We all boarded the bus one Saturday morning in April 1980, excited at the prospect of seeing United v Liverpool at Old Trafford. In those days they seemed to beat everyone but us, so confidence was high at the anticipation of another victory over the dirties. By the time we got on the bus at Talbot Road bus station, in the centre of Blackpool, the only seats left were on the top deck. I climbed the stairs and headed for the front seat and sat with the guy who used to run the branch, *****.

The bus was nearly full now, with only a few seats left on the upper deck, as we set off for the last pick up point at a station called the Coliseum, which lay about a mile further south down the coast and not far away from Bloomfield Road. The sun was shining, spirits were high and lads were fooling around as normal as the bus trundled through Blackpool and turned into Rigby Road which would take us into the rear of the Coliseum bus station.

As we turned into Rigby Road I turned to *****, as something had just occurred to me. Half way down the road was a low bridge that carried a railway track across it and I pointed this out to him. We both stared straight ahead as the bridge loomed massively in our view. I screamed “get down!” at the top of my voice just moments before we struck it. I hope that my warning shout helped people to get down and out of harms way but it probably just startled them to be honest. The only reaction I got was to have an egg butty hurled at me from the back of the bus! People may have thought that the instruction to get down was an invitation to boogie!

The noise was incredible as the bus careered through the bridge, the roof was torn off and we were showered with broken glass as the windows shattered all around us. The steel posts bolted to the floor and the roof, that housed the bell buttons you used to press to inform the driver that you required the next stop, were whipping wildly from side to side as their fixings went the same way as the roof. We came out the other side looking like a cup winning team – on an open topped bus.

Gingerly, we started to lift our heads up, shaking glass out of our hair. People were screaming and shouting. Looking around there weren’t too many injuries, which was very fortunate; a couple of lads had received nasty cuts to the head from the bell posts whipping into them, indeed, ***** is still scarred to this day and ***** had blood pouring from a wound sustained to his arm. Unbelievably, that was the extent of the damage to the passengers and it amazes me even as I write this and recall the events that nobody was more seriously injured or, God forbid, killed.

Looking at the photographs accompanying this article it’s amazing to see everyone laughing and giving it the thumbs up as they pose for photographs taken by the reds from the bottom deck who were obviously unscathed. None of us seem to be too bothered that we have just been very close to being decapitated.

I stood on what remained of the top deck as people started to slowly and calmly get off the bus whilst, behind us, in the middle of the road, lay the mangled wreckage of the roof. Suddenly a voice from the bus shouted something abusive, I looked round to see that holidaymakers were surrounding the bus and taking souvenir snaps of us. They obviously must not have realised that this was a vehicle full of football supporters nor had they gauged the emotions running through us. A couple were actually smiling and waving at us but that was soon stopped as we hurled handfuls of broken glass at the callous bastards.

I got off the bus but couldn’t find *****, I initially thought that he must still be upstairs and went back to get him, no sign. I came back down and could hear him shouting “you bastard” over and over again. He sounded like the kids from South Park every time that Kenny gets killed! I looked around but couldn’t see him at first, then I found him. He was under the bridge kicking the walls, shouting the same thing as he booted it continually. I went over to get him but he must have been in shock as it took some time to get him to recognise who I was and to persuade him to leave the bridge alone and come and sit down.

We could hear sirens around us now as the ambulance and police services arrived. The paramedics were brilliant as they dealt with the injured and those suffering from apparent shock, taking those that were compliant off to hospital whilst the police took statements. Wiff would have none of it though and told them that he had to get to Manchester. But how were we all to get there? Some lads had already spoken with the driver and he had gone to make arrangements with his firm for a replacement bus and after a few minutes he returned to inform us that one would be available in 30 minutes.

