Bravefart

Harry had talked about nothing else for the last few weeks and had
mentioned it on a regular basis ever since the day in question.
Saturday 4th June 1977 had been indelibly stamped on Harry’s mind
after the antics of the Scottish supporters in celebration of their 2-1
win over England at Wembley. The end of the game had seen a fullscale
invasion of the hallowed turf by thousands of Bay City Rollers,
all wearing Oxford Bags with hems that bared a good six inches of
pale shin and all of them bedecked in tartan shirts, scarves and hats
with blue ‘Saltires’ or yellow flags, adorned with red lions rampant,
around their shoulders. They climbed the goal posts and sat atop the
bar, which was a minor miracle in itself when you considered the
bulbous platform shoes that they all seemed to be wearing, and
jumped up and down until it gave way under the weight of fashion unconscious
young ‘sweatys’.
They then proceeded to clear the ground of its sacred turf, leaving
poor old Wembley looking as bald as Bobby Charlton when the wind
had caught his one strand of hair and unwound it to reveal his shiny
pate. Only in this case, the only shine was the sun glinting off the
broken shards of empty whisky bottles strewn around that famous
pitch.
Harry had watched all of this with incredulity on television around
at Shea’s’house - you’d have had to be a complete nutter to actually
go to the game - and seemed to take this as a personal attack on all
that he held dear. He had decided that Scotland would pay dearly for
this incursion on to English soil and, worse still, their return ‘hame’
with a large amount of the aforementioned soil. Yes, they would pay
with their own soil and goalposts. An eye for an eye, or as Harry kept
putting it, “An och aye for an och aye, Jimmy!”

He had planned to hire a van for a week during a quiet part of the
season and recruit a dodgy crew to form a raiding party to cross the
Scottish border and inflict havoc by wrecking their goalposts and
bringing back some of their not-so-sacred soil. This would, of course,
be accompanied by much heavy drinking, and hopefully copious
amounts of merry-making; and maybe even the odd shag, if they
could find anyone desperate or drunk enough to oblige.
Harry had settled on the period between Boxing Day and New
Year’s Day for his foray north, as he knew that Valley had no fixtures
between the Saturday before Christmas and the Saturday after New
Year and he had always heard how good New Year was in Scotland.
He thought it sounded like a good craic.
He had managed to persuade three of the lads, though not Rodge
or Sean who had originally put their names forward, to join him by
regaling them with stories of when he’d been to Scotland before for
Hogmanay and how he’d managed to score so often with the women
up there because they loved Cockneys so much and they were all so
uninhibited during the New Year holiday. Harry’s prospective
travelling compatriates had obviously not stopped long enough to
consider firstly; how such an ugly bastard had even managed to score
once, let alone the ever-changing amount of times he’d achieved
success every time he told the story, and secondly; the fact that
everyone knew no-one liked Cockneys. Even Cockneys hated
Cockneys. South of the river hated north of the river, eastenders
hated those from up west, and everyone hated Millwall.
Then, of course, maybe they had. Everyone knew Harry’s track
record with the truth; he regarded it as something that spoiled the
story and was therefore entitled to completely ignore it. Pherso, who
was on Harry’s team, had confided to Mickey Boyle that he
remembered Harry saying in the pub just prior to the game with
England that he’d never been to Scotland, and how he’d like to go to
next year’s game. Pherso reckoned it would just be such a good craic
with Harry that he was up for the jaunt as soon as he mentioned it.
He needed no persuading.

