Storytelling has been a feature of my life.
I wrote this piece in 1991 (typed by my late wife Theresa in the typing pool at Bracknell Police Station) but only recently rediscovered it whilst clearing out the attic.
A true account – embellished for comedic value – that recounts a period of my life lost to the archives but cognisant of a vital thread that has run through my life since I was 10.
A reminiscent read of 20 minutes.
The time had finally arrived. Weeks of preparation coupled with hours of meticulous planning had come to a head. The three wise men, namely Kirke, Crawford, and Teague, were finally to embark on their epic journey to that great bastion of football supremacy: Nottingham. Yes, the place famous for that bloke Hood who stole from the rich and gave to the poor (less taxable deductions) and meat and potato pies, the staple diet of all families north of Watford Gap. The event in question? Why, of course, the clash of the Titans. Or as Billy Connolly would put it, the “Big Yin” – Notts County versus Bristol Rovers.
Certainly, both Kirke and Crawford had experienced the delight before (and Crawford still had the irritating rash and strange coloured discharge to prove it), but Teague, still full of youthful enthusiasm and keen to impress the other two older soaks, believed he was going to see the other less fortunate Nottinghamshire team. Kirke and Crawford both smiled broadly at each other and exchanged glances, but decided to curtail this behaviour, as with Teague present, what would follow would obviously be illegal. Yes, both the older members had persuaded Teague to travel!
Kirke was so excited that he’d washed his hair at least three times that day, and changed his underpants (well at least turned them inside out); however, others were far less impressed with the proposed jaunt. Of them, one individual would be busy perming his cat’s hair and it was rumoured that a large contingent had paid money to hear a chap called Morris recite an extremely funny yarn. Alas, undaunted, the three intrepid explorers left a somewhat blustery Bracknell in their trusty steed. It was obvious that it was windy as Kirke’s parting, which until this time had been parallel to the Tropic of Capricorn, was now lying in a north by northwest direction. Displaying no sadness at his plight, he promptly restyled his thatch by parting his hair again, this time from underneath his left armpit. Crawford, who by now was equipped with some cans of plasma and a fruit drink for Teague, wanted to assume the pilot’s duties, but Kirke was quick to put a driving boot on his right foot and quickly had the accelerator pedal level with the floor.
Crawford soon began to consume his plasma, and the ever-inquisitive Teague requested a sample of the liquid, which, according to Crawford, made you irresistible to women and gave you the staying power of a New England bison. Having admired the animal since he was toilet trained, Teague was keen to sample the contents of the cans, which Crawford had tightly anchored between his rippling, smoothly shaved thighs. Against his better nature, the Scotsman prized one can away from his grip and placed it in Teague’s hand.
Drinking half and spilling the rest down his shirt, Teague grinned, gurgled, and started to chunter on about breasts. He declared he wanted somebody with big breasts. He had obviously been seriously affected by the liquid as in addition to his latent sexual fantasy (or was it that he wanted to date a sumo wrestler?) he was adamant that there was a pungent odour emanating from the region of Kirke’s seat, although the older man dismissed his request for the windows to be opened.
By the time the crew had reached the M4 Crawford had extinguished his supply and promptly began to wave at other motorists with his two fingered salute. Teague, by now requesting supplies of oxygen, was oblivious to this, although his constant smile must have been equally off-putting to other drivers.
It had been rumoured by Kirke that the ‘Big Yin’ would be a sellout. Such was the demand for places on the terraces that the police had to escort at least seven fully laden meat and potato pie lorries to the ground from the factory in Macclesfield to feed the army of supporters. The Bristol fans had also been catered for with a round of buns and clotted cream being laid on by the club.
On reaching the M25, Kirke promptly paid the parking fee, and the trio prepared themselves for a lengthy wait; however, disappointment prevailed as the boys reached the M1 junction without stopping for tea and cakes on the hard shoulder.
Thinking that they would shortly be in the land of whippets and cloth caps, Kirke decided to remove the driving boot and place a large house brick on the already tired accelerator pedal. But the journey now turned sour as a series of hold ups meant that Kirke would have to average at least 97.29 mph to reach the ground in time for the kick-off. This gave little leeway, and Teague suddenly remembered that the M1 was cobbled from Daventry onwards.
Kirke quickly established membership of the outermost lane of the fully laden motorway behind a driver who was obviously a keen mechanic, as he kept testing his brake lights every three minutes. The flashing brake lights had little effect on the older men, but the obvious hypnotic presence of the lights overpowered Teague, who quickly began to lick Crawford’s ear and begged to be thrashed across the buttocks with a large birch twig. There was little time to remedy the situation and Kirke had no option but to execute an overtake on the inside and cut the mechanic up. He quickly disappeared from view until about twenty minutes later when he executed the same move, although thankfully left at the next exit before Teague could begin his strange behaviour for a second time.