The lads who were taken to hospital were all treated and upon their release travelled to the game via taxi. The rest of us boarded the replacement bus and sat back reflecting on what had just happened as we made our way to Manchester. Some people have no luck though. One of the “crazes” at the time was to moon at passing vehicles. This sophisticated form of self-expression was often seen as high wit at the time and I suppose it still is in some circles. Anyway, one young lad, ****, thought he would entertain us as we passed a car on the motorway, unfortunately for him, it was an unmarked police car and they took no time in turning on the siren, passing the bus, flagging down the driver and boarding us to arrest the lad for indecency. Laugh, we nearly shat! There’s nothing like someone else’s misfortune to cheer you up.

We arrived at the ground with only an hour to go to kick-off and made our way to our usual place in the left side of the Stretford End. ***** complained to me that he was in a bit of pain and could do with some headache tablets so I led him to the front of the Stretford where I called over a copper telling him that we’d been in an accident and my mate could do with being looked at. He took one look at the state of ***** and readily agreed to take us to the treatment room.

We climbed through the perimeter fence and he started to walk us around the pitch but of course being that near to the playing surface we just had to walk on it! As we walked around to the tunnel at the half way line the officer asked us where this crash was and wasn’t best pleased when we told him Blackpool. “Are you fucking stupid, coming all this way with an injury like that?” He none too politely asked ***** and his anger didn’t subside much when all he got by way of a reply was a shrug and a dumb-ass smile.

By now we were walking up the tunnel that had been graced by so many greats over the years and there, right in front of us, was Denis Law being interviewed for Radio 2. We couldn’t have cared less what this coppers problem with us was now, the King was within touching distance and another dream had been realised. Once in the treatment room, and believe it or not this was the same treatment room used by the players, a Gladys Emanuel look-alike roughly saw to ***** arm and within 10 minutes we were being frog-marched back to our place on the terraces.

Unfortunately the game is something of a blur, probably because of the events witnessed during the course of the day but more likely by the passing of the years, but suffice to say that we kept our record against them intact and came out 2-1 victors with goals from Jimmy Greenhoff and Mickey Thomas.

One guy took the bus company to court to seek compensation for the injuries he sustained. He took the piss a bit really, as he got a hold of a surgical collar and made out that his injuries were far more serious than they actually were. The judge though fell for it and awarded him £600. This wasn’t enough for this stupid, greedy bastard though so he declined the offer and decided to try again. Unfortunately for him the second judge wasn’t quite as gullible as the first and threw his claim out which caused huge mirth amongst the rest of us. Another thing that came out of the case was the excuse the driver gave for ploughing through a low road bridge whilst driving a double-decker bus. This was his first time behind the wheel of such a vehicle in over a year as he’d been driving single-deckers on a country route. He had noticed the low bridge sign but simply forgot that he was driving a double-decked bus.

A couple of weeks later we were due to play Newcastle at home so I caught my usual bus from the bottom of the street for the trip into Blackpool to catch the supporters coach. The bus route passes through a town called Poulton and as the road turns right towards the town centre it used to pass under the branches of some very large Horse Chestnut trees, (conker trees to the uninitiated). I was sat on the top deck reading the paper when the roof was clattered by the overhanging branches. The sound must have made some impact on my subconscious and I must have looked a right dopey bastard as I dropped the paper and threw myself to the floor. Sheepishly picking myself up and brushing myself down to the sound of laughter from the other passengers I quietly vowed never to use the top deck of a bus again.

Guest Post By:  Nez Baker

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I wandered around the ground and jibbed in the staff door under the main stand as you could with no fear of SPS/CES gripping you. I had a walk down the old players’ tunnel, sat on the manager’s bench and even climbed into the T V gantry. The smell of the grass (no not that kind) just gave me a buzz like nothing else.

On the way out I noticed a sign on the old ticket office window. Coventry City vs Manchester United tickets on general sale. I bought one if for nothing else it was at least a souvenir.

When I got home my mum told me in no uncertain terms that 10 years old was far too young to go to an away game on my own. I cried and cried until my Dad came home from work and my Dad who was the stricter parent of the two somehow relented and said I could go to Highfield Road. Next day I made the same journey to Old Trafford and booked on the official supporters’ club coach.

