Football: Travelling near and far for love of QPR

These are heady days for a QPR fan. After 15 agonising seasons, the Rs have nearly made it back to the top division in English football. I want to go "woohoo", but I'm scared of jinxing the outcome.

I'm a Kiwi with few family links to England, yet I became a Queens Park Rangers fan.

Before I left on my OE in 1986, I had only a fleeting knowledge of English football - well, any football. I knew who Wynton Rufer was - he's my vintage - but that was about it.

Once in England, I gravitated, like many New Zealanders, to a flat in West London. I wanted a taste of English football, and had the choice of several "local" clubs.

I might have become a Chelsea fan, or a Fulham fan, or even a Brentford fan. But I could see the lights of Loftus Road football ground, complete with its hated plastic pitch, from my flat, so QPR it was.

None of my flatmates supported QPR, but that didn't stop me. I went to every home game and stood in the terraces, just to the left of the left upright. Faces became familiar. I was "that Kiwi girl".

I went to away matches, too.

I'd take a train on a Friday night after work to whichever city QPR was to play in, stay in a B&B, and go to the match. If QPR won, I'd stay another night and wander around wherever it was the next morning. If they lost, I'd come straight home.

The only away game I deliberately missed was in Newcastle. Word was there was going to be a bit of a stir and several people warned me it might not be the best place for a female fan. My drop-dead gorgeous postman, another QPR fan, said he'd bring back a match programme for me. He was as good as his word.

It was as well I stayed home because there was crowd trouble, and there were arrests, some of them QPR "supporters".

But in the main they were a good crowd. If there was the slightest hint of trouble - and there was in a home game against Milwall (a Challenge Cup game I think) - it was women and children out first. I was escorted safely out of the terraces by another supporter who had his young sons with him. Then in charged the police horses.

I will forever remember the away game in Liverpool in October 1987. After a glorious two months, QPR led the first division. A girlfriend and I made our way there by train on the Friday night after work, and we traipsed around the central city, doing the touristy thing on Saturday morning.

Then we headed for Anfield.

It was a mouthwatering fixture. That Liverpool lineup wasn't too bad: Bruce Grobbelaar, Gary Gillespie, Barry Venison, Steve Nicol, Ronnie Whelan, captain Alan Hansen, Peter Beardsley, John Aldridge, Craig Johnston, John Barnes and Steve McMahon.

QPR got thumped 4-0. But I didn't care. I had goalkeeper David Seaman's autograph scrawled on my match programme. And my friend and I were a bit of a novelty in the local pubs afterwards.

Seaman - he of the luscious hair - was one of the team's characters. He might have gone on the next season to begin his long career for England but some days he made me despair. I swear I could've cleared the ball further than he did.

QPR was not a team of big names. The ones I remember most were all defenders: Paul Parker, who later played for England, Alan McDonald, capped for Northern Ireland, and Mark Dennis, known for his unforgiving tackles and attitude. But the jewel in the crown was England fullback/sweeper Terry Fenwick. He had joined QPR from Crystal Palace and spent seven years at Loftus Road.

I enjoyed the two seasons I really followed English football. It wasn't entirely about QPR. I fell in love with the sports writing of The Guardian newspaper, in particular. And QPR had a quirky "fanzine" which began when I was there, called A Kick Up The Rs. Most of it was tripe but there were a few gems, too.

My hope now is the club manages to hold on to the bulk of this squad and doesn't have to endure the agonies of seesawing between divisions.

The road to the premiership has been far too long and hard.