the advent of luxury coaches, a lot of people went to away games on “Special” trains, put on purely for taking fans to away games. There had to be sufficient demand, of course, but that was never an issue for Latics, even in the old Fourth Division. The Specials were trains in name only. They were basically just boxes on wheels. The seats were in pitifully bad condition, and there was rarely a properly working toilet. Cattle trucks were generally in better condition but, hey, it’s only football fans. One part of running Specials is that the home fans knew exactly when you were arriving, and so there was always a welcoming committee at the other end. As a lad of 13 or 14, it was both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. My mate and I weren’t fighters, being so young, but it didn’t stop us trying to have a good watch of what was happening. Our first ever trip on a “Special” was eventful to say the least. It was to Crewe in about 1980 and it seemed like there were 5,000 Wiganers crushed into half a dozen carriages. We piled off in Crewe Station to hundreds of police and what looked like a thousand German Shepherds all trying to take a chunk out of us. As we came out of the station, there was a mob of 30 or 40 Crewe lads across the road, clodding bricks, bottles and anything else they could find. We were behind a line of police with all this stuff raining down on us, trying not to take a direct hit. If anyone picked up something to throw back, the police dogs moved in and pinned them up against the wall. It was genuinely a new experience for me and my mate, and we had no choice but to try and protect ourselves. At one point I had a dog hanging off the bottom of my Harrington jacket, and he managed to detach the zip completely. After about 10 minutes of mayhem, the police finally tried to move the Crewe fans on, but it didn’t work out as well as they’d hoped. As soon as they turned to go across the road, hundreds of very aggravated Latics fans broke through and piled into the handful of now very regretful Crewe fans that were left. We just stood and watched, unsure whether to try and get towards the ground or wait to see what happened. My attention was focussed by a truncheon being pressed against my cheek and a policeman screaming at me to stay where I was. I was no more than a kid, and by this point I didn’t fancy having my head caved in by a length of leather-bound mahogany, so I did as I was told. After the match was no better. On the walk back to the station, the police just stuck the boot in on any Latics fan who so much as looked in their direction. Latics had something of a reputation in those days, and were considered fair game by the authorities for any kind of treatment. By the time we got back to Wigan North Western, we were exhausted. But not so exhausted that we didn’t vow to do it all again next time.

DP:

August 12, 2000. First game of the season, Swansea away. Not a match you would choose as an opener, but the first game is always anticipated in the close season. It had been the summer of Euro 2000, and another false dawn for England after Alan Shearer’s goal inspired a famous victory over Germany. The first victory over the old rivals in a major tournament since ‘66 but sadly followed by defeats to Portugal and Romania. The start of the domestic club season is the first step to easing the pain. But back to Swansea away and a sunny Saturday which proved to be one of the hottest days of the year. Joining the M6 at Marus Bridge, we set off and immediately hit problems. The usual 20 minutes to get south of Warrington took one hour, and stop-start traffic was filled with caravans, coaches and assorted vehicles full of holidaymakers. As we approached Birmingham at snail’s pace it looked very unlikely we would make it for kick-off. Turning around was looking like the more sensible option, but my teenage son was having none of it. We carried on. At the time sat navs, toll roads and air conditioning were not at our disposal and our oven-baked trek became ever more fraught. We made a few unwise decisions about stopping at service stations and ended up using the hard shoulder as a toilet stop just over the border into Wales from the Severn Bridge. A police van compounded our gloom as he pulled up behind us. The bobbies looked as hot and bothered as us and sent us on our way with a few choice expletives but thankfully no fine. We eventually arrived at the Vetch Field. At half-time. There were no turnstiles were still open, even the ‘late’ one was shut. A friendly steward managed to get us inside and our suffering did not abate. We were reliably informed by our fellow ‘Tics that we had not missed much, but we were down to 10 men as Kevin Nicholls got a red card and an early bath. The game ended 0-0, and was not pretty on the eye is my kindest description. Roberto Martinez came on as a sub against the club he later managed. The main thing I remember from the game was that Dermott Gallagher, already an established Premier League referee, was the man in the middle. His body language suggested he thought the game was beneath him. He passed the time by making ever more outrageous decisions in favour of the home team, and our derision only seemed to inspire him to do it all the more. Mind you, his unsmiling demeanour and general look of disdain was always his trademark. We left the ground putting on a brave face as we reflected on a point gained in a game against 12 men. Blissfully unaware the nightmare had not finished. We had parked in a residential area and my car was blocked in.

I prayed it wasn’t one of the locals, and my prayers were answered when the other car was another match-goer, so we set off. It still took us longer to get away from our parking spot than the time spent at the match. The only thing that had a 90-minute time span that day was the journey back to the motorway, with a still a marathon drive ahead. Some semblance of normality resumed as our journey continued, listening to the results and taking in the views on a summer evening. That is until we got on the M5 for a few miles, only to be diverted off due to an accident. Our alternative route took us back into mid-Wales and various B-roads as we followed signs for north wales and Chester. As our quest neared its end, we needed petrol as we were running on fumes. We somehow ended up in Runcorn, which has more bus lanes and no entry signs than actual roads you can drive on. Finding a petrol station in Widnes was the highlight of the day homeward-bound. I was in a ‘never again’ mood for a couple of hours but, of course, this did not deter us from our planned away trips that season. A season with three managers –Bruce Rioch, Colin Greenall and Steve Bruce in his first spell – ended in semi-final play-off defeat to Reading and a real anti-climax after looking a good bet for promotion at various stages. But the summer of 2001 saw the return of Paul Jewell – and another chapter began.

