Another for you, Charles Howard. You should know one of the lads with us that day too. Shouldnt he Christopher Calderbank-Park... My Left Foot Playing Burnley that often you get to know lads faces and most nicknames. Saying this, we never got invited round for cocktails and aperitifs. Meeting up at the Hesketh Arms carpark on the outskirts of town for the vans to take us to the Land that Time Forgot, the lads end up being let down off one of the van drivers and just about manage to squeeze into the remaining one. The dozen or so cars have already five or more in. Setting off at about ten, we get no further than two hundred yards when a cop on a bike pulls us over - PHIPs. “Can I have a look in the back? You seem to be a bit over loaded sir,” he says to the driver. Overloaded? I think we were trying to break the world record for footy lads in the back of a tranny van – someone contact Norris McWirter! He opens the back doors and his jaw dropped onto the tarmac like the Nutty Professor. “Right you lot, out now.” Biker boy then proceeds to inform the driver that he’s only insured for three people in the front. Arrangements are made to meet the driver a couple of miles away at a hotel en route. Lads slink off in different directions, taxi’s rung and a couple of the fitter ones ran up and down two steep inclines to the meet, Shanks Pony style. By hook or by crook, we were back in the van within twenty minutes. ‘Hey, ho. Let’s go.’ (How times have changed, now it’s either, “Are you coming in my BMW or are you taking your Porsche?” The long haul hikes to London we sometimes use the big metal bird. Gone are the days of thumbing, jibbing and the little one said, roll over, to get in the old works van). On arrival in the wonderful town of Burnley, we park up behind the main shopping area. The doors burst open resembling a scene like the January sales; lads are dying for a piss after being nudged in the groins every time the brakes were touched. We go straight into the Bridge pub and it didn’t take the Suicide Squad long to find us. The boozer emptied dispatching them up an inclined road back onto the High Street. Once more lads have snapped long aerials off parked cars whipping their victims as they fled. One of the lads had done the same against Tranmere earlier in the book - Mr. Video, branch, whipping Burberry boy. He was game as they come but liked to use unusual items in combat. Away from football, he’d his finger in many a pie. Once the Wardrobe clothes shop in town must have left its door open, because one night, a bit of late-night shopping was done. I bumped into him in Brooks nightclub later on Burberried up to the hilt. Trilby hat, trench coat and swinging round a three foot brolly. Cool dude or what? He’s out to impress the ladies. I’m talking away to him for ten minutes before the penny drops who I am, as I’m in fancy dress for a birthday bash in a Victorian swimwear costume, big curly ‘tash and greased back hair. I don’t know who looked the bigger twat! Twenty minutes later, Burnley are back, being moved more easily than the last time. Three times this happened, yo-yoing up and down. It came to the final charge; Preston’s numbers had been swelled by other cars that have turned up, they touched a hundred. Glasses and bottles are flying about with half of us making it up onto the High Street. It was partly a trap and the coppers have arrived, blocking the rest off. Burnley sensing our numbers are down, steam into us with Preston moving on the back foot, dodging in between Saturday shoppers. The lads are launching bins, sandwich board shop display signs and even baskets full of shoes. A line formed, off loading the latest cheap imitations of stylish shoes. Pickers and Kods were bouncing off Burnley heads only for them to be thrown back. I bet a few local tramps thought they’d won the lottery that night, then when they woke up the next day with two left footed shoes on. Little running battles take place before and after the match with the police, as usual, gaining control. Three car loads of us made the same trip the year after entering the same pub just after eleven. The rest of the Preston lads are to arrive later after picking up in and around town. Burnley knowing Preston might try the same move again, enter the boozer a couple of minutes after us. Our twelve now didn’t look good against their 50. There’s only one way in so there’s only one way out and we try to leave discretely. The first six managed to get out, then I get a dig to the side of the head and C gets a brolly over his. Burnley spill out and we realise there are four of the lads left inside. We’re trying to get back in to help - no chance. The lads soon join us after having a severe bollocking off Burnley’s main faces and a kick up the arse to help them on their way. Luckily CP knew one of them after he’d lived in Clitheroe. Respect to Burnley for not filling them in.
Posted on: Thu, 27 Mar 2014 18:31:04 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015