Sandstone Press

Going to watch Ross County

Posted by RLD on 9th August 2009

Acknowledged for, even distinguished by, my knowledge of pies I was naturally one of those invited to the David Hamilton Memorial Lounge (aka: Strikers) at Victoria Park, Dingwall, to assist in the selection of pies for the coming season. The great good news at Ross County this year is not the ascension of Dave Siegel to the position of Chairman, nor the retention of our intelligent young manager, Derek Adams, nor yet the acquisition of several fine players, though all of those do indeed constitute good news, but the extension of Denise’s remit from the hospitality lounges to the pie stalls and into, dare I say it, the guts of the Club.

Dave has been one of those Directors who prefer to stand with the fans than sit in the Directors’ Box. Legend has it that, when Division One status was finally assured, on the final away game of last season, he was turned away at the Clubhouse door on account of his appearance. I do hope it is true. First part of the evening was a pep talk provided by the great man. Second was the sampling of pies provided by the great woman. No contest, right?

A veteran of pep talks received in Rugby changing rooms all across Scotland, not to mention those in site huts and Head Offices, I reminded myself that, in the end, the pep you take is equal to the pep you make, and turned up in time to hear Dave’s closing statement, ‘Thank you, Gentlemen’.  You are welcome, sir.  How many pep talks I have received over the years I have no idea, nor how many I have given.  When I was stuck for ideas the players talked among themselves and those were the most useful parts.

Victoria Park sits within the town’s common ground, the Jubilee, both taking their names from the area’s slightly absurd loyalty to ‘the Old Queen’. I will leave the obvious jokes hanging in the air. Between the two and adjacent to the stadium, distinctly connected to the away terracing, is the Highland Football Academy.  At the other end is the Old Jail (now luxury flats), so the home terracing is called The Jailend.

Victoria Park holds a capacity crowd of just over 6,000, about 50% in excess of the town’s population.  It is a county club, of course, with buses coming from as far away as Skye. As they do over the Kessock Bridge, carrying Ross-shire exiles who could never transfer their loyalty to our traditional rivals, Inverness Caledonian Thistle. No surprise there, since the amalgamated Club could not even retain the loyalty of the Thistle fans.  Often abbreviated to Inverness CT there is a sort of running sweep on what else the initials might mean.  My favourite is Cloven Tongue. Oh, it goes deep.

Much speculated on this summer, is whether the football side can survive the loss of Mark MacCulloch. The adaptable powerhouse who could play in any defensive or midfield position has retired to pursue another career. Ross County’s loss is Fife Constabulary’s gain.  I guess we will be okay since we managed to survive the departure of the towering presence that was (and is) Brian Irvine. Brian gets my vote as ‘Best Ever County Player’. The frequent sight of him scattering opposition defenders like ninepins to bullet the ball into the net had me cowering behind my seat, and I was forty metres away.

Once, when we were working on his book ‘Winning Through’ and he was about to leave, the door stuck in the pile of a new carpet and he walked into it head on – bop! The bloom of anger reddening in his eyes had me sprinting for the windows, but the moment passed safely. As those who know him will appreciate, Brian would no more duff up the likes of me than bite the head off a puppy. 

Shortly after we completed his book Brian left County to begin his tenure as manager of Elgin City. Since then he has held a number of appointments in the most technically developed football country in the world, the United States, gradually accruing all kinds of experience which, it is my fervent wish, he will someday bring back to Scotland; preferably, to County. Please listen, Mr Siegel!

Strikers is where my small group of cronies gathers after a game, Stuart and his gorgeous partner Lynn, Mike, Ross, Sprocket, and Jamie McJimpsey with (often) his two delightful children, Eilidh and Adam, whom he is dutifully and successfully indoctrinating.  Only Jamie was present on this occasion, joining me and the others in the great falling onto of the pies. All took it seriously. Some had starved themselves for the occasion.

Denise pushed two pairs of tables together, numbering and listing the pies for voting purposes. Mince pies, steak pies, macaroni pies topped with melted cheese, bridies and - wait for it - haggis pies, all neatly cut into manageable sizes that would still satisfy any appetite short of a gannet’s. I need hardly say . . .

There were at least two samples of each variety, with many local manufacturers represented although their identities remained, and must remain, strictly confidential. It is a hard thing to fail in such a contest.

