Being a Fan - the QPR Years

Queens Park Rangers have never been a fashionable club. After a nomadic existence in their early days, they eventually made their home amidst the Victorian terraces of Shepherd’s Bush in West London in 1917. They quietly ploughed a furrow in the second and third divisions before surprising everyone by winning the League Cup and promotion in 1967. That's when I came to pick them out of the end-of-season tables. .

Six years later, still possessing their engaging name which had attracted this six year-old boy, they were in the top flight and had become my number one team. We weren’t exactly awash with household names and yet we finished a creditable eighth. However, everything came together when Dave Sexton took over as manager. He brought with him the steely David Webb and the excellent John Hollins. The experienced Frank McLintock had already been purchased from Arsenal and with the Irishman Don Givens banging in the goals, the classy Scot Don Masson in midfield, a host of home-grown talent like fullbacks Dave Clement and Ian Gillard, Gerry Francis and the ever-present goalie Phil Parkes, we had a superb blend.

QPR weren’t often featured on Match of the Day but, with the benefit of colour TV at last, I enjoyed watching highlights of our opening match of the 1975-76 season, in which we beat Liverpool 2-0, including Francis’ Goal of the Season. A week later we went to champions Derby County and thumped them 5-1. Blimey! What’s going on? We played flowing, attacking football, Francis became the England captain and others were also capped, and yet Liverpool and Man U remained favourites to win the League. Everyone had to sit up and notice when a brilliant run-in saw us finish our forty-two games a point clear.

But we weren’t champions. Liverpool were granted a ten-day wait (because of European fixture congestion) before their finale, away at Wolves. I remember sitting with Dad listening to the radio that evening, too nervous to pay full attention yet unable to turn away. Liverpool only needed a draw so when lowly Wolves scored an early goal my knees turned to jelly. It remained 1-0 until bloody Kevin Keegan equalised in the 75^th minute. They added a couple more for good measure. We’d missed out by One. Sodding. Point! All those ‘if onlys’, We did reach the UEFA Cup quarter-finals but Liverpool went on to win their first European Cup. By such small margins is history made. Anyway, I’d been bloodied as a true fan, introduced to the football supporter’s familiar emotional rollercoaster and bitter disappointment of ‘so near yet so far’.

QPR have never since been that close to the League title, but we again finished a tantalising runner-up in the 1982 FA Cup Final. I was definitely in the minority sitting in my Exeter University halls of residence bar to cheer Rangers against Spurs, setting aside Finals revision to watch our bid for immortality in the premier knockout competition. We were in Division Two, Spurs the champions and odds-on favourites. It’s fair to say we were outclassed but Peter Hucker’s saves kept us in it until extra time when a deflected Hoddle shot left us one down. Imagine my delight when Terry Fenwick’s close-range header made it 1-1. Up yours, Spurs fans!

The following Thursday’s replay was to provide no happy ending for Rangers. Tony Currie’s hopeless lunge at the advancing Graham Roberts resulted in a clear penalty, converted by Hoddle. It was to be the only goal. It’s still our only FA Cup final appearance. We did reach the ‘Milk’ (i.e. League) Cup Final in 1986 and this time we were favourites, drawn against fellow First Division side, Oxford Utd. They’d had an easy route to Wembley. Rangers, though, had needed to beat Forest, Chelsea and the mighty Liverpool.

Not only was I licking my lips at the prospect of our first proper trophy in two decades but I’d entered the ticket ballot through the club to witness it at first hand. I didn’t receive the seats requested but Dad and I were able to stand on the terraces behind a goal for the princely combined outlay of £20. Pushing the boat out! Naturally, we lost. 3-0. On the day we were simply second-best all round. C’est la vie. 

  

That was our last sniff at a genuine prize (I don’t count play-off victories or the Championship winners’ trophy) but it wasn’t my first live Rangers match. That had been on Boxing Day 1980. Uncle David’s family were spending Christmas with us in Billericay and my Hammers-loving uncle suggested Dad and I came with him to Loftus Road. He was surely expecting a straightforward victory given that West Ham were miles clear at the top of Division Two and we were mid-table.