The day of the game finally arrived and I was so excited I was sat on the K Stand steps at 11am, even though the coaches weren’t leaving till 4.30pm. I waited and waited and then just as the coaches arrived so did my Dad. I was a bit confused but he wasn’t about to send my world crashing down. He spoke to Dave Smith the head of the supporters’ club. He explained how I booked it behind his back but he wanted to allow me to go because of my passion for United. Dave and the other people looked a bit stunned that my Dad was allowing his 10 year old son onto a coach for an away game on his own, and an evening fixture.

They sat me next to a big fat guy directly behind the driver. He was into his butties before we reached Chester Road. He offered me some but although I was starving I just couldn’t eat. As we were approaching Birmingham an almighty smash came from the front and the whole of the windscreen shattered. I was okay because there was a panel around the driver’s seat protecting us. All sort of conspiracy theories were being banded about from the gossip mongerers but it turned out to be a freak explosion of the windscreen and nothing more. We headed to the coach station in Birmingham and changed coaches.

I had lost my minder as he was turning his big frame around to put his coat on. Although I was 10, I was older at heart and pretty clued up. I sneaked off, got a hot dog and headed to the ground. Sadly the coach incident and a Jimmy Greenhoff disallowed goal turned out to be the only things of substance all night, well apart from the hot dog. I always thought we drew 0-0 but on checking the records it says we lost the game 1-0, like the first. This must show what a classic it was eh?

The journey back was boring and only kept interesting by the older lads from Timperley at the back singing and joking. Rampton, Griff, Bean and Nick Perkins, some of whom still go to this day. We arrived in Altrincham at some daft time and there was my Dad waiting for me. My Dad didn’t drive so we walked the 40 minutes home, with me telling him all about the first of many adventures following the Reds alone.

This article was first published by Pete Boyle in Red News, the first Man United fanzine

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The bus we caught to Salford was the 71 and that again seemed to take an eternity as it weaved its way around an area very alien to us South Manchester sorts. We got off by the bridge on the banks of the River Irwell, turned left and then had a ten minute hike up a very steep hill for a chubby little boy like me who had eaten far too many cakes courtesy of my father and his employment with a certain Mr Kipling.

When we got to the Cliff it seemed fantastic yet there wasn’t much actually there. We were allowed to stand virtually right outside the doors of the complex whereas in later years the powers that be had you standing a long way back and at one stage you weren’t allowed in at all. We stood on the grassy bank on the corner with our cheap dispensable cameras eating home made corn beef sandwiches but all wishing we had enough money to purchase some chips from down the road.

My first autograph I recall ever getting was that of the great and much underrated Dutchman, Arnold Muhren. The immense thrill of having my photo taken with the late Alan Davies, kings of the wing Steve Coppell, and err Arthur Graham, Arthur Albiston and of course Scott McGarvey. I once mentioned how I queued to get my photo with Scott (now apparently a football agent) for a show on MUTV and Scott was apparently unhappy with me for taking the piss. If you are reading Scott, no offence meant mate but your barnet was something special wasn’t it?!

One thing that has always stuck in my memory was Frank Stapleton and Ray Wilkins two of our star players in those days ignoring all the requests and speeding off without so much as a wave for us fans. Gordon Strachan on the other hand stayed until every last book was signed and once rumbled me by showing me where he had signed my book four times previously but still obliged. Bryan Robson like Strachan and Cantona in later years also realised how much the fans deserved a little something back and happily signed autographs and had photos until everyone was done. One day he even pulled up outside the Cliff on the way out and let two young female fans get in and I presume he gave them a lift home. In those days that wasn’t dodgy as the girls were about 12/13. Robbo was just probably concerned about kids that age wandering around Salford alone. I was jealous as anything but if any women ever tell such a story about getting a lift off Robbo I can confirm it was true, bitches.

I didn’t visit the Cliff for a long time, maybe ten 4 years, until 1995. It was around the time Eric was due back from suspension after the Selhurst incident. I got to the barrier and told ‘old Harold’ the steward – come security guard – that I was here to see Eric. I was blagging but felt confident I could see Eric and that he wouldn’t mind. Initially Harold dismissed me with “wait behind there and if he comes out you can try and get his attention”. I told him I was expected and said he was welcome to check with Messrs Ferguson and Kidd. He wandered off in a bit of a strop and I thought that maybe I had gone one blag too far.

