Tranmere away ,sometime in the early eighties,on a Friday night.Went on the supporters coach,heavy traffic on the M6.Coach broke down ,tyre shredded,people on board shouting to the driver to stop.Stood on the embankment for over an hour,waiting for a replacement coach.It arrived eventually,got near Prenton Park half an hour after kick off.Police held the coach,waiting for a police outrider escort.Arrived at the ground at half time.Tranmere wanted to charge full price admission.Bloody cheek !!
Someone phoned Vic Jobson to complain.He turned up,to his credit and spoke to the chief steward,saying,I will not have my supporters charged to enter the ground.Tranmere relented.Free admission. 0-0 the score.Back on the replacement rickety coach.The crappy thing broke down at Watford Gap !! Lo and behold,Melanie and Marion,very keen supporters turned up in their car and offered a lift.Fantastic.They lived in Woodham Ferrers,I lived in Thorpe Bay.They ran me all the way home.Arrived at three in the morning. Those left on the coach,eventually arrived back at 8.45 in the morning,on yet another coach.Horrendous. MK away also sticks in the mind.Freezing.
For me it was Tranmere away on a Friday night in early 80's too, but this time a 2-0 defeat in April 1985. We were REALLY shi te that year, attendances were often less than 2,000, the match programme was made of bog roll (unused), and Trev Whymark was in the team. League form was appalling and a win was vital to stave off an embarrassing re-election application.
Living in Bristol at the time Tranny away seemed almost local. And I had an old Uni mate up there, a Tranny fan, so a few beers and a match together seemed like a good idea. Wrong.
The car wouldn't start. No probs, I caught the bus to the bottom of the M32 and started hitching. Not a bad trip up, I seem to recall about three lifts got me there and that the drivers weren't too odd. Getting to the Wirral in good time i knock on me mate Brian's door (his Mum's) only to be told that he had got an interview in Oxford that day and had naffed off down south for a few days. Life before mobile phones was a mess.
Never mind, his Mum welcomed me in, made me some dinner and then set me off to walk to the ground via a recommended pub. "You'll find Brian's brother Frank in there, he'll buy you a pint." Pub found I enter a depressing scene, plenty in there but all mostly sitting apart cuddling a pint in a soul-less dump. Through the haze I try to spot Brian's brother, realising that I actually didn't know what he looked like. I buy my own pint and stare into it, blue, red and white Southend knitted scarf aside I thought it seemed safest to try and blend in and copy everyone else. No one called Frank declared themselves, but I didn't want to risk rejection and ask anyone either. I spotted a juke box and thought about trying to liven the place up with a tune. I remember being really tempted to play 'Winner Takes It All" by Abba but thought better of it and instead just supped up and left. I often wonder if that pub is still there and whether anyone inside has moved.
The ground wasn't far and easy to spot with the floodlights glaring - just as well as if I'd tried to follow the crowd I suspect I'd have been more likely to end up at the local chippy. Just 1,072 entered Prenton Park that night. Away fans (around a couple of dozen I think) were housed on a side terrace. But that's about all I can remember of the game, I know we were sh ite, we often were then, and we lived up to expectations losing 2-0. It took a Phillips penalty in last day 1-0 win at home to already rock bottom Torquay to keep us out of the bottom four.
Coming out of Prenton Park, not knowing anyone and deciding it would be healthier for the spirit to stay out of the pubs, I go back to Brian's. His Mum had forgotten I was staying that night and had gone to bed. I manage to wake her up, and several others in the street too, by shouting through the letter box, and am given a sofa for the night.
Tea and toast in the morning, Frank is levered out of his bed by his Mum and instructed to drive me to a suitable hitching-point off the M53. Clearly still full of Newcastle Brown Ale, a chain-smoking Frank beckons me to follow as he staggers to his car and duly obliges with the lift, made in total silence aside from the clanking of a loose exhaust and his fag-induced coughing fits. Some four hours later, about 28 hours after setting off, I get back to Bristol.
What a waste of ****ing time.
