BUBBLE WILL NEVER BURST
IT IS one of the ancient rules of football support that you must hate the teams closest to you, hence the advent of the local derby. And we really do hate Wrexham. A mere 13 miles separates the clubs and, crucially, that short distance straddles the border between England and Wales.
On my first ever visit to The Racecourse, a Wrexham fan impressively ran the entire length of the pitch wielding a Welsh flag before being robustly tackled by our goalkeeper.
The fixture often crops up in lists of ‘World’s Tastiest Derbies’ along with the likes of Celtic v Rangers, Liverpool v Manchester United, Millwall v West Ham, Southampton v Portsmouth and Boca Juniors v River Plate. It’s what Danny Dyer might describe as “proper naughty”, despite the significantly smaller crowds. That said, in the 1970s the fixture once attracted a remarkable 19,000.
With both clubs languishing in Non-League, and Wrexham’s former international stadium now partially derelict, the attendance today will be barely a quarter of that. The fact that it’s being broadcast live on BT Sport will also provide an easier option for a few stragglers, particularly among the Chester contingent who have to face the dreaded bubble.
Introduced when the reformed Chester FC were promoted to Non-League’s upper echelon, and hence resumed hostilities with Wrexham, the bubble – aka safe travel – fixture essentially involves compulsory designated transport. With no independent travel allowed, supporters have to go on official coaches, for which they have bought a voucher. They are only issued with match tickets once safely inside the cordon at the other end, thus negating any chance of rival supporters meeting.
It’s the only Non-League fixture ever to have had these restrictions imposed upon it, and indeed is currently the only bubble match in British football.
With police outriders stopping the traffic and a helicopter hovering over the convoy, it’s an operation that would be more suited to transporting murderers between prisons than taking twitchers and alers to a sparsely attended Non-League football match.
To add insult to injury, the coaches take an arduous route that even my satnav would reject as outlandish, taking well over an hour to get there. Throw in the obligatory early kick-off and, suffice to say, the bubble is a massive pain in the arse. Many fans chose to boycott it, some claiming that it infringes upon their civil liberties. I’ve done all of them so far, and this will be my fourth.
Awaking in unfamiliar surroundings at an obscenely early hour, I am brought a cup of tea in a McNally mug, adorned with the iconic photo of the late, great manager taken by our mutual friend Parky, for which he has never received a penny, much to his chagrin and our delight.
A rudimentary breakfast is served and then we are on the road, destination Deva, from where our prison coach will take us into the belly of the beast. If you miss the coach, you miss the match, hence the safety first approach.
At 9am we drive past Wrexham, somewhat frustratingly. Pulling into the Deva car park, we are among the first to arrive, along with the CEO, with whom we have a brief chat.
As has become a bubble tradition, we have a bacon sandwich and a cup of splosh, and give ourselves an unauthorised tour of the ground, reminiscing about certain goals and where we were stood when they went in.
The players haven’t even left yet, and are gathered in the Blues
Bar, looking relaxed as they wolf down beans on toast and peruse the racing pages. Midfielder Tom Shaw strolls outside and bids us a good morning. “Stick it up the Goats, Tom,” I say. “Thank you,” he replies.
On the coach, the atmosphere is muted, the novelty of the bubble having rapidly worn off since it was instigated. Where once people would sing and chant en route, it now has the air of a reluctant works outing. The journey is tiresome as usual, wending into Wales, back into England, and back into Wales again.
Wrexham’s massive floodlights eventually loom into view, and we are issued with tickets and funnelled into the archaic turnstiles by a phalanx of robocops. For the second season running, there is no alcohol on sale, the final kick in the teeth in a series of Draconian measures.
Robbed of the basic human right to pour bottles of tepid fizzy beer into our gaping maws, we have no choice but to simply stand and watch the mediocre pre-match entertainment, replete with ear splitting bilingual announcements.
Disappointingly, Chester have opted for their yellow away kit instead of traditional blue, something that winds me up no end. Wrexham versus Chester should always be red versus blue – the Red Dragon of Wales slayed by the Royal Blue of Deva. Anything else is a mockery. Even when we won here 2-0 it was in some ghastly purple kit, since consigned to history. It is disrespectful to the fans, and makes us look like a two-bob outfit.
With scarcely a shot on target in the entire 90 minutes, it dribbles towards a goalless conclusion, which is still infinitely better than losing here.
Back on the coach, the dads and lads of Wrexham town line the streets to give us the traditional two-fingered send off, making something of a mockery of the bubble arrangements. And with no police outriders to be seen, mercifully our driver breaks ranks and gets us back in a third of the time. He even allows lads to pile off on request, including at Chester Racecourse where a meeting is in full flow...
On the way back south we overtake a coach full of Kettering Reds, presumably overjoyed at having seen their local team Manchester United win 4-1.
Stafford Services is full of them, including a grown man in an Ibrahimovic replica shirt. He looks enviously at my £5 Chester smock, or it may have been disgust. Switching cars back at The Driver’s village residence, I am dangerously tired and almost career into a Vauxhall Zafira outside Acton Town station.
Twenty-five hours door-to-door for a 0-0 draw that was on the telly.