Harold returned within two minutes and said “Mr Boyle this way please”. I was stunned but acted cool and polite as I was led into the waiting room just inside the complex as all the other people were still strictly behind the crash barriers in the car park. To be fair Harold was very polite and was doing quite a demanding job with blaggers like me around.

I was waiting for a few minutes when I heard a Mancunian voice singing a familiar song at the top of his voice. “You’ve gotta roll with it, you’ve got roll with it” “Alright Boylie are you here for Eric?”, “Err yes” I nervously answered. “He won’t be long mate” and then Brian Kidd went off down the corridor.

I went against my normal “too cool to ask” attitude and got photos with Andy Cole and Eric when they came out because I thought we all need some souvenirs to remember such happy times. When Eric came out to see me – like all the times I have been in his presence – I turned almost to jelly and far from the normally super confident person most people know me as. I asked about a possible interview and he said yes when things calm down after his return. The very fact it was Eric I never pushed it and that interview finally happened some nine years later.

I went there a few times in the treble season and interviewed a few players for MUTV and felt a real buzz at being able to stand right on the touchlines as the boys trained. I even have some footage of Steve McClaren asking me to sing the ‘Neville Neville’ song and Gary Neville requesting the ‘Beckham World Cup’ song. I duly obliged and that video is locked away safely at Boyle towers.

All in all I have very fond memories of the Cliff and feel sad that kids nowadays couldn’t even get a bus close enough to the training headquarters at Carrington nor sadly just turn up and get in if they got there. If you couldn’t go the games when I was young you could always go down the Cliff and meet your heroes there. My mate Neil bought a house that backs onto the Cliff and when I visit all those fond memories immediately come flooding back.

This article was first published by Pete Boyle in Red News, the first Man United fanzine

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Returning home from the game in v Blackburn in January 1995 was the start of an extraordinary few months. My ex went into labour that night and the following day my oldest child Laura Jane Cantona was born. That was dramatic enough but two days later something astonishing happened – Selhurst park. It’s well documented what happened that night but suddenly we had a choice /dilemma/opportunity, release ‘Eric the King’ as a single / record of support for Cantona.

Eric got banned by United and then punished again by the FA but in-between all this he had to appear at Croydon magistrates court to face charges regarding his infamous slip into the crowd where he accidentally caught some abusive thug. Walshy, Southy and a few reds who help set IMUSA up and I had a few meet ups and phone calls and decided we’d go in a minibus to defend our hero Eric against the Mouthy Palace and general ABU’s of South London. Somewhere along the line Channel 4’ Big Breakfast agreed to pay for our minibus if we went on the show and sung for them that morning, I had to think for about half a second before agreeing naturally.

I was feeling rough the day/night before our big date on the breakfast show with Gabby Roslin and Mark Little and our appearance at court for Eric and Paul Ince who we were also defending in those days. I must have had alcohol or food poisoning because we were playing Arsenal at home and rather than singing in the D & P I was nursing a coffee on the forecourt an hour before kick off. The Game amongst other things will be remembered for the ‘PLEASE SIT DOWN’ tannoy announcement which spurred some reds into organising a meeting and months later IMUSA was formed. After the match which we won one nil we dived in the minibus for the long trip down to London. My illness carried on for about an hour before cans of lager helped me feel better for a few hours.

We did the show which was good fun and all the better for ripping the piss out the ‘The Nolans’ off camera all show. Apparently they had reformed and were going to sing a new song on the show but after our motley crew serenading them with ‘ Im in the mood for dancing’ the producers of the show decided we would sing it at the end of the show, which we did very badly but equally memorable. We headed off to the court house in Croydon and made a bit of an entrance for the mass of the worlds media camped out there. Fifteen dishevelled Mancs with placards and songs about Eric made them very keen to talk to us and within an hour or so we had given interviews to local, national and world wide media teams. Eric, Ince and Ned Kelly looked surprised but cheeky smiles suggested pleased we were there in support. Sadly we had to leave before Eric was eventually released later that day because the minibus was due back in Salford that evening.