This time, on a cold, crisp sunny afternoon, he was the one left grim-faced. With Tony Currie dictating the midfield, we murdered them 3-0, Brooking, Bonds, Devonshire and all. I had to rein in my celebrations given we were standing on what was then the away end, surrounded by claret and blue, but inside it was me blowing bubbles of delight. A comprehensive kicking by the InterCity Firm of hooligans was a Christmas gift I could do without.

My next home game was more than five years away. A month before that miserable Milk Cup experience in ‘86, I watched as we defeated Graham Taylor’s Watford 2-1 for whom 22 year-old John Barnes was outstanding on the artificial surface. I remember feeling uplifted by the applause given to him by home fans. Credit where credit’s due. The following winter, I attended another couple of home wins, against Southampton and Nottingham Forest. My first taste of a League defeat at Loftus Road was a dispiriting 1-3 reverse at the hands of Oldham but it didn’t mean the end of my expeditions to West London.

                              

During the early seasons of the new-fangled Premier League, QPR – now managed by Gerry Francis and captained by Ray Wilkins – were one of the most consistently excellent teams and well worth the £20 or so to watch. I tended to pick and choose my fixtures carefully, avoiding the more expensive category ‘A’ games such as Arsenal or Liverpool. Thus it may be unsurprising to know our results were mostly positive.

I would obtain a real buzz emerging from White City Underground station to the hubbub of police walkie-talkies and pop-up merchandise stalls, then walking down South Africa Road. The scent of booze and bonhomie spread from the Springbok pub and I would buy my programme (above) close to the ground itself. In the main stand, the hard plastic tip-up seats were incredibly uncomfortable, even for a shortie like me, but it was worth the two-hour sacrifice to watch Wilkins nudging the ball around, Clive Wilson and David Bardsley haring down the flanks and ‘Sir’ Les Ferdinand, Bradley Allen or Kevin Gallen banging ‘em in.

The most memorable games were the 1-1 draw with high-flying Middlesbrough (two missed penalties and young Trevor Sinclair running rings around the Brazilian wonder-kid Juninho) and our 1992-93 home finale. Strolling down to Loftus Road after work at the BBC on a warm May evening, I could sense the love flowing towards the QPR side who were heading for a highly satisfying fifth place. We defeated Sheffield Wednesday 3-1, the fans flowed onto the pitch and everyone, apart from the Yorkshire fans (they finished a decent seventh), oozed happiness.

The next big game I attended was with Angie, this time in Cardiff on a very warm April afternoon. It helped that we were dominating the Championship, but City were also pushing for the play-offs. Fortunately, there were no tears or tantrums because it ended 2-2, a fair reflection of play, but for which we had the mercurial Adel Taraabt to thank.

That season ended fifteen years of hurt, including one in the depths of League Two; we were back in the Prem! A few years previously, QPR were taken over by some seriously wealthy individuals. Oh, yes, I thought. Champions League here we come!  However, unlike Chelsea and Man City, our approach to side-strengthening was remarkably scattergun. Furthermore, with Taraabt no longer a big fish in a small pond, he seemed to lose interest and we struggled. 

The season concluded in astonishing fashion. We had to travel to frontrunners Man City needing a win to ensure survival, an almost impossible task. The commentary and analysis focussed almost exclusively on the title battle between City and United but all I cared about was Rangers staying up, which meant knowing what Bolton were doing in their simultaneous game. Sky Sports ignored that entirely. It was one of the most one-sided matches you’ll ever see but remarkably we scored with probably our only two attacks in the whole match. City, of course, won the match 3-2 and the Premier League with that injury-time Agueroooooooooh goal but luckily Bolton didn’t win either. We were safe.

The ever-spendthrift Harry Redknapp ensured we were comfortably demoted the following year, a period which has blighted the club ever since. We did, more by luck than ‘Arry’s judgment, achieve a further top-flight season, but we were in no position to maintain it. Hamstrung by the Redknapp era legacy, I suspect Rangers are in for a tough, financially stringent period for many years to come. Mid-table mediocrity is the best I can hope for in the Championship. As for me, living 150 miles from Loftus Road and no longer recognising any member of the squad have stretched my support thinner than I'd like but, whatever lies around the corner, I’ll be with them every step of the way – in spirit, at least.