Trafford FC Supporters' Club: Away Day

Mossley away - 30^th November

Despite there being a pitch inspection scheduled at 11:00, I had still decided I was going to set off at 10:45 for my rendezvous with Mr. Brookes in Bevano Lounge at 11:15 (obviously after I'd cooked breakfast and hoovered). The way I saw it, it was either going to be a) the game is on and the day continues as planned or b) the game is called off and it’s an afternoon round the Urmston pubs. Either way, it was going to be win-win. After the stroll into Urmston, I arrived in Bevanos just a few minutes past 11:15. Straight up to the bar, I then surveyed the place in search of Brooko; there was no sign of him. However, I did set eyes upon an ex-child from where I work - enjoying breakfast with his mum. This can’t look good: Mr. Glinka in the boozer at quarter past eleven, ordering a pint on his own!!! I did the old ‘pretend my phone is ringing' trick, answered and talked to the imaginary caller and left! Groundsman extraordinaire (*assistant) Mr. Halliwell, was just walking by outside. An update - still no news on the pitch inspection. Then Mr. Half-time draw, half-time draw walked past on his way to an all day bender in town... how irresponsible.

Then I clapped eyes on Brooko, who after sticking on a few bets at the bookies, was ready to accompany me in the pub (I figured I would look less of a piss can to my ex-pupil if I wasn’t on my own). It turned out Matt Brown had managed to spoil his wife enough to get an early pass out himself. After a phone call as to my whereabouts (a genuine one this time), I told him I was 30 seconds away... enough time for him to have gotten the beers in. Cheers.

11:30 and still no news on the game. The train was due in 20 mins. And then a message from Sniffer: the game was on! Moral levels peaked. Another cheers and pints finished saw us swiftly arrive on the platform to be greeted by two members of the Hatton Garden Crew and many of the Dark Fruits Ultras.

We arrived at Oxford Road without harm and after running across platforms a couple of times, we eventually managed to get a train to Piccadilly. With 15 minutes before the train to Mossley, we dived into the station pub and ordered a pint. I accidentally got Mr. Faulkner a half as Mr. Bellis was ‘looking after' him. Faulkner was having none if it and went and bought himself another half. Whilst waiting for the Mossley train, we saw a stressed Colin, trying (and failing) to buy a ticket. He was having no luck and the train guards wouldn’t let him through. Just as the train was pulling in, he managed to get tickets via his phone and a fair amount of cursing.

The train journey allowed us to fill out some lines- some managed this more successfully than others. Apparently, Faulkner’s line efforts resemble that of a snake's handwriting.

13:17 and out of the station and into the pub. It'd been 20 odd minutes since our last drink and we were all thirsty. Once sat down, the chat escalated fairly quickly: something along the lines of bottoms and three fingers! I’ll leave it there.

Thanks to a very helpful local, we were soon on our way up the hill in a taxi to our next destination, the Fleece Pub: a cracking boozer where 2 more pints were sunk (once Matt had stopped schmoozing with the locals and got his round in). Then a short walk to the ground to watch our beloved Trafford. At this point, someone noticed a tweet Mr. Lawman had sent informing us that if we won today, we’d go top. An instant curse if ever there was one! In the amount of time it took me to drink 4 more pints, a load of players managed to kick a ball about for 90 minutes. The full-time whistle had blown with honours even and my hands freezing. Second we would stay and back to the Fleece we went.

Now, I don’t remember much else from the day. I definitely got home; I spoke to the wife apparently at some point and I was on home turf in the Brew Chimp. There is a gap however between Mossley and there. I woke up on Sunday to a couple of photographs of what appears to be some ruffians giving it the 3-finger salute at the station in Mossley and a few messages wondering where Colin was: it seemed we lost him at some point on the way home. I’ve no idea. Could possibly have lost Paul Faulkner too?

All in all, a top, top day following the mighty Trafford. I don’t remember from 5 o'clock onwards but who cares? I enjoyed it (I think).