Epic Match Day Journeys

[FEDUP]

Burnley away back in the days of Denny Mundee & George Parris....

Went on the Costa express got stuck on the motorway at 2-45..

got into the ground just as the second half started 3-0 down....
didnt have a shot and got a coin in the head on the way out!

total of 16 hours travel and 40 mins of shit football!!

 

[Lord Bracknell]

Shrewsbury 2001

This is the version of the story that got into Keep The Faith:-



THE LOST WEEKEND: TRAINS, CHAMPAGNE, THE BEST TEAM IN THE LAND AND 8 PEOPLE WHO CHOSE NOT TO GO FOR A CURRY!!! PART ONE: SHREWSBURY

The last weekend of the season, at Shrewsbury, was always destined to be a classic, but no-one could have predicted quite what an epic it was to prove to be. Having watched the legendary Cannarian Seagull put his pulling powers to full use when he hitched up with a gorgeous Brighton chick on the Friday night, the gang set off for Shrewsbury in good spirits, and the fact that there were several hundred cans of beer, three bottles of champagne, and a number of ‘girly drinks’ (copyright Ferret) for TEO was not totally exempt of blame for these good spirits. Once in Shrewsbury, we headed for The Prince Rupert hotel to join a whole load of fellow Albion fans for more drinks and another bottle of bubbly, and there was even time for Ferret to put in his customary media appearance on SCR in, although we have no news as yet as to how exactly his battle against Posh Hugo went.

THE MATCH
What’s that I hear you cry? “The match”? Sod the match! The only good thing about the match was seeing Coxy standing next to Martin Perry and Dick Knight in his resplendent kit of pink shirt, gold medallion, golf trousers and a disgraceful black wig twice the size of the Eiffel Tower (having re-read that sentence I really ought to point out that that’s Coxy, not Dick Knight I’m describing!) As the goals flew in, we suddenly realised that we didn’t give a toss, and it was forgivable when you consider that most of the players were probably totally hammered following three days of what must have been non-stop drinking after that unforgettable night against Chesterfield. The match ended and we stormed onto the pitch, chanting into a fevering crescendo at the main stand, where the players eventually arrived to a noise that would make anyone’s ear drums explode. As the pitch beneath us flooded with blue, white and yellow (many Shrewsbury fans, to their credit, wishing us well), Ferret and I clambered towards the players, hauling ourselves and others over seats to worship them.
After what seemed like far too soon, the players decided to try and escape the rapture, and we left the stadium to try and somehow find our way back to the station. It was there that the rollercoaster started:

SHREWSBURY
It turned out that London Euston was shut due to a power failure – cue sheer terror as Ferret tried to work out how to get back to London before the end of the year. We eventually got on a train to Birmingham New Street where we were joined by loadsa Bristol City fans who were delighted that their arch-enemies, Brissy Rovers, had been relegated into the scumpit from which we have escaped, and were, after a little prompting, quick to heap praise on us for taking Bobby Zamora off their hands at the start of the season – bet you’re glad you got rid of the young carthorse now, losers!

BIRMINGHAM NEW STREET
Once we got to Birmingham New Street, we were greeted by the prospect of everywhere shutting in fear of us. That’s right, TEO (weedy youth), Ferret (not exactly large father-of-two) and Ferret’s nipper (nine-years-old) were clearly a massive threat to Burger King, and the attempts of the lad at the counter to reassure us that they had shut because “they had run out of food” were slightly dampened by the fact that he had enough burgers frying behind him to feed Nigeria! Our reputation was clearly spreading, as we were greeted on the platform by riot police with batons, and warned that “when we got on the train there would be trouble”. Funny thing was, it was the same train that Lady Bracknell was on, and a phonecall to her confirmed that the only ‘trouble’ on the train was a large group of Albion fans singing “we’ve got the best team in the land…”. Although, whilst sipping a post-match dry sherry somewhere just south Wolverhampton, she had been aware of a nasty crunching sound that couldn’t be blamed on the buffet car attendant’s gritted teeth. The ones that he was lying through when asked whether there was any beer left…..

