Hello again, Stockport, old friends(?)…
Do we really hate The Hatters? Well, you can if you want to…
Late to the rave…
We don’t do punctuality at Wrexham. Whether it’s taking 15 years to learn how to climb out of non-league, or getting a four-sided stadium sorted, we have a pretty torrid record for doing things promptly.
But perhaps the best - or worst - example of our sloppy time-management can be found on the day we turned up in Stockport more than two decades too late for the Madchester parties.
It was September 2021 and we’d boogied into the Rainy City with the kind of rave spirit that Tony Wilson would have been proud of. Armed with tinnies and tunes, the Reds turned Piccadilly raucous before the clock even had chance to tick past midday. Hacienda classics blasted out of car and bar windows, and just 57 seconds after dancing into our seats nine miles south at Edgeley Park, Pele Mullin popped us ahead - unleashing an ecstasy strong enough to send some ballistic fans crashing onto the field.
We all wanted to feel like that forever. But, sadly, the Red Army had got it terribly wrong. We soon learned the same harsh lesson that had hit all the Shaun Ryders several years earlier: What goes up, must come down.
Stockport promptly closed off the rave by triumphing 2-1, sending 1,000+ pale-faced, nausea-riddled Welshies back home to sleep it off.
Perhaps we weren’t trying to emulate the heyday of northern hedonism that afternoon so much as we were attempting to bring our own brand of celebration to the area - one that has engulfed our lovely old town since the Hollywood takeover. But in any instance, the party was pooped at Stockport, and things between ourselves and the Quasi Mancs have been difficult ever since.
That season would go on to resemble traffic at the Fairy Road / Ruabon Road roundabout, where we were both reluctant to go first (with a slow start) but abruptly bursted out of our lanes in unison (creating a neck-and-neck title race). The result was a rivalry which we all thought would be temporary until one of us went up. But here we are, two years later, and the mud-throwing is back in full force - with blood boiling on both sides as Wrexham and Stockport are reunited in the Football League.
Without Jester, Shrewsbury or Tranmere to play, Stockport did at times feel like our biggest enemy. None more so than after that clash in 2021, when the roads leading away from the lights of Edgeley Park were invaded by two small armies of hooded figures charging through the fading sunlight and belting seven shades out of one another, whilst bewildered local motorists tried and failed to steer their vehicles through the warzone which had suddenly exploded at a set of Stockport traffic lights.
One driver meekly patted his horn in an attempt to get through - which proved as predictably ineffective as trying to convince a Jester fan to watch Welcome to Wrexham by telling them “it’s really good television” - and the flailing arms continued to swing against flesh and claw at clothing until bobbies in fluorescent jackets swarmed in.
Police snatched up fans left, right and centre - whether they were involved in the melee or not - and a handful of Reds were forced to dive into the closest pub we could find for refuge. About a dozen heads collectively snapped around as the door thudded shut behind us, and for a moment or two, every conversation screeched to a halt - emptying the pub of all sound except for the hubbub coming from the television and the pitter-patter of a chunky, unwitting dog panting and waddling its way across the beer-stained carpets.
“They’re Wrexham,” tutted a chap slurping bitter at the bar, lifting his wet glass to take a fresh gulp and accidentally taking the coaster with it as he did so.
The barmaid nodded and rushed to grab something underneath the taps. But to our surprise, she pulled out some fresh glasses.
“I don’t care who they support, this is a proper pub - what you ‘avin’?” she bellowed.
And that was us for the evening. We filled our bellies with as much amber nectar as we could to numb the emotional pain of a defeat at the hands of our future title rivals, and by the time we were on the train home things didn’t feel so bad. It was just a defeat. Nobody died.
See, it’s all fine, really. Wrexham and Stockport don’t really have to hate each other. There will always be a chance to wallop a Joy Division fan at a junction in Edgeley if you really want that, but there’ll also probably be a pub nearby ready to serve you a commiseration pint instead. The popular saying south of Manchester is that “Stockport isn’t shit”, but maybe you just need to know where to look in order to turn that town mantra into a truism.
The problem is that Wrexham and Stockport are too similar. Both of us are still learning how to be rich. Neither of us are popular with other clubs. And we’re both dreaming big of even better things in higher leagues.
It’s a sibling rivalry. And we both want to be the successful one.
We just need to head into this next clash with our business head on, rather than our party outfits.
For an alternative perspective, check out the Stockport substack The Scarf My Father Wore.
Great article - funny and poignant