PYE EYED IN CROYDON AGAIN

When Erics appeal was announced I decided we had to make a show again. Most of the lads were normal people with jobs and commitments but I was shall we say in-between jobs/ career break ( nothing ever changes). My mate The Gov had (still has) a cousin called Dave Pye from Chorlton who is a top match going red but more importantly he drove then and we didn’t  So then two car loads of reds drove down to London with little money and certainly couldn’t afford accommodation so ended up sleeping in the cars in a multi storey car park. Looking back its a surprise the flying squad weren’t monitoring us as potential armed robbers or something.

We stumbled out of the cars bleary eyed and smelling not great but still proceeded to have a kickabout on the road outside the ‘appeal court’ entrance which was a few hundred yards from the original court. A curious security guard came out and asked if we had come from Manchester just for the appeal. When we answered yes he was stunned and a little impressed, so much so he returned with passes for us for the public gallery. When Eric, Maurice Watkins and Ned saw us there all struggling to stay awake but actually there again to support Eric they looked absolutely astonished. When the verdict was announced we cheered, and Eric leaned over and said ‘thank you’ which made it all the better I ran out of the court shouting ‘The King is free, long live the king’ which made the opening lines of at least a couple of articles the next day.

To this day well known reds Fergus, Beanhead and Webby love talking about the Eric appeal as does Dave Pye who even last week was telling anybody in earshot that i broke his car window in Croydon back in 1995. Such wonderful memories for a truly great Icon that Eric is. I ve been fortunate to meet him on a few occasions down the years including a pre arranged meet in Paris last month. He will always have the aura about him and we shall still be singing the Cantona song in twenty years time.

This article was first published by Pete Boyle in Red News, the first Man United fanzine

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Well for the afore mentioned trip a coach was organised for the Reds that boozed in and around the Didsbury and Burnage areas. In those dark and distance days coaches comprised of front door, back door, seats with a bit of foam in and windows that rattled like the door of an outhouse when you went above 5o mph, there were no tellies, no bogs and certainly no refreshments, only the customary large bag of cans and the odd party eight!! (remember them?). Well getting back to the toilet on the coach or the lack off….the combination of 50 odd lads, an FA CUP win, copious amounts of warm lager and bitter and the lack of toilet facilities is a very bad one. ( I’d love to see some of them f*ckers from MUTravel handle one of these trips) Well after the second stop within 30 miles of leaving Wembley one of the lads returned with the answer to our problems in the shape of a large refuse bin, the type that every household up and down the country had……….oh the luxury!!

Obviously with the huge amounts of drink that was devoured on the trip, it wasn’t long before our primitive commode needed emptying. The site of two beered up United fans trying to disembark from a coach with a bin three quarters full of pi55 was too much for the driver, in fact he started talking to himself muttering that in all his years of driving coaches he hasn’t witnessed anything like this debacle!

The yellow river created by this coach load of beer monsters nearly reached back to the smoke itself!! The coach driver ( who was about seventy) was disgusted and refused to drive on so he pulled into a services to use the phone to complain to his bosses and arrange for another driver to drop home these fine ambassadors of South Manchester, 20 minutes passed and there was no sign of the driver, exaggerations that he was last seen asking normal drivers who had stopped off for refreshments for a rope were dismissed…30 minutes passed and still no driver, by this stage the bin was nearly due for emptying again when one of Burnage’s finest presented himself at the the front of the coach and preceded to start the engine up…..no way I thought but before you knew we were pulling out of the services minus our oldest addition to the trip……oh well who gives a f*ck he said he wasn’t driving any further and we were on the roll again. The sploshes of the pi55 were drowned out by the cries of were on the march and we won the cup as he preceded to set off down the motorway with can in one hand and a steering will the size of a bin lid! In the other. Other coaches couldn’t believe us as we over took them as our very own highway man saluted them with beer can in handÅcÅc, when he started mouthing look no hands to the other road users a few started to get worried but he managed to manoeuvre us back all the way to the car park of the Parrswood pub where we presented the landlord with not one but 2 souvenirs of our trip to the twin towers.