Their train pulled into Birmingham New Street and the wild and lawless “trouble-makers” in the form of Lady B and company waved from the windows to hurry up and “Come Join Us”.

BIRMINGHAM INTERNATIONAL
Having reassured the men with the riot shields that although we would probably starve to death, we’d probably survive the rest of the journey on our own, we waved cheerio and got on the train. Where there was no trouble at all, until Ferret’s nipper decided to start playing volleyball with a huge inflatable ball (ooer missus!) and blasting it at everyone in sight, but apart from that all was going smoothly until we got to Birmingham International, where the train was stopped because of an “act of vandalism”. After about three centuries of waiting,and several announcements about “fitters”, “inspections” and “not being empowered to make decisions”, it was announced that the train would not be going any further, forcing us to pause our experiments with Rolo’s and cans of John Smith’s in pursuit of an alternative train, where about thirty of us were penned into a carriage that seated about 15. After several minutes of confusion and arguments with guards it turned out that there was a brick on the line blocking our previous train, but this train would be taking us, errr…somewhere. And despite all evidence to the contrary, this WAS the quickest way to “somewhere”.
This news certainly didn’t dampen our spirits, and the “we’ve got the best team in the land” chants continued ceaselessly throughout the journey, We even got to meet the infamous Kurt Angle, and the only comment we will pass on that particular rendezvous is “well well, Mr Angle, we are enlightened”. Having got comfortably settled in First Class, the fun continued for a few more miles until we arrived in The Badlands where the Egg-chaser is King.

RUGBY
Rugby – what a dump! It emerged that we would have to spend at least an hour in this desperately uninspiring little tinpot that surely rivals Leyton in the culture and interest stakes. Go left? Go right? Made no odds at all as all exits from the station lead to neon-wasteland. After ambushing a local we eventually found a cornershop where they clearly weren’t up for formal introductions. The owners decided to close-up as soon as they saw our group, which had swelled by now to about 20 and the thirst of the crowd created some panicky moments. Fortunately, the charms of Lady B had allowed her to get in there before they closed, although there was a nasty moment where the lights went out and we wondered how much the ransom would cost to get Her Ladyship out of there. Eventually Lady B escaped was escorted from the back door by the shopkeepers, complete with a fresh instalment of beers.

Tempting as it was to trudge round the little dump for an hour, we eventually returned to the more attractive alternative of a cold, empty, dismal and deserted platform, where we were informed that a train to East Croydon was on its way. It was at this point that the male members of the group saw one of the best pieces of skirt EVER. Boy was she good – but we won’t go into too many details out of respect for those ladies reading. Thinking about it is good enough. Although Lady B did remind the gentlemen present that striking up an acquaintanceship with said Vision of Loveliness might result in A Night In Rugby. This had the effect of a cold shower and they decided that just Thinking About the Skirt – or lack of it - was a fair alternative.

Anyway, the train did eventually turn up – ON THE WRONG PLATFORM! As the chants of “What the f*** is going on?” and “Brighton’s going home” grew louder, it’s a fair bet that the unfortunate driver of said train was spending an anxious few minutes deliberating on whether to pick up this boisterous group of louts, but credit where it’s due, the train eventually arrived and we were on. The four Brighton coppers accompanying us were also a tad worried when the driver assured them that she was only going as far as East Croydon. Not the best recipe for crowd control possibly? And were they ever going to see home and their loved ones again?….

Most train journeys returning from away games are good for a singsong, but that is probably the first time we have ever done the Conga on a train, and the train was shaking with noise as at least 50 Albion fans stormed through it.


COVENTRY, MILTON KEYNES& SHITHURST
As we pulled into Coventry, the cries of “YOU’RE GOING DOWN WITH THE BRADFORD” left the poor bespectacled bloke waiting for his train bemused.

The Albion Choral Society treated Milton Keynes to another master class in harmony and invited two blokes and a porter to comment on “What’s It Like to Be a Town?” And took our curtain call by reminding said porter that “He Wore an Orange Jacket” before bidding another cheery goodbye as we sped on our way into the night.