The car’s engine, now begging for a serious mechanical defect to take over so it could get some rest, had a slight recovery when on leaving the motorway it began to squeal like a small pig being rodgered by an extremely big pig. Certainly, the inclement weather conditions – driving rain and extreme gusts of wind (which were also apparent inside the vehicle) – left the brave men in no doubt that water had obviously penetrated some valve or other and it would quickly remedy itself once they had sighted the bright lights of their cherished destination.
As the whining engine continued to sing, the clock ticked and it was now obvious that the kick-off and the chance to consume at least one meat and potato pie before the match would be missed, although Crawford, by using advanced calculus theorems, said that the ground would be reached within five minutes, give or take a few minutes.
It was pleasing to note that the weather had cleared somewhat, and anticipation grew as the boys realised that they would soon be in the hallowed ground of Notts County Football Club, the oldest league club in the world and still rumoured to be playing with the original team.
Kirke argued that the ground was sacred, as he’d apparently heard someone say, “Jesus Christ, you twat! How did you miss that open goal?” at a match some years previously. Crawford rejected this claim unsympathetically, but Teague, with mouth open in awe, believed the lot. He didn’t even get suspicious when Crawford said it would cost £50 to get in and promptly paid him by way of building society cheque.
Rounding the cobbled streets towards the ground Kirke was a little dismayed as he could not yet see the illuminated floodlights. It then hit him. No, not another vehicle, but the fact that the game was either off, or the club had run out of ten pence pieces for the meter. The ugly truth of the situation was explained when Crawford managed to attract the attention of an officer of the law in a nearby street by pulling the face which gave him the runners up medal in the 1982 Middlesbrough Open Gurning Championship. The officer quickly greeted them in the normal Nottinghamshire fashion by glaring an “Aye up me duck, are thoust lost me oade” greeting, quickly followed by confirmation the match had been called off an hour earlier.
Distraught and desolate, Kirke drove around the vacant streets for some time, his eyes welling up and his grip around Teague’s throat getting stronger. Not only was the main event off, but the engine was beginning to enjoy its whine and decided to go one better by stalling every few minutes.
Limping into the car park of the nearby “Man of Trent,” the much-acclaimed public house and Nobel Prize winner for hospitality, the group took refuge.
The stop gave each member a chance to lighten their load. Crawford complained that his bladder had been playing on his mind for some considerable time and he was beginning to feel the pain. This admission certainly provided further evidence to Kirke that Crawford’s mind, together with the rest of his brain, was obviously under his bladder, in the region of his testicles.
The lack of potty facilities worried the older men, but they were soon relieved when the telltale steam emissions erupted from Teague’s corner of the cubicle. He had either managed to piss properly, or his penis was on fire. Teague subsequently joined the other two in the bar and since he displayed no limp Kirke presumed his genitals had not been damaged in any way.
Although disappointed, the time had now come to drink, but first the car had to be dealt with. The AA was the answer. They would fix it and soon all three would be home in the glorious green fields of Berkshire. Teague was perplexed at this.
Alcoholics Anonymous couldn’t, he thought, help in any way unless Crawford had another 32 pints of lager. Wisely, he decided to keep quiet on this occasion and leave the older heads to sort It out. “I’m in the Relay,” said Crawford proudly. Kirke turned to Teague expecting him to reply, “I’m with the Woolwich,” but was surprised as the young man made no comment. Little did Kirke know that Teague was now surveying the barren areas of scalp on Kirke’s head which had suddenly appeared. True, it was still windy, and the elements had turned Kirke’s thatch from a tidy up-market garden to a blitzed savannah land. Quickly restoring some order to his strands with the use of a slightly damp chamois leather, Kirke ordered the drinks whilst Crawford busied himself with the nearby telephone trying to raise their would be saviours – the Automobile Association.
Kirke reminded the slender looking barman that he was the driver and asked for a non-alcoholic lager. Three large bags of crisps also accompanied the order and Kirke handed over his five-pound note expecting little change. He was pleasantly surprised at what he got back. Enough, said the barman, to afford to splash out on a fish supper, another round of drinks and a three bedroomed semi-detached In nearby Mansfield. However, Kirke was a little dismayed as his pint of low alcohol lager appeared to be a glass of water.
Crawford, who could read but had trouble with numbers, had still failed to ring the AA. He had spent at least £2 already and the Chinese takeaway in Darlington he kept ringing had obviously had enough. Kirke, now fuming with his fellow group members, seized Crawfords membership card and decided to do the job himself. “Teague,” he said, “what’s the date?” The youngster quickly glanced at his top of the range timepiece but explained that Mickey Mouse’s left arm was covering the date window. “I think July 1979 has passed,” said Kirke reading the expiry date on Crawford’s card. It was so out of date that it had been countersigned by the grandfather of Stirling Moss for use with vehicles in the Ford Model T range. Assured by Crawford that he was still a fully paid-up member, contact was made with AA control and help was dispatched.