As a final gesture the shout went up shrapnel for the driver where the whole vault after hearing our escapade decided to chip in and reward our gallant chauffer which resulted him in getting legless, the funny thing was he wanted to bring the coach home to show his wife……..a taxi was called.

I very doubt these days will return but it was great to be there when it was happening!
Thanks lads for the memories and the alcoholic apprenticeship!

Thanks to Shaun and John Lavin RIP

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Kick off 4 ‘o clock, i arrived in Birmingham at 12.30 hours, phoned some mates and met up with them in town where already were thousands of Reds drinking in every pub you could find in city centre.

At 15.30 i took a cap to Villa park, picked up my ticket from my mate Phil and got into the ground. I was right at the bottom of the stand next to the pitch. It was raining, half time 2-0 down and i felt shit, coming all the way from Holland to see my team getting slaughtered by fucking villa.

I won’t describe the second half, you had to be there, but the following is quite funny.

After Ruud Van Nistelrooy scored the equelizer i went mad, ran with hundreds on to the pitch to celebrate his goal. All of the sudden i was the last one on the pitch and Ruud ran next to me, i grab him by his shirt and told him in Dutch “Kom op Ruud, score er nog een, doe het voor ons, voor iedere UNITED FAN die hier is” (“Come on Ruud, score another one, do it for every Red in the ground, DO IT FOR US”) You should have seen the expression on his face, you could here him thinking “What, a Dutchman here in Birmingham, on the pitch??” He replied: “Jaja, ik score zo de winnende maar aub, ga van het veld af”!! (“Yes yes, i will score the winning goal in a minute but please get off the pitch”).

So i did, i ran off the pitch and back on the stand, and then…….60 seconds later…..there he was again…..he kept his promise !!!!! It was a great moment indeed!!!

Greetings from Dutch Patrick.

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Next day I somehow made it into work and it was another case of hangover central. I received a call from the ITN lunchtime news when I got into work and subsequently did a live interview re our possible treble at the ground around 1pm. When I returned to my then place of work on King Street West there was news being passed around that some United players were enjoying a few beverages in Mulligans which was situated just at the back of our building.

By the time I finished work just after 5 the word had clearly spread as the pub was a hell of a lot busier than a normal Monday teatime. I knew a few of the players to let onto so when I walked in I clocked a couple telling others who I was but unlike me I pretended I was oblivious to the fact that now the whole United squad were crammed into this little pub. I got myself a pint of the black stuff and it just felt like I was topping up from the previous night. A few minutes later Dwight Yorke strolls over in a white suit only him or Coco could get away with wearing and says “Hi Peter”. I had never previously met Yorkie so was a bit stunned. I even asked him how he knew my name and he said Giggsy had pointed me out when I walked in, naturally I was on cloud 9 but the best was yet to come.

I downed my first pint and was on my way to the bar when Yorkie (mates now eh?) summonsed over to the table where he and the boys were. “Come on Pete give us a song”. At first believe it or not I was a bit reluctant and Ned Kelly’s presence nearby and trying to usher me away weren’t encouraging me. However when you’re idols are egging you for a singsong you soon forget such distractions. I duly obliged with a couple of favourites and the players were loving it. David May and Gary Neville as usual being the liveliest and requests for songs were now coming thick and fast. The most surreal bit was seeing former heroic keeper Schmiechel playing air guitar as I went through ‘Neville Neville’ and David May asking me for some shall we say rum songs which I didn’t on this occasion deliver. Ned Kelly always gave me the impression he was a little jealous of me with the players. Yes he knew them all but because of his job not because of his personality and I noticed in his book about United he covers the night in mulligans without a reference my banter with the squad that went on for about 40 minutes. Perhaps he didn’t like being sent to bar by the players to fetch me pints of Guinness? I basically went through dozens of songs and Scholes, Giggs and Neville I feel were trying to catch me out by asking for a song for just about everybody there. They didn’t coz I just made songs up on the spot for whoever if they didn’t have a recognised song in their name. I could have stayed longer but was having too many late nights and I had a long couple of weeks ahead of me. I left knowing I had been part of an unforgettable night and even if Ned Kelly had selected memory Andy Cole remembered it well.