The party had mellowed nicely as we regained sight of civilisation through London and the chill-out carriage was getting nicely stuck into a philosophical discussion or two. Or possibly talking complete crap until the merry pranksters realised that the train had stopped at SELHURST!! This brought a renewed burst of gibbering energy as several blue and white lads leap onto the platform in what can only be described as sheer hatred. Having run round in demented circles for a moment or two, the opportunity to “Piss On The Palace” was too good a chance to be denied and the platform received some unexpected irrigation.

As Selhurst faded into the gathering gloom behind us, most of our crew were fairly tired, except of course for Ferret’s nipper who was clearly running on Duracell batteries as he ran and ran and ran!

EAST CROYDON
We finally got to East Croydon in what will probably be the first and last time we will be relieved to get to that forsaken little hole which, surprisingly enough, brought a few more chants out of the lads. If there were any Palace fans on that platform they were wisely deciding to keep an extremely low profile, and that top copper with the tache who seems to accompany Brighton fans on trains to every away game informed us that a train to Brighton was on its way. Although in keeping with the rest of the journey, the train came into the wrong platform, which gave us a final chance to keep warm by running around in a blind panic. Which was matched by a similar expression in the eyes of the passengers who had mistakenly decided that catching the last train home from London might have been a Good Idea. We soon put their worries to rest by sitting quietly in the luggage racks whilst Lady B transformed the Nipper’s elbow into a horrible wound by painting red felt-tip onto two Elastoplasts. Ferret, meanwhile, calculated the odds of every being allowed out of the house with him again….

BRIGHTON
We’re sure you can predict the noise level on the train once again, even if Lady Bracknell’s eyelids looked like they were involved in an international weightlifting competition, and we FINALLY got to Brighton at two in the morning, NINE hours after the match had finished. To quote Phil Collins, it was “against all odds”.
All in all, there is still only one word to describe it despite a limited vocabulary, and that word is “epic”. There have been some damn memorable away trips this season but, to quote another musical rendition, we “saved the best for last”. After all – could there be a better group of people to spend nine hours on a train with? Draw yer own conclusions.


THE LOST WEEKEND: TRAINS, CHAMPAGNE, THE BEST TEAM IN THE LAND AND 8 PEOPLE WHO CHOSE NOT TO GO FOR A CURRY!!! PART TWO: SUNDAY

It’s good enough seeing the Albion on Saturdays, so having the parade on the Sunday really was summat special. Anticipation of this treat restored even the weaker survivors of the Great Train Journey. So what if Bob the Builder was doing some Bank Holiday DIY inside their heads? Brighton is just sooo bracing - especially with Our Heroes waiting for us, so the gang capered on down into the heart of the Big City.

Like mere mortals following the Gods, we trudged behind the Albion squad on their bus from the Pier…what was Andy ‘the Perm’ Steggall doing on there? And so to that never-before worshipped shrine, Hove Town Hall. Usually a building with all the architectural charm and ambience of a concrete khazi but on Sunday booming with atmosphere.

Southern FM compered the day in their usual poor style – where were they when we were shit? Pah! Glory Supporters! But it didn’t stop us having a bloody good time, and to be fair to SFM, at least they played two great singalong songs for the occasion in ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ and ‘We Are The Champions’ - although their decision to play that friggin awful ‘Blue’ song after proceedings was dodgy.

The NSC flag, which had been masterfully created by the Bracknell Posse - and very well hung by Hart's Shirt - was in full show to one side of the crowd right in front of a tetchy looking steward whose fingers twitched in anticipation of ripping it down and stamping on it.