During the wait the boys decided to play pool and eventually fought their way through the crowds of bearded ladies and whippets to the pool table. Certainly, the locals were intrigued with the group and momentarily stopped discussing the finer points of eating meat and potato pies to watch the ‘southern poofters’ do their thing. They soon returned to their earlier topic of conversation and in doing so missed Crawford executing some fine shots to win the tournament. At one stage he had to stretch his bulk across the table in order to pot a red and it was no surprise, especially to Kirke, when two pink balls entered the table. Although embarrassed, Crawford quickly regained his composure, put his testicles back in his trousers, and continued the game.
The hours passed and hunger set in. Although the correct location had been given to the AA, Kirke wondered if the patrol van was driving up and down the banks of the River Trent looking for a man as opposed to attending “The man of Trent.”
The hunger began to take its toll and the boys were directed to a nearby fish and chip shop. There was an air of confidence as the car started first time, although the whining continued. Teague, keen to display his mechanical knowledge said there must be a problem with the fan belt. His remedy was obvious: “Use a pair of stockings,” he said gleefully. Kirke looked at Crawford in horror, both men had their suspender belts on as usual, but because of the continual use of Immac, stockings were alas out of the question.
Yet to be defeated by the spluttering mechanics, they set off for the chippy to fill their empty stomachs. Through the darkened streets they travelled until the bright lights of the “Clifton Chippy” drew them closer. The car struggled and finally gave up the ghost just outside, although for the chaps in question, quite conveniently near to a telephone box. The AA were phoned and given the new location – Brinsdale Road, junction with Farnborough Road, Clifton. “Can you spell the street names please?” Not forgetting “me duck” at the end of the sentence voiced the anonymous female controller. “B for bun, R for ring piece,” etc. came Kirke’s reply until he reached the second road name. “Farnborough, as in the town.” Kirke obviously thought word association would help matters, although the woman on the other end of the line had never heard of Farnborough in Hampshire. In fact, thought Kirke, she probably thought that you fell off the end of the world if you travelled past Birmingham. He then spelt out the full name and drew some consolation from the fact that he had thankfully not broken down in Wales. You could imagine the scene: “I’m broken down in Crick, rhymes with…” Yes, he had been fortunate.
With the location correctly given, the troops adjourned to the chippy. Crawford declared that he was not that hungry and as such he only ordered one large Donner Kebab, large chips and of course the customary meat and potato pie. Kirke, meanwhile, was more intent on relieving himself and was directed to the rear of the chippy where, remembering his extensive police training, he peed in the same direction as the wind. Such was the velocity of the wind that Kirke’s excretion finally reached the ground in Grimsby, some 30 miles away. On his return to the shop, he took his seat and began to eat his pie and chips, which he had ordered in advance. Chomping such vast amounts of food affected Crawford and Teague in the same manner, who made inquiries with Kirke as to the location of his earlier relief.
After being directed to the rear of the shop, the two left with the words “Don’t piss into the wind,” echoing in their ears. A little later on, both men returned. Teague broadly displaying his customary grin and Crawford displaying urine-soaked jeans. Kirke thought, “I told you so” was a little inappropriate and continued to eat his meal in silence.
The chip shop manager’s son then approached. He was a well-built man – in fact, he resembled a rather large brick-built toilet. “Going back to Bristol me ducks?” he said to all three. “No!” came the reply from Teague, who had dared to speak to such a man. The chippy’s son was obviously an intelligent man. As Teague’s reply lacked the customary “duck,” he concluded that all three were not from these parts. Obviously, southern poofters he thought, but quite graciously declined to beat the shit out of any of them.
He then remarked that he thought it would have been a good game if it had been played, after Kirke had persuaded him that he and his friends were all staunch County fans. Certainly, the three comrades could all have imagined the game in their minds, but knowing what it was like to actually watch County in the flesh, all quickly discounted this idea. Crawford finally finished his feed, declining the use of a shovel, and all three returned to the car to wait and wait, and wait some more. This gave Kirke a little time to reflect. This could have been stage managed, he thought, a task that the Staff college at Bramshill had secretly set.
The task: to get back to Bracknell. The resources: half a ton of scrap metal on wheels and two idiots.
Certainly, this was daunting, and Kirke decided that he would never be considered for the Special Course. Teague then shattered the silence by stating that they had broken down. This was an earth-shattering thing to say, but it did display the fact that he obviously possessed a degree in the subject of the bloody obvious.
