We had been warned of a possibly heavy police presence in Burslem (I want to know what a Burslem is, asks Shane for the 15th time. Not funny the first) so we stopped off in Uttoxeter, guided there by a photo of a pub by Andy Pearson. His fun bus had made a stop and intended to drink in the local Wetherspoons, something the local Wetherspoons weren’t all that keen on. The pub on the corner was keen though, they saw 100 or so football fans as a goose laying a golden egg, especially being owned by Stoke City fans.
Lots got drunk, I stuck to sensible double vodkas and lemonade, but I would imagine the landlady had to nip to the local threshers for another bottle of two of jager, such was the frequency with which they seemed to go around. Pints were served in glasses, not plastic party cups, everyone had a sing-song and created atmosphere and guess what; no trouble. No broken glasses, no broken tables, nobody getting so rowdy they had to kick anyone out. Football fans drinking, singing and being jovial without causing a fight? Who’da thunk it?
After entrusting a total stranger with my phone for a photo, we made our way the final 20 miles or so to Port Vale. To say spirits on the bus were high would be doing them an injustice, alcohol loosened a few lips and we had 20 miles of songs and arguments about John Akinde. For the record Chris, if you think Ollie Palmer is better than I’m convinced those roll ups of your had something other than baccy in them. Maybe crack?
The hip flask found its way around whenever the bus wasn’t travelling (illegal to drink on a bus on the way to football isn’t it?) although yours truly didn’t partake. I smelled whiskey and the last time I tasted whiskey I spent four hours in a ditch near Mareham Le Fen with sick on my face. That smell has bad memories for me. Still, it was mildly better than the smell of Shane’s arse which I’d forgotten all about since the trip to Accrington last season. That man needs a better diet.
The clouds looked to be setting in over Burslem and there was a good reason; a heavy police presence. The rumours were true, as we came into town there were fluorescent jackets and stern looks everywhere. We encountered three or four lads of about 14 getting their own escort to the ground, on foot. One of them wasn’t too happy about it, but the others knew to keep their mouths shut. One person who didn’t know to do that was my Dad.
We went passed a pub of Port Vale fans who started gesturing to us. I don’t know sign language but I understood their signals, very brave behind plate-glass and a police line. Dad shouted something derogatory out the window along the lines of ‘please can you tell me what you’re looking at’. Unfortunately, one of Stoke’s finest thought it was directed at him. For a brief moment I thought we might be about to boost the arrest figures, until Dad (more politely than I’ve ever heard him) explained the real situation and apologised. Panic over.
Car park: £15, or because the attendants were Stoke fans ‘£5 and if you score four you get your money back’. Sound lads.
The match day experience was more of a typical away day. The food was awful, the meat and potato pie had a high potato content and a high unidentifiable mush content, but no meat. I tried to demolish one whilst finally meeting SW contributor Malcolm Johnson for the first time. Malcolm writes loads for me but I’ve never actually met him, so that was nice.
After trying out six or seven different seats, all rejected because of girders, goal posts and other assorted issues, we opted to stand with the singing section.
90 minutes later, City had won 6-2 and my throat felt like I’d been gargling crushed glass. The fans were in fine voice throughout, my own personal favourites were:
“We came to Vale and we took the piss” (repeated)
“Your ground’s too big for you” (repeated)
“Can we play your every week” (repeated)
“We are Imps” (you get the idea)
“You drink and drive, you drink and drive” (I think to one of the Port Vale subs….)
And the highlight of the afternoon
“We want seven” (seconds after the sixth went in)
The biggest cheers of the afternoon was probably when Port Vale scored their penalty at the death, because we cheered as loudly for them as they did. I’m not sure Scott Brown, their beleaguered keeper, knew what to make of it, he just turned and laughed as we partied like it was January 2nd 1932 all over again, the last time we hit six away.
I’m usually a sitter at football. With my glass back and oversized gut I like to take the weight off, but fuelled by Russia’s finest spirit I guess I got carried away a little. We bounced, danced and sung through ninety glorious minutes that everyone there will remember for ever. I feel it this morning though, if only in the lower back and throat area.
Getting out of Burslem was a nightmare, there were more police around than at a G8 summit and none of them looked very happy. At one point our van pulled up next to a group of them and Dad wound the window down….
Turns out they were Stoke fans too who couldn’t care less about Chris crouched in the boot having a fag out of the window or Neil popping open his birthday miniature in celebration. Well done lads, you won 6-2. The sour faced woman in a Vale shirt a little further up wasn’t too happy. I quite liked their Escape to Victory style shirt from a distance but close up it looked a mess, as did the wearer. The bouncer of the pub clearly thought it hilarious though, more than likely another Stoke fan.
The journey home turned reflective and we learned Dad will still fight anyone even at 65 (even himself if he got the chance), Neil has already planned his own funeral and Riegan may or may not help him get there quicker for a few grand, Bryan or Ryan was on a promise and got dropped off at a train station (not the one he necessarily asked for), Mike makes far too much noise but drinks like a fish and Shane’s arse stinks.
Me? I can’t handle my drink and I bloody love an away day. These times are the best of times, golden moments that will remain with me for ever. Neil, Riegan, Chris, Bryan or Ryan and Mike are all new friends forged through Lincoln City, friends I can rely on and turn to. Solid people who like a drink, a sing-song and a laugh and who don’t expect anything more from you other than to enjoy the same things.
Never, ever worry about when the journey ends, just enjoy being on it. Up the Imps.
Brilliant read!
Thank god you didnt bring that camera! Great day for all of us that went but not on your mini bus!???
I was about to write that the final pic in the piece was back to front………then I read underneath, “The journey home turned reflective…” – hah, neat!
Great read Gary, as ever.
You should have had a steak pie!
Me and (then Rob Dorrian) went to watch the Imps together in the 50’s. We both went to St Peter at Gowt’s Primary on the High Street.
Rob lived in Vernon St and me on Sinny Bank! We hadn’t met since he went to the Grammar School and me to the City School aged 11 until we met up at the celebration do when we won the Conference.
We chatted and immediately remembered the house numbers – 59 in my case; 15 in his.