“Sells recycled muck on his butty truck, viva Phil Jackson....”
We are eleven hours into Abbey Hey’s Scotland away day and things have suddenly turned a bit daft on the coach journey home.
Former gaffer Barrie Walker, suavely quaffing red wine two hours previously, can’t get his breath. The butty truck song has killed him. Bright red and grinning like a fool he sums up how most of us feel. Tired but elated.
Losing 3-0 shouldn’t feel this good but, hey, it’s pre-season and we’ve just been treated like minor celebrities in a one-horse town on the M8.
Things started off sensibly enough. The 8am coach to Shotts Bon Accord FC in Lanarkshire left Goredale at more or less the stated time. Gibbo, Aggis and Jacko debated tactics on a white board while the first-teamers gambled on card games with a trucker cap full of shrapnel waiting for the winner. The committee at the front were in fine spirits too.
I chose to get stuck into some of the cold cans of beer I’d brought before they had a chance to get warm.
We arrived about an hour before kick off. I thought this might hamper the warm up but Gibbo admitted that a shorter session brings its own benefits. No, he didn’t mean that.
We piled in to the supporters club to meet the Abbey Hey Edinburgh branch. By branch I mean two lads from Scotland who come to Abbey games when they’re in Manchester. One of them, a Hearts lad called Neil, was proudly wearing the club pin badge on his jumper.
As well as the Edinburgh mob, we’d also arranged to meet two United girls from Dumfries. They were on their way to a charity walk in the west of Scotland but once the idea of an afternoon on the beer with us was mooted it was only a matter of time before they changed their plans.
The kick off was observed on an open terrace. To our left the rest of the Abbey delegation were taking shelter under a large old fashioned stand. Not for us. We put our hoods up and took what the angry Scottish rain clouds threw at us, which was basically a bit of drizzle.
Ten minutes in and we were thirsty again. One of the dames from Dumfries went off in search of a drink and found more than she bargained for. Above the changing rooms was the chairman’s private bar. After telling them how far we’d all traveled we were welcomed in with open arms to enjoy a view of the match from an upstairs window.
The bar was a proper little treasure trove of memorabilia. Old Shotts shirts and ties lined the walls interspersed with framed archive club pictures. George the bar man was the knowledgeable host as we ploughed our way through his crates of lager and cursed the scenes on the pitch.
In fairness Abbey were in the game for 80 minutes. Their opponents were big lads and used their strength to their advantage in the last ten minutes. Three late goals made the defeat look worse than it actually was.
When the full time whistle had blown we made our way back to the supporters club where a steak pie, peas and mash meal was laid on free of charge for all visitors. A really nice touch. Big Jim Whittaker got up to deliver a speech and promised the same level of hospitality should Shotts ever pay us a visit. Best get the pinnie on now, Gordon.
The early part of the coach home was predictably raucous. Players were fined by keeper Jonny Mac as the day went on for various crimes. Among them were ‘moaning about the journey’ and ‘wearing flip flops in the shower’. The price was necking in one whatever drink was to hand. As you can imagine our young steeds became quite quickly hammered. And that, readers, is the giddy point you currently find us at.
This mad little club may not deliver the results every time but I tell you what, for a tenner coach fare and two quid ground entry the trip has been well worth it.
Enjoy the season.
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