As time passed, Crawford began to recite his elephant mating calls (both African and Indian were catered for) while denying that this was in fact flatulence. Kirke did have a sneaking suspicion that Crawford was breaking wind, as every impression was preceded by raising his buttocks followed by a pungent smell. This time, Kirke relented to Teague’s impoverished pleas and opened the driver side window.
Sanity returned for a brief period when, after ignoring their plight by driving past them on two occasions, the AA man came to the group’s assistance. After the formalities of at least three “Aye up me ducks!” he got to work on the problem in hand.
Numerous “I’ve never seen ought like this” and “What do you think is up with it?” followed, until finally the very, very nice man from the AA concluded that he didn’t know what was up with the bits below the bonnet. He did, however, assure the weary travellers that the conveyance should get them back home if the accelerator was kept down all the way. Time for the driving boots again, thought Kirke, who by now was wearing a bobble hat kindly donated by Crawford. The AA man’s mechanical knowledge, or the distinct lack of it, showed when the engine ultimately shut up shop some 30 yards up the road.
This was the final straw. The man from the AA had no option. He had a wife, three kids, and a whippet at home, and a meat and potato pie on the stove. He’d had enough. The southern poofters would have to be towed home. And so, the wait continued for a breakdown truck. Kirke, still wearing the hat, began to worry the other two men by insisting on being called “Benny” and constantly muttering “Morning Miss Diane.” Clifton by night was certainly not a wonderful sight. If the Earth were a human being, Clifton would be its anus. The place possessed the two finer qualities of this part of the human anatomy. Being both dark and windy, although thankfully it didn’t smell that badly.
Eventually the three, fearing that by being in situ any longer they would be liable for the community charge, cheered up when the breakdown truck, complete with flashing Christmas tree lights, arrived on the scene.
Their joy was slightly subdued when, in addition to the breakdown vehicle, the local constabulary turned up. Crawford, fearing Kirke would be detained under the Mental Health Act, quickly removed his hat from the head of his friend, who by this time was convinced that he worked in a motel in the Midlands and had once starred in a twice weekly soap opera. “Broken down me ducks?” asked one policeman. Kirke immediately respected this particular officer, who obviously had a degree in the same subject as Teague (the bloody obvious) and as such must be a candidate for Bramshill. Confirming the officer’s suspicion, Kirke proudly stated that his group were in Thames Valley. “They make children’s toys, don’t they?” said the other constable to his partner.
The sight of the police car accompanying the tow truck obviously worried the Berkshire men. This must certainly be a rough place, thought Teague, who quickly hid in the glove compartment.
This view was supported by the lawmen when they informed Kirke that even the hardened yobs walked around the estate in pairs.
The truck driver, although obviously from these parts, used the word “duck” less frequently, although he did substitute it for a similar sounding word which the boys all understood. It was obvious that he was not in contention for the title of the world’s happiest man, although he diligently went through the motions and soon had the crew of three and their stricken wheels en-route south.
On stopping at a service station, the boys knew that home was beckoning. The canteen ladies didn’t refer to ducks once. This was a clear sign that the group were inching their way home.
All three travellers quickly sank into sleep mode, although Teague quickly awoke when he found a ten pence piece tightly squeezed into his right hand and a nasty taste in his mouth. Crawford certainly perked up and was on the brink of requesting Teague’s hand in marriage, although thankfully the sight of the M25 rapidly altered his state of mind. Yes, they were nearly home. Suddenly, the trio became rather worried as the tow truck came to an abrupt halt on the hard shoulder. The driver had a sneaking suspicion that his passengers were all policemen and not wanting to break the drivers’ hours regulations he stopped for his 15-minute break. Eager to get home as quickly as possible all three men informed the driver that they would not know the difference between a tachograph and a small wax disc used for recording the speed of a heavy goods vehicle and as such would not grass him up. This ploy didn’t work and the driver, highly suspicious, decided to take a half hour break just to be on the safe side.
As the truck gradually crept onwards the sense of humour which had been severely abused abandoned the three chums. Desperation had set in. Teague’s smile had vacated his face while Crawford and Kirke were arguing over who was the fattest. The journey had been one of epic proportions. On a par certainly with other great explorers. They all knew what Captain Scott had gone through in his quest to reach the South Pole, although Kirke gleaned some comfort from the fact that it was highly unlikely that Scott had been able to stop for kebab and chips on the way home to base camp.
Tired and frustrated, all three eventually went their separate ways. Light in pocket, but hearts filled with an overwhelming sense of achievement. As Kirke finally slipped into bed, his mind chronicled the events of the past twelve hours. It may have been a long way to go for a round of drinks and pie and chips, but in terms of humour, the jaunt had possessed more laughs than a cage full of hyenas. With his eyes closed and mouth open in the classic catching flies position, Kirke slowly fell asleep.
© Ian Kirke 2025 and all photographs.
@ iankirke.bsky.social