When the day of departure arrived, Harry was waiting in the
lounge bar of the Jam Tart sipping from a glass of Coca Cola, unable
to sit still for a second. He continually left his seat to visit the Bogside
toilet or the Space Invaders machine or the fruit machine or the jukebox.
Despite it being only eleven a.m. and he being the only customer
in the pub, he selected a few sounds from the juke-box for his
entertainment to while away a few more minutes until the rest of the
lads turned up. Being Christmas, the juke-box had a number of
festive favourites on its playlist and Harry immediately selected Merry
Xmas Everybody by Slade from Christmas 1973, without which no
Christmas gathering would be complete. He then chose Egyptian
Reggae and Roadrunner by Johnathan Richman and the Modern
Lovers, ‘Don’t Stop’ and ‘Go your own way’, both by Fleetwood
Mac, ‘2, 4, 6, 8 Motorway’ by the Tom Robinson Band, ‘Rockin’ all
over the world’ by Status Quo, ‘God Save The Queen’ by the Sex
Pistols - always popular in London’s Irish hostelries - and finally the
current Christmas number one, ‘Mull Of Kintyre’ by Wings. He felt
that ‘Roadrunner’’ the Tom Robinson, Fleetwood Mac and Quo
songs were some how apt in view of the long journey ahead for which
he’d need guidance, having never driven any further than
Beaconsfield before now. ‘Egyptian Reggae’ was one of his current
favourites. The Pistols’ song was the national anthem of modern
British youth, he felt, suddenly realising that he was beginning to
think like those hairy geezers who introduced the Old Grey Whistle
Test. Wings? Yeah, it was crap, but it was Scottish - well, Scottishsounding
at least. He’d save ‘We are the Champions’ by Queen and
‘Heroes’ by David Bowie till they’d returned with their booty.

It was during this last song that two of his crew walked through
the door, Martin O’Hara and Dan Hyland.
“Who the fuck put this shit on?” shouted Dan. This prompted
Harry into doing an impromptu Scottish jig with his two arms raised
above his head, whooping at the top of his voice.
“Keep the fuckin’ noise down,” moaned Malachy from behind the
bar.
“Now look what you’ve done, Harry; almost got us barred from
the first pub we’ve bin in and we ain’t even ‘ad a pint yet,”
complained Martin.
“Wot, not drinking Harry?” quizzed Dan.
“Na, driving, in’t I?” replied Harry, mimicking steering with his
hands.
“Who we waiting for?” asked Dan.
“Just Pherso,” replied Harry.
“That’s if Toni lets him come,” retorted Martin.
They had nearly finished their first pints when Pherso walked
through the door.
“Fuck sake Pherso, what kept ya?” said Harry. “‘Eres me on
fucking Cokes waitin’ for you ta turn up! C’mon, let’s make tracks.”

They all finished up their drinks and followed Harry outside to the
van that he’d picked up only that morning. It was a red Ford Transit
with Frank Davey Vehicle Hire Ltd and the names of their outlets,
Wembley and Acton, together with their respective phone numbers,
emblazoned on the sides and back of the vehicle.
“I thought we ought to get a van with ‘Wembley’ written on it,
don’t you?”
“As long as it goes, Harry,” replied Martin.
They all tried to get in the front and then realised that it would
only take three of them, so Dan volunteered to get in
the back and then they headed off on their quest.
“’Ere, who saw Morecombe and Wise on Christmas Day?”
“Fucking hilarious, weren’t it? That bit where they did ‘There is
nothing like a dame’ with all those newsreaders doing somersaults and
stuff.”
“Yeah, Michael Parkinson and Michael Aspel.”
“Best, though, was Eddie Waring; I nearly pissed myself.”
“I tell ya, that’s going to be the iconic thing that we’ll look back
on when we’re older; the defining piece of entertainment of this era.”
“Eh, what the fuck you talking about, Harry?”
“You know, a bit like when we were kids we always looked
forward to the new Beatles single, the latest Bond film, the next space
launch, any Ali fight, Miss World, Eurovision - everyone was
interested in them, they were big events. There’s very little like that
around these days.”
“Before my time, mate.”

