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The Trip (standard:humor, 1485 words)
Author: scouserAdded: Jan 14 2003Views/Reads: 2099/1076Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Memoirs of my first away trip to watch a football match
 



The Trip 

As I a man in his mid fifties who stills likes to travels the world
watching football you would think I'd seen it all. But I still to this 
day have never experienced anything like my first football excursion. 
I've been a Liverpool supporter for as long as I can remember, and I'd 
seen the great Billy Liddell score a hat trick. I even owned a pair of 
Billy Liddell boots (minus the studs) but as a youngster I'd never been 
to an away game. My parents had always considered me too young, but 
when I reached the ripe old age of fifteen they give me their blessing. 
So my best friend Dave and I decided to travel away to see our beloved 
Liverpool play Manchester City at Main Road, this would be our 
initiation into manhood. I stayed the night at Dave's house on the 
Friday so as we could get an early start the next morning, It was six 
o'clock when I woke up and Dave was already down stairs having 
breakfast. His mum had made a pan of porridge and some toast, which was 
just what the doctor ordered. It was going to be a long day and there's 
nothing better to see you through. Dave's mum is a small but very large 
woman who worships the ground her son walks on and spoils him rotten. 
As we were about to leave she handed him a pound note and a parcel of 
cheese sandwiches that would choke a horse, kissed him on the cheek 
then turned to me and said “don't get up to any mischief or I'll have 
your guts for garters”. She is definitely a fearsome looking woman and 
I wouldn't want to have my arms ripped out of their sockets by an ugly 
fat woman with a head full of rollers and boobs tucked into her 
knickers. So I assured her that we would be fine and not to worry, and 
we left her at the gate waving us goodbye as if we were going off to 
war, as it turned out it wasn't quite war but it was close enough. Not 
knowing what was in store for us we caught the bus down to Arthur's 
café, which was the best place to thumb a lift from. Arthur's café is a 
transport café at the beginning of the East Lancashire road where all 
the truckies' stop to eat before travelling on to Manchester. To be 
quite honest I don't know how they make it to Manchester after eating 
at Arthur's the place was a pigsty. Greasy food, and what was commonly 
known as ‘shamrock' tea on account it was so weak it looked like it was 
made with three leaves and served up in a mugs that had cracks in them 
bigger than Dave's mums backside. A truckie once told me he had three 
bowls of soup before he realised the roof was leaking and that he swore 
he saw a rat wearing overalls, but I think he was taking the micky. We 
had only been at the café about half an hour when two lads about 
eighteen walked in wearing Liverpool scarves and ordered two of 
Arthur's famous bacon butties and a couple of mugs of ‘shamrock' tea. I 
said to Dave “Go and ask them if their going to the game, they might 
give us a lift” I thought it was best if he asked as he looks older 
than me and besides they looked like a right pair of tuff nuts and I'm 
basically a coward. I also have a dislike for teddy boys who have love 
and hate tattooed on the knuckles of each hand, but after all a lift is 
a lift. Dave was back in a couple of minutes with a big smile on his 
face “yeah as soon as they finish their butties they'll take us to the 
game”. This is great I thought, at least hopefully they won't be 
driving a truck and wondered what kind of car they might have, hoping 
it would be something decent. Sure enough when we got outside they were 
driving a brand new Lotus Elan, “bloody brilliant,” I thought as Dave 
and myself got into the back “love your car pal,” I said as we sped off 
down the East Lanc's road heading for Manchester. “Yeah goes like a 
rocket,” the lad driving said as he lit up a fag “we'll be in 
Manchester by eleven o'clock”. I wondered what he did for a living; 
surely he must have a good job to have a car like this so I asked him 
“what do you do for a crust?” “He's an artist” the lad in the passenger 
seat replied “what kind of artist?” “A frig'n piss artist, are you a 
bloody copper or what?” he screamed angrily. I mumbled “sorry” and 
thought to myself “keep your gob shut son” these blokes are weird. We 
were flying down the Lanc's weaving in and out of the traffic and I 
could see the tension on Dave's face and I was shaking, but wasn't game 
to say anything. I kept thinking I'm going to die when suddenly the 
driver shouts out “coppers” and proceeds to plant his foot to the 
floor. “What's going on”? I asked which was pretty stupid, it was 
obvious we where being chased by the police “shut yer gob and hang on” 
the moron in the passenger seat yelled. “Jesus Christ me Mam will kill 
me,” screamed Dave as the car picked up speed. We were in the middle of 
a bloody nightmare, stuck in the back of what was obviously a stolen 
car being driven by a pair of lunatics and being chased by half the 
coppers in Lancashire when all I wanted to do was go to the football. 
What seemed like hours, but must have been only minutes we came to a 
grinding halt, the two morons jumped out and ran, leaving Dave and 


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