The playing squad was introduced one-by-one on the balcony to a hero’s welcome. Dick Knight made an emotive speech in which he also managed to get in quite a few mentions of Falmer (it was clearly a coincidence that he was speaking next to the councillors who can make it happen!). Micky Adams was clearly a proud (if "tired and emotional") man as he started a chorus of ‘Good Old Sussex By The Sea’. Bob Booker’s film impressions were hilarious – who’s laughing now, Corky? – and individual players came and spoke to the crowd by chanted request. We will now attempt to recall the highlights of what they said:
BOBBY ZAMORA: (Barrow-boy accent) “I’m not very good at this sort of thing – seeya in Ayia Napia”.
MICHEL KUIPERS: (Something weird in Dutch): “Having this crowd behind my goal gives me a big boost. Thanks for all your support.”
CHARLIE OATWAY: Something about Warren Aspinall, then “thanks for your support.”
GARY HART: Thanked us for our support. And for writing His Song.
KERRY MAYO: Spouted a load of total bollocks…maybe one day we’ll work out what he said, but quite frankly the lad deserved the moment so much that it didn’t matter.
PAUL ROGERS: Thanked all the staff and the fans - once he'd turned the microphone on.
DANNY CULLIP: “I’m a man of few words. Thanks very much.”
Lee Steele’s name was also frantically called, but as we were to find out later, the guy was gloriously pissed…
Dick Knight rounded off proceedings with the words of the day: “Micky may have a halo over his head as far as we’re concerned, but he is not a Saint yet.” With only the “yet” causing any worry! Micky, we will always love and respect what you have achieved for this club, but if you dare leave after a day like today, we promise to hunt you down!!! And affix sensitive parts of you to the goalposts with Lady B's special scrotum nailing stapler.

Then it was back to The Sussex for a drink or five, only stopping to bounce around with the flag in front of various cameras and, rather worryingly, Neil Bergin’s vidcam for the end of season video!

After bolting a few bowls of chips down to keep up the old blood-sugar levels, it wasn’t long before we were grabbing a cab back to The Nelson to watch Palace go down, and everything was going brilliantly as Pompey quickly established a comfortable lead against Barnsley and Huddersfield equalised against Brum. It was round Coxy’s house after Carlisle that TEO and Coxy agreed that the jammy Palace gits would wriggle free on the last day of the season, and sure enough, with three minutes left, one of the b*st*rd Bald Eagles went and won it for them. With Pompey already safe, it would be the mighty Huddersfield coming down. Damn! Still, at least we’ll get to see what Falmer will look like. Which will be a more attractive sight than the close-up shots of the crowd at Sh*thurst when they realised that salvation had come.. Did they rush about demented with delight, hugging their neighbour in unrestrained joy, singing victoriously? Do they F*ck. They all pick up their bloody mobile telephones and spread the word to the darkest corners of South Croydon. “Sing when you’re winning”? Not a chance.

During the television drama unfolding before our eyes, a press photographer who had driven from Bristol to photograph the Legendary Cannarian for the national press had joined us. Apparently the Argus feature had the makings of a world exclusive and he was here to get Cannarian on camera. Despondent as we were, when the Man with The Tan insisted that we step outside with him, our natural high spirits soon returned and we bounced around again for 10 minutes or so with the flag and our best profiles. Phew, media junkies or wot? We had to say farewell to Lord B at this point who wended his solitary way up to the station en route to his Mater’s Gaff in Cheshire to which he had been summoned on an errand of need.

Anyway, here’s where this report really starts: because starvation was setting in fast. Where should we eat? Afters suggested Al Duomo’s but a guerrilla front, lead it has to be said by Cannarian and some younger members of the party got very enthusiastic about going for A Curry. Afters and Lady B had to get assertive about Things and having promised Cannarian that he wouldn’t be eating ethnic rabbit scoff, he was happy to go down the Al Duomos route.. Then Hart’s Shirt had his moment of genius. Donatellos! That well known Albion-friendly pizzeria! Yo Dudes! Someone who shall be identified only as Ms X in order to spare future embarrassment then commented plaintively “Awwww, but I went there only last Tuesday” – but was overruled.

Donatello’s was doing thriving business when we arrived but we got in – by gagging anyone who started shouting “Championes” – and were asked to wait in the bar where, whilst sipping a glass of champagne or ten, we noticed that one of the tables was decked out in blue and white balloons. Assuming they hadn’t been ready and waiting for us, we wondered who would want blue and white balloons on their table…? Nah, must be some kid’s birthday party, we decided as we took our seats upstairs. Meanwhile the Head Bloke had asked that we “don’t wave the flags when the team come in will you”!!!!!!!!!!! As we took our seats, waiters were tearing around setting enough tables to seat, say, a Championship Winning Footer Team and chums. But when were they going to arrive? Clearly we did not need Fast Food and Lady B and Cannarian carefully ordered garlic bread all round – AS STARTERS – despite the look of panic in the eyes of a clearly starving to death Afters.

