Okay back in the 1983/84 season Man City were in the old second division of English football and we found ourselves visiting stadiums that we had never been to before.
For the first time I got to travel up to Blundell Park home to the mighty Grimsby Town FC to watch the blues play.
In those days a large group of beer monsters from Langley and Middleton would use local coach firm Yelloways to travel up and down the country following our beloved City.
To say these were crap coaches would be an insult to crap coaches everywhere, they were unusually dire.
Before every trip the owner of the firm would walk up and down the aisle and loudly announce "Remember lads, no drinking allowed"
We'd all nod and try to act shocked that he even suggested such a thing, but as soon as the coach pulled out of the Arndale Centre the cans and bottles would come out and you hear the "Pssst" sound as they were all opened in unison.
We'd be one the piss all the way to the game like our life depended on it.
There were no toilets on these coaches so we'd amuse ourselves by pissing into large plastic cider bottles and pouring them out of the skylight on the top of the coach onto the cars behind us on the motorway.
Anyway back to Grimsby.
We made it up there with no stops or breaks and as we parked up on a street overlooking the sea and some massive power plant, suddenly I was hit with severe stomach cramps.
"Fucking hell I need a shit" I said to my mate Stocker.
"The ground could be miles away" he replied "you'll have to hold it in."
"I can't wait, I think I'd shit me pants"
I immediately legged it off the coach.
"What are you doing?" asked Stocker
"I'm gonna ask somebody to let me use their bog"
"Nobody is going to let you use their bog you daft twat"
"Wanna bet?" I said and with that I ran down a garden path and knocked on the door.
"Bastard" no answer. I hopped the fence and tried the neighbours.
Remember during this I was only a skinny arsed 17 year old and not the big bastard you all know and love today.
I knocked on the door, a big bloke about 30-ish answered the door. He had a moustache, was smoking a cigarette and was wearing pajama pants and a vest (wife beater). He looked at me in a vaguely uninterested manner.
"Yeah, what do you want?"
"Look mate, I'm a Man City fan up here to watch them play Grimbsy. I'm really dying for a shit and can't hold it, can I use your bog please?"
He looked back at me in disbelief, pointed down the hallway and muttered "Sure, it's back there"
I really couldn't believe my luck, I had no concerns for my safety, I really had to go and probably would have smacked the cunt if he had tried anything anyway.
I sprinted down the hallway with a turtles head touching the back of my undies, I unzipped frantically and gave out a huge sigh of relief when my arse hit the seat.
For the first time I got to travel up to Blundell Park home to the mighty Grimsby Town FC to watch the blues play.
In those days a large group of beer monsters from Langley and Middleton would use local coach firm Yelloways to travel up and down the country following our beloved City.
To say these were crap coaches would be an insult to crap coaches everywhere, they were unusually dire.
Before every trip the owner of the firm would walk up and down the aisle and loudly announce "Remember lads, no drinking allowed"
We'd all nod and try to act shocked that he even suggested such a thing, but as soon as the coach pulled out of the Arndale Centre the cans and bottles would come out and you hear the "Pssst" sound as they were all opened in unison.
We'd be one the piss all the way to the game like our life depended on it.
There were no toilets on these coaches so we'd amuse ourselves by pissing into large plastic cider bottles and pouring them out of the skylight on the top of the coach onto the cars behind us on the motorway.
Anyway back to Grimsby.
We made it up there with no stops or breaks and as we parked up on a street overlooking the sea and some massive power plant, suddenly I was hit with severe stomach cramps.
"Fucking hell I need a shit" I said to my mate Stocker.
"The ground could be miles away" he replied "you'll have to hold it in."
"I can't wait, I think I'd shit me pants"
I immediately legged it off the coach.
"What are you doing?" asked Stocker
"I'm gonna ask somebody to let me use their bog"
"Nobody is going to let you use their bog you daft twat"
"Wanna bet?" I said and with that I ran down a garden path and knocked on the door.
"Bastard" no answer. I hopped the fence and tried the neighbours.
Remember during this I was only a skinny arsed 17 year old and not the big bastard you all know and love today.
I knocked on the door, a big bloke about 30-ish answered the door. He had a moustache, was smoking a cigarette and was wearing pajama pants and a vest (wife beater). He looked at me in a vaguely uninterested manner.
"Yeah, what do you want?"
"Look mate, I'm a Man City fan up here to watch them play Grimbsy. I'm really dying for a shit and can't hold it, can I use your bog please?"
He looked back at me in disbelief, pointed down the hallway and muttered "Sure, it's back there"
I really couldn't believe my luck, I had no concerns for my safety, I really had to go and probably would have smacked the cunt if he had tried anything anyway.
I sprinted down the hallway with a turtles head touching the back of my undies, I unzipped frantically and gave out a huge sigh of relief when my arse hit the seat.
Amidst the deafening farting noises, grunts and moans I emptied my bowels into the toilet, I swear the woodchip wallpaper was on the verge of peeling off the wall as a result of the unbelieveable stench, my eyes were certainly watering.
I must have deposited 5lbs of toxic waste into his water closet before I wiped and pulled my pants up.
I like to say that I washed my hands but knowing my 17 year old self I probably didn't.
Anyway I stunk the place out and sheepishly walked down the hallway and up to the living room doorway.
The door was open, the curtains were drawn and the room was full of cigarette smoke.
The bloke had an ashtray overflowing with cig dimps next to him, beer cans everywhere and his armchair was pulled forward right in front of the telly. He was leaning forward so his face was inches away from the screen, he was glued (and I mean glued) to the horse racing on Grandstand.
"Alright mate, I'm done, thanks a lot" I said
He didn't even bother looking up and away from the screen. He just gave me a thumbs up and said "Ta chuck, could you make sure you shut the door properly on the way out? It sticks, give it a slam"
"Okay" I replied
"Ta"
With that I left.
The game was pretty uneventful, I think we probably lost as usual.
A few of the lads off our coach had wandered off before the game looking for a pub to have a drink and were ambushed by superior numbers of Grimsby fans.
I like to think that by knocking on the door of that pajama clad friendly racing enthusiast I was literally saved from having the shit kicked out of me.
I must have deposited 5lbs of toxic waste into his water closet before I wiped and pulled my pants up.
I like to say that I washed my hands but knowing my 17 year old self I probably didn't.
Anyway I stunk the place out and sheepishly walked down the hallway and up to the living room doorway.
The door was open, the curtains were drawn and the room was full of cigarette smoke.
The bloke had an ashtray overflowing with cig dimps next to him, beer cans everywhere and his armchair was pulled forward right in front of the telly. He was leaning forward so his face was inches away from the screen, he was glued (and I mean glued) to the horse racing on Grandstand.
"Alright mate, I'm done, thanks a lot" I said
He didn't even bother looking up and away from the screen. He just gave me a thumbs up and said "Ta chuck, could you make sure you shut the door properly on the way out? It sticks, give it a slam"
"Okay" I replied
"Ta"
With that I left.
The game was pretty uneventful, I think we probably lost as usual.
A few of the lads off our coach had wandered off before the game looking for a pub to have a drink and were ambushed by superior numbers of Grimsby fans.
I like to think that by knocking on the door of that pajama clad friendly racing enthusiast I was literally saved from having the shit kicked out of me.
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