The Ugly – Archive
Crystal Palace…1 Bolton Wanderers…1
26th February 1994
It was the 1993/94 season and 10 of us had arranged to go down to Crystal Palace in a tranny van. Did we get to the actual match in question? Don’t be silly we spent most of the day lost and then involved in some melee in Dunstable.
The tranny van was to be driven by ‘Yawly’ who was a courier at the time and ‘knew Britain like the back of his hand’. We were meeting at the Prince Rupert pub in Great Lever at 7.30am. As we were waiting for Yawly to turn up, one local character ‘Napper’ walked past clutching a can of Tennents Super. “Where are you lot off to?” he enquired “Palace, watching the Wanderers” we said in unison. “What about you?” we asked, “off to work” replied Napper, supping his Tennents Super. A minute later Napper turned back and said “Fuck it, I’m coming to Palace instead”.
Anyway we set off at around 8.00am, and opened the first of many cans. Steady progress was made for the first hour or so until there was a bang and the van started veering to the hard shoulder. We’d suffered a blowout on the front tyre and pulled over to change the tyre on the hard shoulder. Our hire vehicle was a bit of a banger and it came as no surprise when the wheel brace broke off in Yawly’s hands as he attempted to change the tyre. We then had no option but to either call out the AA or find a garage for a replacement tyre. We were at junction 10, Walsall on the M6 and decided to push the van off the slip road and find the closest garage. As luck had it, there was one very close to the slip road and the mechanic there said he could fit us in for a replacement in a hour or so.
We trundled off to find a cafe for breakfast whilst we waited. Napper decided to do a vanishing act, looking for an offy for more Tennents Super. He assured us he’d have no problem finding the garage and we’d meet him there. Back to the garage after brekky, van’s all ready to go but no sign of Napper. After an hour or so we decided to carry on without him or we’d never get to Palace in time. We’d already lost a couple of hours thanks to the blowout and needed to catch up some time.
There were no further hitches until we took the wrong turning at the M25. Instead of coming off the M1 at Scratchwood and going through central London, we came off at the M25 turning near Barnet and followed the M25 clockwise. Yawly reassured us that “I know where I’m going, it’s a short cut.” We hardly moved in the next hour and pulled off the M25 at the next junction and set up camp in the nearest pub. Yawly asked the landlord how far was Selhurst Park. The landlord laughed and said it was miles away. After a couple of pints we set off again but we ended up going the wrong way, yet again, and ended up in another boozer miles from Selhurst Park. By 2.45pm we were about 40 miles from Selhurst Park and decided to ‘throw a bag’ on the match. More ale was consumed and everybody forgot about the match. We ended up watching the results on Grandstand, and learned that Bolton had managed a creditable 1-1 draw at Palace. Our plan afterwards was to meet a few Bolton lads in Dunstable, where a well known Daubhill lad had set up residency.
We arrived for once, in Dunstable on time and with no hitches involved. Our meeting point was the Sir Winston Churchill, which was also the first Mr. Q’s pub in Britain. There was no sign of Wiggy and the other Bolton lads. Just a load of local lads playing pool and who were not impressed by the arrival of a dozen pissed up, boisterous northerners. Thankfully there was no trouble just a load of menacing stares and we left after a very swift half.
“The doorman simply picked up the wheel brace, and ran at Ken and a couple of others. He looked like Highlander with the brace above his head and was definitely after our blood.”
As the night dragged on we drank more and got louder. By 10.30pm one of ours had gone missing. It was ‘Burny’, a sound Daubhill lad well known for not being able to hold his ale. At last orders, Burny came stumbling back into the pub, his Burberry blouson covered in blood. Apparently, a few locals had given him a slapping in the Kentucky Fried Chicken. With the advantage of Dutch courage, we drank up and went looking for these lads. Sure enough we came across them and a bit of revenge was dished out. Suddenly lads appeared out of a club, and we certainly had our hands fulls now. Out of nowhere ‘Ken’ came running over wielding the broken wheel brace and was taking on all-comers with it. He looked like Rambo and the locals were scattering in every direction. A bouncer from the club appeared and said to Ken “put down the wheel brace and fight like a man”, for some unexplained and stupid reason, Ken dropped the brace and squared up to the doorman. The doorman simply picked up the wheel brace, and ran at Ken and a couple of others. He looked like Highlander with the brace above his head and was definitely after our blood. Every single window was smashed in our transit van and loads of damage was done to the bodywork. Luckily the police arrived and broke things up, otherwise we could have been seriously hammered. We then had the good fortune of a police escort out of town and to the M1.
The journey home was absolutely freezing with no windscreen or windows for protection against the elements. To make matters worse the clutch knackered on the motorway and we were limited to driving at 30mph all the way home. We were stuck in third gear, and the journey back home took around five hours, reaching Bolton at 5.30am in the morning.
Yawly told us he couldn’t stop the vehicle as we were stuck in third gear and he would just slow down and we’d have to jump out at our houses. One by one, like parachutists we were dropped off, each lad receiving a huge cheer from the others as he landed safely. I prepared for my jump, landed safely and received the applause from the vans occupants.
The end of an unforgettable day, meant to be watching the Wanderers, but getting nowhere near. The next day in the Rupert, Napper turned up in the same clothes, and explained about the day before. He’d got lost in Walsall. He then caught the wrong train and ended up in Liverpool, well and truly out of it. To add insult to injury he received the sack from his employers.
This story was written in 2002 and appeared in issue 34 of White Love, the final ever issue. All names have been changed.