They drove for around six hours before leaving the M6 at
junction 36 and heading along the A590 and then the A591 for about
twenty miles until they reached Ambleside at the northern tip of Lake
Windermere in the Lake District.
As they drove into a road called Smithy Brow, Harry suddenly
shouted, “Wagons whoa,” at the same time as he violently veered to
his right and parked outside a pub called the Golden Rule.
“This’ll do for the night.”
“Where we ganna sleep then?” asked Martin.
“We’ll worry about that later. Now, let’s sink some sherbet.”
“It says ‘Hartley’s’ on the sign; they make fucking jam, don’t
they?” piped up Dan.
“Not according to Brad. I told him we were coming up this way
and asked him for a recommendation,” replied Harry. “They make a
wonderful beer - Brad’s words - called XB, and I’m just thirsting for a
few scoops. Troops, advance.”
As the night moved on the team visited a few more hostelries, two
of which served Hartley’s beers - the White Hart and the Unicorn -
and one that served Theakston’s; the Salutation.
At the ‘Sally’, as it was known locally, Harry introduced his three
acolytes to the wonders of ‘Old Peculiar’, another of Brad’s
recommendations; a rich, dark, heavy brew that slipped down a treat
without giving any indication of the effect it would have on the
imbiber at a later time.
Suffice it to say, none of the lads showed any concern for where
they would eventually sleep that night as long as it was on a horizontal
plane. The car park of the Sally would provide the resting place for
the van, as Harry had sensibly decided that it would move no further
that evening in view of the state they were all in.
The four of them somehow managed to find the back of the van,
and even managed to locate their individual sleeping bags. Well, they
managed to locate a sleeping bag, and that was all that mattered.

They woke the next morning to an experience that none of them
had ever had: a northern winter’s morning. The windows of the van
were frozen, as one would expect, but the inside of the van also
displayed the effects of the outside temperatures. The hot bodies
inside the van had created a huge amount of hot Old Peculiar-scented
air which had collided with the freezing cold ceiling of the van and
formed small ice nodules like mini stalactites.
No problem. The lads decided that they would stay snuggled up
inside their sleeping bags until the outside temperature had warmed
up to something that resembled London’s, and also until their
throbbing heads had decided to stop throbbing, or till the Sally
opened its doors once more at eleven o’clock. Mind you, that was
around three hours away.
Unfortunately, the elements had other ideas. The shell of the van
started to warm up as the outside temperature apparently rose,
though this was not obvious to the incumbents, and the stalactites
started to melt, releasing cold droplets of water onto the heads of
those lying below.

The lads found it impossible to remain in their sleeping bags
under this hail of frozen drips, and one by one they emerged
from their cosy cocoons.
Pherso took the wheel, as had been decided during the previous
evening’s discussions, though no-one could really remember if that
was the case and no-one could be bothered to dispute the issue
anyway. They drove south on the A591 towards Windermere and
then headed north on the A592, Pherso being charged with the
responsibility of stopping at the first place that looked suspiciously
like it might serve breakfast under pain of ‘a fine schlaap’ if he failed
in his task.
About three miles north of Windermere they entered the village
of Troutbeck and Pherso pulled in by a little ramshackle building that
displayed a sign announcing ‘Troutbeck Water Café’.
“Result,” yelled Harry.
They all stumbled out of the van and lurched across to the door,
opening it with a struggle, as it was very stiff. As they entered the
café, their nostrils were overwhelmed by the smell of a wood-burning
fire. Their eyes and ears were overwhelmed even more by the
appearance of a man from a door at the back of the dingy room to
the right of the fireplace producing the wonderful smell, coupled with
a welcoming warmth that they could now feel as the wintery chill was
firmly shut out by the stiff door.

