Did He Really Mean It?

When you have a weekend of this magnitude, its hard to know where to start. I guess the sunday morning would be the best place. Myself and Brooner were up far too early for two men who had been in Preston’s Premier electro club the previous night, and the thought of a rail replacement bus from Preston to Bolton (’The most working class journey you’ll ever take’) wasn’t exactly a great one. But the combination of still being slightly tipsy and Steve Wright’s ‘Sunday Morning Love Songs’ helped turn the journey into a suprisingly great 40 minutes. My morning was made by ‘I Want To Know What Love Is’ by Foreigner (#1 the day I was born) and the lovely scenery. (I’m a massive fan of Northern soaps)

Arriving at Manchester Piccadilly station via Bolton and a disgustingly expensive black cab (they rip off people up north as well), we were joined by FA Cup Virgin Tom Knapp. I will not recount the tale of the jobsworth conductor on the Virgin train, as I feel I will have a stress related heart attack at the mere thought, but believe me, he’ll get his comeuppance.

Having been screwed over by Virgin, we retreated to the world famous balcony bar inside Manchester Piccadilly station. Once again I was enraged, as the barman informed me that the pub DIDN’T SERVE GIN. What sort of pub is that? A shite one. The lamentable oaf also managed to get the other lad’s orders wrong, as I sulked for gin on a table outside.

Finally getting a train into Stoke (with a view of Edgeley Park along the way), we arrived to meet the wonderfully bearded Steve as we settled for The Fawn Public house, which would prove to be a wise choice.

After finally getting my gin, I romped to victory at Kerplunk as we awaited for the arrivals of Appleby, Aldous and Mahon. Only two of these three were to make it to The Fawn first time round due to JP Mahon’s desire to get an extra hour in bed. During out time in The Fawn we made friends with two Italian men, who bought us all sambucca (£1 a shot!) and insulted various English national treasures (Victoria Beckham).

After labelling my good self ‘an ear flicking homosexual’ the Italians booked us all cabs to Vale Park, after first giving us all ‘Barnsley keeeeeses’ and arranging to meet us in a pub in Burslem ‘that starts with a P’. We never saw them again.

In Part Two, I will tell you of the trip to the ground, the man with the stella, the pitch invasion and the worst hotel in the world. But first, Lunch.