I declare here and now that I was disappointed with the bridies. A well onioned, spicy bridie is hard to beat with the normal challenge being in the degree of mushiness to the filling. More than that of a pie is permissible, but not too much, as is a soggy, chewy pastry wrap. It is the onion that is the acid test and that is where all of these failed. No amount of spice can make up for a deficiency in the onions department. Sad to say, all hope for the poor bridies died on the plate

The mince pies were good but still just mince pies. When a mince pie, any mince pie, reaches the low heights it has achieved about all a mince pie can. It still needs ketchup. It is not worth burning the roof of your mouth over. These were as good as any, I suppose.

The steak pies were an altogether different kettle of fish. Comparison between Denise’s two samples was in no way difficult although distinctly elevated from all that had gone before. The first was excellent in both taste and texture, but so was the second, and its rich, thick, deeply beefy gravy further excelled even those lofty heights.

Jamie could hardly believe this degree of wonderfulness was possible and remained there, chewing appreciatively, while I moved on to the post-graduate level of pie appreciation – the haggis. Again it was the second of them (remember the Law of Second Things), that took a comfortable first position, although my judgement may have been skewed by Denise whispering in my ear, ‘Are you ready for your pint now, Bob?’ Yes, the words I longed to hear, adding further, ‘It’s on the boss.’

Your servant, Mr Siegel.

True to tradition the haggis pie comes in a deep pastry cup, this one soft but firm, even yielding, tasting as I imagine unleavened bread must.  Your dentures can be embedded with confidence in one of these. They will come out still whole.  Inside, the fresh (yes, fresh), nippily spiced haggis lies in wait, anxious, in a patient sort of way, to assault your taste buds, cholesterol-charged enough to kill an Olympic athlete with a single bite. This arrangement is topped by a deliciously creamy mashed potato with – get this – a 50p piece sized dollop of well buttered, mashed neep plugged into the centre. The price at the pie shack is an affordable, I would say measly, £1.40. Did I mention its delicate dusting of flour?

I was so impressed I renewed my season ticket on the spot, and would recommend anyone living within a fifty mile radius to do the same.

In a breach of male etiquette (if you’re going leave them, don’t diss them) Gordon Strachan recently moaned about two-stand stadiums in Scotland.  Ours is one and I am okay with that, although I would be happy to see further investment in, and additional usage of what we have. Once again this year I will take my seat in the intellectual wing of the West Stand (aka: The Muppets Balcony) among the doctors and engineers and teachers. Seated close to me will be Jamie, Eilidh and Adam, Mike and Ross, but not Stuart, Lynn or Sprocket who prefer to sing and dance in the Jailend with the Chairman. Somewhere close by will be Thatsmaboy, although we have never quite managed to put the finger on that worthy gentleman.

When the game is dull, a rare occurrence, I will watch those big, beloved skeins of geese passing overhead on their way to the Conon Estuary, and when the night draws so close as to engulf the game’s second half I will watch the silvery, wraithlike moon as it appears over the new East Stand, Highland beauties I never grow tired of. In the depths of winter curtains of rain and snow will sweep across the pitch, chilling the less mobile players and leaving the jailenders shivering in their replica shirts.

The game will play out and there will be a result. I prefer when County win but, let’s face it, short of relegation it’s not that important. We know our place. When God parted the waters and called forth the football pitches he declared, ‘And Ross County shall be sixth in the Scottish First Division’, and there or thereabouts we generally are.

After the full time whistle is blown, thanks to his privileged position at the back, Ross and his lovely new girlfriend, Susan, will be first to the bar in Strikers. He knows the order.  The rest of us will get there as soon as we can. His is not likely to be the last round.

Already we are looking forward to renewing our rivalry with Inverness, relegated, thank God, from the Premier Division. In Dingwall we like our tackles as we like our pies, meaty. We will sadly miss Mark and Brian for that reason, but perhaps one of the new signings will oblige. A full bodied, jarring body check that sends any Inverness player over the hoardings will be most welcome. As will the familiar, plaintive cry that will inevitably follow; THAT’S MA BOY!

Here is a poem to mark the start of the new season:-

Going To Watch Ross County

From the Mercat Cross to the War Memorials
we are a gathering stream
spumed with colours flying, running
through a mist of whisky breath and laughter.
The great river of human frailty,
shared hopes and shared identity
aspires to be more.
We cross the bridge like rapids breaking,
enter the Ground to become
a swirling pool of anticipation.

Oh, our heroes,
all we ask is instinctive positioning,
rhetorical defence and perpetual motion
off the ball.

And on it?
A fine athleticism, rhythmic passing,
pin point accuracy, thunderbolt shooting,
nobility of demeanour, absolute fairness,
and victory.
Be better than we are.
Make us more than we are ourselves.
Too much to ask?
We can settle for less.
Just do your best.