He bore a striking resemblance to‘Gunner La-Di-Da Graham’ out
of ‘It Ain’t ‘alf Hot Mum’. He stood
before them in a thick Fair Isle jumper with khaki army surplus
shorts, knee length walking socks and a pair of Jesus boots, the
flickering light from the roaring fire reflecting off his John Lennon style
granny glasses and his shiny, smooth bonce.
“Can I help you?” he asked in an effeminate northern accent.
“Breakfast for four, my good man, and there’s an extra shining
florin for you good fellow if the tea is full leaf,” yelled Harry in an
attempt to give all gathered the chance to laugh at their host whilst
disguising the fact that he was the butt of their laughter.
It would have worked if only Harry’s outburst hadn’t prompted a
response from the hapless restaurateur.

“I’ll have you know that all my tea is full leaf, and it all comes
from Ceylon.”
“Don’t you mean Sri Lanka?” replied Pherso.
“No, I certainly don’t. We call it Ceylon in this establishment, just
as we live in Cumberland and not that awful Cumbria that the
Government foisted on us some years back, along with
decimalisation. You’ll also find that the prices on the menu are all in
old money and if you don’t like it, you know where to go.”
“Well, that’s where you have us at a disadvantage, my good man,
for we have travelled far this day from the land of the Middle Saxons,
and have not a clue where else to go.” Another attempt from Harry to
supply cover for any errant laughter that might slip out like a
suppressed fart at Sunday Mass.
“Land of the Middle Saxons? Where’s that when it’s at home?”
“Middlesex, stout yeoman.”
This was all too much for Dan; he splurted out a wet laugh that
showered the back of Martin’s neck with what felt like a pint of spit.
“What’s the matter with him?” queried Gunner Graham.
“I fear my conversational mode has set our young chum off on a
fit of the giggles, an experience that is all too common when they are
in my presence. There is no time to lose; bring victuals and ale before
the malady spreads to the rest of my band of travellers.”
“We’re not licensed for ale, just tea.”
“Tea’s fine,” said Martin as he dried the back of his neck with a
handkerchief.
As ‘mine host’ disappeared through the door from which he had
initially appeared, the four just fell about laughing.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to stop laughing long enough to eat,”
complained Dan.
“Pull yourself together, laaaddieee,” said Harry mimicking
Winston Churchill, which only served to set Dan off again.
By the time Harry called for the bill the table was covered with
masticated food, the result of Harry engaging Gunner La-Di-Da
Graham in conversation, often summoning him from the kitchen,
every time he noticed Dan with a mouthful of food.

The bill, as promised, was in old money: one pound, two shillings
and sixpence halfpenny.
“Pherso, how much is that?” enquired Harry.
“It’s one pound -” he paused.
“Yeah, I know that much,” quipped an indignant Harry.
“Er, twelve and a half pee,” came the response.
“Plus tip.”
“Put some fucking trousers on - that’s my tip for the queer
northern bastard,” said Martin with a tone of aggression in his voice.
Harry placed one pound fifty on the table and ushered his party
towards the door whilst shouting through to the kitchen, “We shall
continue our travels, good pilgrim, please accept one and a half gold
sovereigns for your kind hospitality and may good fortune smile
down upon all who live under your eaves.”
“Goodbye then - come again, won’t you?” emanated from the
kitchen.

Suitably refreshed and satisfied, it was decided to get some miles
under their belts and they drove continuously along the beautifully
scenic and winding road past Ullswater until they joined the M6 at
junction 40 near Penrith about an hour later.
They now could put on some speed. They managed to bypass
Carlisle and join the A74 at about lunchtime. A discussion took place
about stopping for something to eat, but Martin was convinced that
all eating establishments in this part of the world were run by
‘benders’. Suddenly, Pherso spotted a sign denoting that Gretna
Green was only ten miles; therefore, so was Scotland.
This information suddenly overrode their hunger and they all
agreed to press on, a large cheer being raised as they crossed the
Scottish border some fifteen minutes later. Harry waved a small flag
of St. George at some bemused kids who were standing by the
roadside outside a newsagent’s. They didn’t remain bemused for too
long though, and returned his wave with a volley of ‘Vs’, probably
accompanied by shouts of, “Fuck off, you English bastards,” though
that was pure conjecture.