It had just turned midnight. I stumbled out of Wigan Wallgate train station to see the bright lights of Mr Joe's Kebab House and the glistening taxi rank. My head was spinning and there was a huge grin on my face... I had returned to a winner's town. The home of Wigan Warriors, 2010 Super League Champions, and I was there to see them lift the trophy. Strange, considering I only saw my first Rugby match in June.
Wigan's 38-22 win over Castelford just over three months ago was my first taste of Rugby League. It was fast, physical and the crowd really got into it; with the dwindling quality and scandal (not involving the sport itself) surrounding the increasingly celebrity Premier League at the moment, it was a breath of fresh air. Keeping track of the Warriors for the rest of the season, I noticed they reached the Grand Final. Within seconds of doing so, my phone rang. A very excited man answered.
"YEEEEEEEEEEEEEES!"
"Congratulations! And yes, I'm definitely coming."
"Right you fucking are!"
I'd invited myself along, and on the 2nd of October, at 11.35am, I was sat on a train bound for Manchester. I was with my good friend, Jack (the excited man) and his family. I was carrying a sports bag full of ale and wearing a borrowed 08/09 jersey. Me and Jack cracked open our first cans of the day, and supped for good luck and loss of memory.
"Bit early for that?" his uncle protested.
"Nah," Jack replied. "It's nearly midday, I think we're a bit late to be honest."
His uncle grumbled and looked out the window. We discussed our optimism and the past season (I smiled and nodded) whilst the train prepared to leave. Five minutes and half a Tetley's later, we were moving, and the man who had previously protested to our early start on the alcohol had a Foster's at his lips.
Sing-songs didn't work on the train journey. Considering we live in Wigan, a start before 3pm is usually unheard of, so most people were tired and appeared unenthusiastic... still, we tried to chant away, ignoring the glares.
The train pulled up in Victoria station and we headed to our first familiar destination: the pub. As we did so, we spotted a stray bag in the main foyer of the station. My instinct was to be suspicious: an abandoned bag in the middle of one of the busiest areas in the city on the day of a huge sporting event? My party has also noticed. Despite what could've happened, we proceeded to shout "BOMB" and "BAG! ON ITS OWN! CALL THE POLICE!", jokingly of course. We didn't stop to shout, and as we left, I looked back to see a man in a Turban pick up the large black hold-all. I fell silent, then laughed heartily. Does that make me racist? No, I just found it funny due to being brought up in the most terror-fearing age we've ever lived in, and if you can't laugh, what can you do?
The Oyster House by the Arndale was fit to burst when we arrived, but there was still room for more. We'd never heard of the beer they were serving (Samuel Smiths) but it was cheap and we were thirsty... perfect. Jack was on the lager while I stuck to the bitter; I don't mix beers after having learnt the hard way about 4 times this year. Suddenly, a figure appeared on the steps facing the beer garden. A man wearing all black: hoody, gloves, pants, shoes, sunglasses, the works, carrying a hold-all. He strolled around the pub once then placed his bag down on a wall by the steps and surveyed the rugby goers. He had grabbed the attention of most of us by now, and we watched him unzip his bag to reveal a cheap, tatty old boombox. He pressed play, and some obscure dance track blared out. Those of us who weren't already staring at him were now transfixed on his pose: arms outstretched to the sky, legs shoulder width apart and his face like a rabbit in a pair of headlights.
Then he started dancing. It was extraordinary. His wrists couldn't bend. His face didn't change. He looked like an arthritic Rod Stewart trying to get a possum off his back. Now the chanting had begun, from "TAKE IT OFF" to "YOU'RE SHIT, AND YOU KNOW YOU ARE", everyone had an opinion and it wasn't considered valid until you shouted it a the top of your voice... which is typical of this day and age: even if what you're saying is completely stupid, talk loud enough and people will believe you. Away from sociology, this was funny, and 'Ray' proceeded to hold up his big cardboard sign, showing his name followed by "BRITAIN'S GOT TALENT X FACTOR YOUTUBE SUPERSTAR", attracting more cheers. He carried on for a good 15 minutes, even gathering a crowd outside the beer garden and having one or two drunkards join in: his 'fans' only stopped cheering to quite rightly boo any passing St. Helens fans.
4 cheap pints later, we finally headed to the stadium. Of course, we stopped off in another pub on the way. Inside, I came face to face with the one cross section of the Manchester community I did not want to meet. United fans.
This was a rugby day! Not football! The walls were plastered with "MUFC SUPPORTERS CLUB" stickers and the like, as we were a 5 minute walk away from the stadium this was no doubt one of the main watering holes of the Red Devils. I weaved through the fat, sweating fans (trying my best not to touch any shirts, they burn) to the bar, and felt relieved as I ordered in the next round.
On my way to the beer garden, I spotted a man on an electronic games machine. What made it special was he was on Battleships. And he was getting science questions wrong. I did what any sensible citizen would do and stood by him, shouting out answers at the top of my voice to aid him. He didn't win; I gave him a wronganswer intentionally at the end. Why? A, he was wearing a Manchester United top and B, feed the machine! I slotted in 50p. 10 minutes later, I was £1.50 down. I decided to finally head back to my companions. We wolfed down a good 3 beers and after one of the most nomadic drinking sessions of all time, Old Trafford was calling our names.
We entered the stadium positively buzzing. I sprinted up the stairs, looking like a retard, but I didn't care. For once, unlike a football game, all of the fans were talking about the game ahead. They were talking about players, stats, and the opposition through their teeth, rather than beer and the latest affairs of their reserve striker. I skipped buying a £4 programme and settled down in my minimum-legroom seat, which was perfect for me, a six foot twobloke. We chilled for twenty or so minutes, until it began. The players came out to an unbelievable amount of noise. A sea of cherry and white dominated my field of vision, and the sound of manic passion drowned out the speaker system.
Then, the players lined up to dedicate a minute of silence to the deceased Terry Newton, who had died a week earlier. Now, I always stay quiet, no matter who it is. Munich air disaster, Hillsborough, Alan Ball, when they were remembered I was silent. But anyone who was at Old Trafford on the 2nd of October will know how disgraceful that minute was. I don't know who they supported or what they were saying, but about a dozen retards were asking for a kicking... you never interrupt a silence.
Either way, the game was nearly underway. I grinned to everyone around me and they all replied with an even bigger smile. The teams were lined up, and the Super League XV Grand Final was ready to go.
And the rest is history.
It was good. Very, very, very good. We headed back to Wigan (after two more pubs) with our heads high from euphoria and hanging from excessive alcohol and tiredness. My voicebox was shredded and my eyes were fuzzy, but it was worth it. To see my hometown team win the biggest trophy in the country was just excellent. There was not a single sad face on the train home (because it didn't go through St. Helens) and the singing continued right up until the crowd filtered away outside the train station. A portion of chips and cab ride later, I was home at the admirable time of 1.30am. I collapsed into bed and fell asleep smiling.
It was a great day, and one that 35,000 other people alongside me won't be forgetting anytime soon. I'm a Warrior, and it's going to stay that way for as long as I can see.
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