Craig Wigan:

Every day is a Wigan away day when you live in Kent, in fact I’m going to class home games in this as they’re further away than many others, but three memorable trips come to mind and hint... it’s not many of the 0-0 draws after a 400-mile round trip... The first was Boxing Day in 2005. After spending every weekend traipsing the country to watch Wigan in their first Premier League outings, we had the family down from Wigan to Kent. Two sets of grandparents who we only saw a few times a year, but at that time a bit more with the Soccerdome brief pre-game beers. But we were under strict orders from my mum that the Boxing Day outing at the JJB vs Man City was to be missed, and that we had to stay at home with the family, fair enough I suppose. But then, about 6am that Boxing Day morning, me and brother get a nudge awake from my dad as he whispers “ssshhh, get your shirt on, we’re going to the match, don’t wake your mum”... didn’t take much to convince us as we crept into the car and off the drive, season tickets in hand. We were just before Birmingham on the M6 before the inevitable call came through on the car phone “Where are you? Have you got the boys, I’m confused!” My dad then had to break the news and admit he decided to goto the game and we’d see them all for the Boxing Day evening. In a game where we turned a 1-0 deficit into winning 4-1 before the game ended 4-3. At 4-1, my dad texted my mum and said he wasn’t even sorry, and she just replied that he got lucky and glad it was worth it at least. I remember shooting back home ASAP that evening and getting home for about 8:30pm, earlier than our usual return.

We were forgiven for the trip, but the glares we received when we tried to put on Match of the Day to rewatch the highlights were enough to make us put down the remote. The second trip just had to be Brugge, amazing memories for me but memorable for a different reason for my dad. We took the Eurostar from Kent and it was an easy trip. But my mum and dad were on holiday in Spain at the time and actually booked flights from Spain to Brussels and back to Spain the next day, so they could watch the game. They landed in Brussels the morning of the game, to find out the local trains were on strike and they couldn’t get to Brussels central to then get the national train to Brugge. They had a handful of other Wiganers in the same situation and managed to get a minibus to another station that the driver insisted was open. He dropped them off and then as he drove away, they got on the platform to realise all trains from this station were also cancelled. After all this messing about, the time was ticking away towards kick off. I was sitting in Brugge Square happily taking in amazing sights, enjoying some strong large beers, caring less and less as they got devoured about the location of my parents. A few more long expensive taxis and delayed train later, they finally made it to Brugge Square. By this point, the flags had all been taken down and the Wiganers had all just emptied out and began the walk to the ground, no time even for a large Belgium beer. Then, just to top it all off, the heavens opened as we marched furiously well behind the crowds trying to find the stadium. Then as we grabbed some food outside, my dad managed to lose his ticket. So he couldn’t even get through the turnstiles! Until that was a ‘crowding effect’ happened, and someone opened up a gate and to save queueing and further getting soaked, meaning a load of innocent Wiganers – and my ticketless dad – managed to get through this gate and into the ground. The relief and joy when he saw they were serving beer and letting you take them to your seats. So he stocked up with as many as our hands could carry and was downing as many as he could to join our ‘merry’ level... only to find out months later, along with 3,000 other Wigan fans, that they were in fact non-alcoholic beers. The third most memorable trip for me was the final Europa league game against Maribor. After the stress that engulfed the first trip, we decided to fly to Venice the night before, stay the night outside Venice, then drive a hire car over to Slovenia. It would all work if we left early the following morning so we could enjoy the build up. Our flight left Stansted at 7pm the previous night, and I had a car MOT booked in at noon the other side of the M25, done by 2pm, at the airport by 4pm, three hours before the flight...not a problem, or so I thought. The MOT wasn’t done until 3.30pm and it was an especially foggy day, meaning the M25 was absolutely packed with traffic and I was struggling to make any progress. By 5pm I’d gone 20 of the 70 miles required, and it was getting into rush hour. I was stressing, thinking I wouldn’t make it, my brother and dad already comfortably at the airport, with my plane tickets. While not moving in this traffic, I was checking all other options. There were no flights later, only the next morning, but they wouldn’t get me to Venice until gone midday, meaning we’d miss the build-up, and I’d also be forcing my family to miss it too... again! So I was driving like an idiot, trying all I could to save precious seconds. I got on the M11, which was a bit emptier and it was 6.30pm...30 minutes before the flight was due to leave. I had short-term parking booked and managed to pull into the airport at 6.50pm with my ticket left behind an information desk and my dad and brother already at the gate. Luckily there was a short-term parking spot right by the entrance, but had a cone in it as there was a big pothole, I didn’t even think and nudged the cone out of the way with my bumper, took the spot, grabbed my bag and just started running. With little hope I’d make it all the way to the gate, but I had to try. After getting my ticket, I got to security and, in my panic, just announced my situation, took someone’s tray off the conveyor, put my bag on and took my belt off and luckily got through without incident. I was then running through the airport, belt flailing as I ran and I think it may have even accidentally caught a few shorter kids as I dodged through the crowds. It was 1.1 miles from the security to the Ryanair gate, my stuff in one hand and my phone in the other, trying to get my dad to hold the gate, but they were already boarding and it wasn’t looking good. I was getting texts from my uncle saying he was watching us on ‘find my friends’, seeing where my dad was and me slowly moving close. They’d been watching all afternoon like a Top Gear special. I was coming over a big bridge, and my dad said he couldn’t wait any longer and was being ushered onto the plane. It was probably about 7.15 at this point, so there’d already been a slight delay with the take off. All I kept saying to myself, as I was blowing and running out of energy, was that I had to give it my all, and if I didn’t make it, so be it, but at least I’d known I did everything I could. As I got to the final stretch, I could see the gate number, but no people. Then a bit like a cheap action movie, I saw the door was still open... so kept running and it had literally started shutting as I slid under a barrier and got my foot in the way. The staff said ‘are you Mr Wigan?’, to which I was delighted to say ‘yes’, and they scanned my ticket and let me on. As I walked onto the plane, the shock on my dad and brother’s face was a picture. They’d simply given up and I was too tired to speak. But I was so happy I didn’t miss the trip or have to make my dad, who’d been following Wigan for 50 years, miss another European build-up like he did the first one. I was still sweating and catching my breath when I got off the plane at Venice that evening, but it was totally worth it for an amazing, cold, day where a referee robbed us of progression, meaning it was the last time in a while I’ll ever get to see my beloved team in Europe.

