West London, Tuesday, 2 PM: A group of lads leave Ruislip. Just like every week. They travel the 200-odd miles to watch their team. Like every week. They can’t keep away. They’re addicted. It’s their religion.
As a football fanatic myself, I decided to embark on a journey in order to find out whether football could be classed as ‘the new Religion’.
My journey starts on Tuesday November 11th. I’m meant to be at school, but I really don’t care. I find myself in Ruislip. It’s 2 PM and the roads are quiet. Where on Earth could I be going? I look to my left, see a good friend of mine, with his dad. I look to the right. Men of various ages surround me. We’re all different, some short, some tall, some fat, some skinny. But we share one love that brushes everything else aside and connects us. Our love for Queens Park Rangers FC.
We set off on our own unique pilgrimage. It’s a long way to Manchester, but almost straight away, it becomes clear that we’re not alone. Joining the M40 at Uxbridge, countless cars, mini buses and even limousines pass us by, the blue and white scarves flying from their windows like graceful birds. I’m filled with pride and excitement. My team. My small football team, taking on the best team in the World.
You see, football fans are a crazy bunch of people. This is by no means my first pilgrimage with the R’s. I remind myself of Aston Villa in the last round of the Cup. Leaving straight after school, bundling myself into the back of a van due to there being no seats left to sit on. Almost killing myself on the M1 as a sharp breaking manoeuvre nearly sends me flying through the windscreen. Why do I put myself through it? Why do we put ourselves through it? Because when Damion Stewart heads Daniel Parejo’s cross powerfully into the top right hand corner of the Aston Villa Goalkeeper’s net, there simply aren’t many better feelings. Ever. Getting home at 1:00 AM having been thrown around the back of a van for 3 hours, spending money I can scarcely afford, going on a 10-hour round trip, all made worth it for that one moment of sheer ecstasy, when around 3,000 individuals become one.
I’m quickly brought back from my reminiscence as my phone vibrates in my pocket. I bring it out slowly and realise that it’s school. The time is about 3PM by now, they will have realised I’m not in. The text asks me to explain my absence. I don’t think twice and type out my reply instantly. “Miss I’m not in school because I’m in a packed mini-bus on the way to Manchester to see the mighty Queens Park Rangers”. I don’t care if I’m in trouble. I’m proud of my decision, proud that come 7:45 PM, I will be one of the 6,500 QPR fans freezing their proverbials off on a bitterly cold November night. A car passes us, beeping its horn. More QPR fans.
We’re getting ever closer; the toll booths are filled with people doing the same things as us. Taking days off work, days off school, days away from family and friends to watch our team. We greet people we don’t even know like they’re our family. Of course we do, they ARE our family, in a sense. I turn around and begin a conversation with one of the lads on the mini-bus that I don’t know. But this isn’t like any ordinary, small talk filled first time conversation. No, this is different. We talk like we’ve known each other for years, like we’re long lost brothers, and before I know it, the rest of the mini-bus are doing the same. We sing songs together, trade stories about previous Gods. Being reminded of Paul Furlong’s winner against Oldham in 2003 still sends shivers down my spine. Marc Bircham’s last minute goal at Brentford in the same year does the same, and I feel the excitement flowing through me like a highly charged electric current. Memories like that are just never forgotten. They’re nothing to an outsider. But to the followers of Queens Park Rangers FC, it’s memories like that that make these long journeys priceless.
My phone goes off again, though I can barely hear the lively beat of “Hard-Fi” over the chanting coming from all around me. “We are QPR” they shout. And how right they are. I answer my phone, greeted by my brother asking what time I think I’m going to be back. “3 AM if everything goes well”. He calls me crazy, asks me why I’m spending the money I’ve been saving up for for months to watch a game of football. But he doesn’t understand, and he probably never will. This is something I have to do. It’s my biggest pilgrimage yet. A 400 mile-round trip in the middle of November. It’s not very likely, but tonight could just be the night where those memories of Furlong’s goal at the School End against Oldham, Bircham’s last-gasp winner against Brentford, Damion Stewart’s bullet header at Villa Park are added to. Players can make themselves heroes tonight, and supply us with moments that we will never forget.
We finally get to Manchester, it’s getting close to 7 PM now. Everyone puts some money in for the parking and we walk to Old Trafford, the biggest club stadium in England, holding just under 80,000 spectators. I’m once again filled with pride as I see hundreds upon hundreds of men, women and children, dressed in the blue and white hoops of QPR, singing loud and proud. We show the United fans what real support is about, and there is really good feeling between the two sets of fans outside the ground. We exchange stories with United fans about the past, inform them on the present, and even dream about the future.
Then, the moment arrives. 7:45 PM. The game kicks off. We pay homage to those in blue and white. The game is tight, close and tactical. The packed East Stand, just full of us, there to see our heroes. Emotions change faster than a brand new car being pushed into fifth, graciously gliding across the gravel. And then, heartbreak. A penalty is conceded by one of the men in blue and white. There is no miracle doing here either as the penalty is dispatched. 1-0 down. Time ticks away. Still the support from the 6,500 hard souls who have made the journey up from West London is terrific. Suddenly, a chink of light. A break away down the left hand side leads to the ball being headed home by Samuel Di Carmine. Absolute delight takes over me, sheer ecstasy prevails. We all go mental, 6,500 individuals from West London rise as one, just as at Villa Park when Stewart headed home, just as at Griffin Park when Bircham stuck one in the onion basket, just as at Loftus Road when Paul Furlong escaped from Fitz Hall to calmly side foot the ball into the net.
And then it’s cut short. A whistle blows. Goal disallowed. The ecstasy, the goosebumps, the goal, all taken away by the Referee’s whistle. It’s sheer heartbreak and we lose eventually, a 200-mile trip to see a close 1-0 defeat against the best team in the World. I’m so proud of the boys, they’ve put in a great shift. We traipse back to the mini-bus dejected, so close, yet so far.
We finally get back to the mini-bus, telling stories of what might’ve been, how the efforts of Furlong, Bircham and Stewart could so easily have been eclipsed. As the long journey back begins though, there is no doubt that the faith has not been lost by us, the fans. Tonight may not have been our night, but I’m sure that one day, soon, those memories will be added to, as somebody writes themselves into the history of Queens Park Rangers FC.
We arrive home at 4 AM. I’m absolutely knackered, skint and sleep deprived. It’s early on Wednesday morning, and as I listen to the birds twittering their early morning ditties, I think about the money and time spent on the journey, the trouble I’ll be sure to face at school for going, and the fact that in 3 hours, I’ll have to get up. Next week QPR travel to Plymouth. Will we be there? Of course we will, because football isn’t just a game, it isn’t just a hobby. It’s a religion, and we are QPR.
