YESTERDAY saw the revival of an old footballing tradition that seemed to die out with bubble perms and tight shorts. For the Hearts-Hibs Hampden showdown special trains for football fans - football specials - were back, for one very special day only.

Like the hairstyles, football specials seem to belong to more innocent times, before private cars and televised football became ubiquitous. But they ended when - similar to the effect of the tight shorts on the more sensitive parts of a footballer's anatomy - they struggled to overcome restricted circulation thanks to the car and TV, and had repeated and regular violence inflicted upon them.
7 Wonders

Yesterday they were back, and the big surprise as the second of two Hearts Specials rolled into Slateford at 9.45am was the gesture made by First Scotrail, who entered into the spirit of the occasion not only by providing the service at almost double the standard fare of the Edinburgh-Glasgow shuttle, but also by bringing back the original trains.

Or that's what it looked like. Twenty years on, the rhubarb and custard coloured carriages appeared to have been given no more than a light dusting, a drop of oil, and returned to duty, threadbare interior and all. Had Hearts taken the same approach to the game then they would have had Henry Smith in goal.

The football special was, in this sense, a bit of a misnomer. These trains were special in the same way that fun-sized Mars Bars are fun - which is to say, not very.

Four specials were put on, two for each club, departing from and arriving in different - special - stations, each one accessible only by fans of the club. In this respect they conjured up other romantic, mythical and magical associations with trains, such as the Hogwarts Express. Thus, the Hibs Express left from platform nine-and-a-quarter, the Hearts Express from nine-and-a-half, also known as Slateford.

A second surprise was the crowd. Or rather, the lack of one. Considering that they had been put on in response to fears of overcrowding on scheduled trains and buses, not to mention the predicted clogging of the M8, the response was poor. The first train to leave Slateford, at 9.15, was almost full; the second was barely half-full.

The third surprise was the atmosphere. Or again, the absence of one. There was no singing, no chanting, and it was several minutes into the journey before the library-like silence was broken, by someone leaning across and saying: "Excuse me mate, mind if I borrow your sports section?"

The Hearts Express was about as rowdy as a Saga coach tour. "I think everyone's just very nervous," suggested Dave Downey, a 45-year old from Edinburgh, travelling with his 11-year old son. Dave could remember the old football specials. "They were a bit more lively," he conceded. "That could have been the alcohol and the fact they were later in the day. But I also remember them being full."

Not that a train needs to be full to be lively, as we were about to find out. Having not even made it as far as Livingston, the train juddered to an abrupt halt. "Would a member of the police come to the rear of the train?" asked someone who would have been a guard on the old football specials, but is probably now a customer services manager.

Somebody, it seemed, had been playing with the door. Similar to Dave - who confessed that he'd "never been so nervous before a Hearts-Hibs game" - this was obviously someone who, overcome by the occasion, decided they couldn't go through with it, and therefore tried to leave the train. While it was moving. As the train resumed its journey others had similar ideas, because a second announcement followed just minutes later. "Would passengers please refrain from trying to open the doors," came the request, as if the offence was running in the corridors, or smoking in the toilets. Yet there was no doubting the severity of the warning: "Otherwise this service will be terminated."

That was enough to bring the door tampering to an end. No-one wanted to be stranded in places - like Hartwood or Carfin - that they'd never even heard of.

Forty-five minutes later, Glasgow slid into view. It meant transferring into another rhubarb and custard, though it became clear, as we were joined on the platform by a new influx of Hearts fans, that some had cleverly played the system.

"I went to get my ticket for the game and thought I'd get the special," said one interloper, 21-year old Mark Yates from Edinburgh. "But at that price [£17.50] no way. I was offered a lift, so we've parked in the West End. The M8 was fine. It cost £10 for petrol between us, then £1.55 out to Mount Florida."

Yet he agreed with the game being played at Hampden. "It's only right it's played at the national football stadium rather than the national rugby stadium. Of course, the national football stadium should be in Edinburgh - but that's another argument."

The effect of a busier train was a livelier atmosphere. And the first song of the day: "The wheels of the train go round and round, round and round, round and round."

Noise levels were raised further on the short walk into Hampden, though some stopped en route to verbally abuse a resident who had the temerity to A) live in Glasgow; and B) be standing at the window of his top floor flat. Then he disappeared, and re-emerged to hang a football shirt from his window. It was a Partick Thistle shirt, which meant he instantly went from being reviled to adored. "One team in Glasgow, there's only one team in Glasgow," they sang, then offered the thumbs up and walked on.

Considering the result, the Hearts Express back to Edinburgh had to be livelier. Hadn't it? Perhaps it was the wait - 45 minutes in a fenced-off pen in Glasgow Central - or maybe it was the early start, but the return was just as subdued. Some read papers, others snoozed; relief rather than elation seemed the predominant emotion.

But some may simply have been struggling to come to terms with what they had just witnessed. As the train shuddered back into Slateford, one dozing Hearts fan sat up, rubbed his eyes, and said: "I just dreamt we won four-nothin'."

Taken from the Scotsman