And then, out of the blue (and white), half-an-hour later a short and vaguely recognisable Scouser came up the stairs. Sure enough it was Super Lee Steele, and the power of a woman was truly shown as he instinctively handed over his championship medal to the very lovely Miss Bracknell. As various other prominent members of the squad began to arrive and take their seats on the other side of the room, we were under strict instructions from Hart’s Shirt to keep a low profile, but we didn’t need to in the end as the lads were so friendly and willing to talk to us at ease that it was hard to believe – no attitudes at all from any of them, despite everything they had achieved.

Without any warning they brought the Trophy over and that top lad Lee Steele took pics of us all with it. Er all except TEO who had taken the opportunity to have a philosophical discussion with his innards in the lav. Cannarian and Afters put their hands in their pockets (very deeply) and sent over 12 bottle of Bolly which went down a treat with the players and at one point Cannarian sat down comfortably in OGH’s chair, leaving Hart’s Shirt’s Hero to perch on the windowsill.

All evening they came and went and spent time with us on our table talking about This and That although the female members of the party would have quite liked further discussions about The Other….

The following notes were made on the players present:
DARREN FREEMAN: Very friendly, looking almost scholarly in his glasses. Promised he will be back next season.
PAUL WATSON: Grinning like a Cheshire throughout, Watto is looking forward to “beating Brentford 6-0 next season” and says that his set-pieces are “a pleasure”.
ANDY CROSBY: Was delighted to see us, although we didn’t see much of him as he seemed to be spending his time in the loo, where he gave TEO’s girlfriend some good advice on a mobile!!
KERRY MAYO: Conducted one amazing phonecall with Ken Livingstone Seagull in Hawaii. Admitted that the Cheats and Baardiff are b*st*ds and it was great to beat them. Total lad.
STEVIE MELTON: Admitted that his goal against Hull had been “a long time coming”, and acknowledges that he is “one for the future”.
Danny Cullip, Chippy Carpenter and Gary Hart were also total lads, and it’s fair to say they were pretty chuffed with the many bottles of bubbly Cannarian presented them with on behalf of us, even if it meant Donatello’s will have to close for a week this summer while they fly over to Italy to replace the wine reserves!!

Lee Steele, though, was the absolute biz. He chatted to us for ages and invited us to join him for drinks, although whether we would have managed any more than he already appeared to have had is debatable!! A top lad indeed!

We were invited downstairs for a few more bevvies with them but we decided to act cool and professional, leaving them to have some privacy or to talk to the other riff-raff in Donatellos who hadn’t had our luck! But then just how often does Gary Hart stop you on the way out of the restaurant and say “Hey, make sure the Big Geezer rings me”!!

After that, time for a last reflective nightcap in The Nelson and them home to remind ourselves That It Really Happened To Us!!

 

[Cian]

*reserves Lord B's post for reading at half-four this evening when its totally dead here*

 

[tinx]

We had a fun one on the way back form Port Vale after we won the div 2 championship. We wer eall in a mini bus and making good time down the motorway at one point racing another gorup of lads who were cardiff supporters in an equally shit mini bus. The obligitary line of arses hanging out the sid eof the bus, they pulle doff the motorway one way we went the other until we realised we should have gone the same way as them we decided to try a cross country diversion to get us back on track but ended up in the cotswolds or some such uninhabited area we didn't know as the minibus decided to start playing up and firing on three cylinders. Driver was shitting himself we were all too drunk to care. Pulled into some inbred village and some young birds started chatting to us and we were offering them chips to get their tits out. Befor eproceeding along our route and ended up eventually getting back to Horsham about 3 hours later than planned by then the hangovers in full swing.


*note- As I was hammered some or all of the details could be totally wrong but rest assured a good day was had by all*