Mike Goodman:

When it comes to eventful journeys watching Latics, there’s always one away game that springs to mind...Chesterfield away under Gary Caldwell in League One. The team had not won away from home in six months, but myself and my mate Stu decided to make the trip down, keen to tick off a new ground and hopeful three points. It was roughly two hours travel time from Wigan to Chesterfield, and we left at 12pm thinking we had plenty of time to get down, accounting for traffic. As we got close to Manchester Airport on the M56, we saw a warning sign, ‘long delays’ before coming to a complete stop. After being sat in the traffic jam without moving for 45 minutes with no end in sight, I suggested calling off the trip and turning around, but Stu was adamant we’d be going to the game as it was his first away game of the season. The sat nav predicted us arriving at Chesterfield at 3pm at this point, bang on kick-off. It turned out there was a man sitting on one of the motorway bridges threatening to jump, which is why we were stuck in traffic. Eventually we began to creep forward, the police had decided to close off the motorway and divert all traffic through the main roads around the airport. We were crawling along at this point, with the arrival time creeping up. When we finally got away from the diverted motorway traffic, the arrival time said 3.20pm, so we knew we were missing some of the game. All seemed to be going well as we were driving over the Peak District until we began to hear a thumping sound. Turning the radio down it became clear the car had a flat tyre. Using his emergency pump, Stu got the tyre pumped back up and we carried on, only for five minutes later to hear the thumping sound come back. The tyre was knackered and led to us pulling over to the side of the road every 5-10 minutes to pump the tyre up to try and get to Chesterfield as we were only 10-15 miles away. We finally got to the stadium at 3.40pm, asked a police officer where to park and dumped the car with the flat tyre. We had to bang on the gates for the stewards to let us into the ground, thankfully they did. We saw two minutes of the first half and had not missed any goals. At half time we discussed what we should do about the car, with Stu being adamant he could drive back to Wigan on the flat tyre. However, he soon admitted he needed to get the car fixed and left the game to find a garage. After going 2-0 down, I sat in the ground wishing I’d left with Stu, who was now in no rush to get back knowing the score. Those final 10 minutes to turn to the game around and win 3-2 were well worth the trip, and the scenes after the third goal went in were ever so sweet - especially after not seeing an away win in six months. As the final whistle went, I saw Stu walk back into the ground with a look of sheer disbelief on his face, he couldn’t believe he’d missed it. Fortunately I was able to talk him through the goals...fair play to Stu, though, he still says he’s glad he didn’t turn around when I suggested this in the traffic jam, despite only watching two minutes of football all day, having to fork out for a new tyre and missing one of the best comebacks the club’s had.

Statto:

Ah away trips, had some great away trips over the year’s Arky’s tour’s in the late 90’s/early 2000’s were absolute carnage. Millwall away, Arky gets a phone call off the Met Police, asking did he know there’s a man (RIP Danny Vodka) sitting on top of our double decker coach travelling through South East London? There’s also a trip run to Peterborough by two lively characters who lost money on it, driver demanding drinks off us while driving. Getting a lift to Blackpool so we don’t get followed by police on the train, then parking on Blackpool station car park in a Standish self-drive minibus. Train trips to London are always good... arriving in London at 10 past nine and still missing kick-off at Brentford by 20 minutes. Bristol City/Rovers away drinking 8 per cent Black Rat cider in Thornbury. That’s a few printable highlights...loads more...mad, brilliant days.