We beat Newcastle to make it 2 out of 3 on the Saturday and I returned home to Manc that night. Next day it was off to Llangollen to see Catatonia in a triumphant gig and took advantage of my V I P pass by swanning around backstage and dressing rooms etc. The morning after my mate who had been to the gig with me dropped me off as arranged at Liverpool Airport where I caught my flight to Barcelona. A wonderful week or so ended in the most dramatic and fantastic way. Just to sum up the extraordinary week when we scored both goals by pure luck I was jumping up and down with my arms around Richard Ashcroft and his wife who were sat just behind me. I have shied away from writing this account coz of all the necessary name checks but then I thought why not? I think any other red would want to tell such a story and if they say they wouldn’t they are lying.

Peter Boyle

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The coach left Manchester early doors as planned and we turned up at the pub bang on time at around 8.30 in the morning. I kept the lads on the coach and knocked on the door as agreed. After a couple of knocks I noticed the curtains twitching upstairs so I patiently waited. A couple of more minutes passed by and I started to suspect all was not well. I banged and banged on the doors for some 20 minutes again the curtains twitched but nobody shown themselves or had the courtesy to come to the door and explain that there was a problem. I had even rang the pub the day before to double check all was still okay so this cowardly no show was bang out of the order. A couple of Brummie reds saved the day by allowing us to go to their pub near St Andrews but me and the lads couldn’t and wouldn’t forget the Wheatsheaf and how they had let us down.

Roll on about a month later and United’s infamous grey shirt fiasco at Southampton. We got beat of course 3-1 and our mini bus had already had shall we say an eventual day of travelling under our belts. We were about an hour and a half from blighty when we saw a sign for Hilton Park services. A shout went up “wheatsheaf wheatsheaf” suddenly the pressure on the driver Shovers mounted and he reluctantly pulled of the slip road and within a couple of minutes we were inside the pub. We all generally behaved ourselves although a few pint pots were dropped but that was out of pure exhaustion and drunkenness rather than any sort of hooliganism. After about 40 minutes and shortly after the penny had started to drop that we were indeed the United fans they had let down we decided to head back to Manchester. I was one of the last to vacate the pub and when a couple of the lads came back and urged me to hurry I sensed something was happening. As our mini bus hurtled up the road to rejoin the M6 Barmy Mike unzipped his coat to reveal the long strange lump. Unbelievably he produced a silver trophy standing at least 3 feet in height. “E I Addio we nicked the cup” was the instant chant around the minibus. How he could have sneaked something that size out was a complete mystery.

I woke next morning to be confronted with a severe hangover and a giant trophy on the floor next to my bed. ‘Wolverhampton and Dudley Blind Dominoes Cup’ said the plaque on the piece of silver City would die for. It had been running since about 1974 so was clearly going to be missed. I was told in no uncertain terms that it had to leave the house, okay I said but how and when I thought?

Almost a year had passed when I finally thought of an idea to return the cup because I didn’t want to just throw it into the tip. We were playing Arsenal away on the Tuesday night and I was hoping the train would stop at Wolverhampton. I had typed a note out and placed inside the cup and it said the following:

HELP ME PLEASE
IF YOU FIND ME PLEASE TAKE ME TO THE OFFICES OF THE WOLVERHAMPTON EXPRESS AND STAR AND HOPEFULLY MY NIGHTMARE CAN END. IT ALL STARTED IN MARCH OF LAST YEAR, I WAS SITTING AT HOME ON THE MANTLEPIECE OF MY HOME THE WHEATSHEAF PUB JUST NEAR HILTON PARK SERVICES ON THE M6, I WAS LOVELY AND COSY WITH THE OPEN FIRE KEEPING ME ALL WARM AND HAPPY WHEN A GROUP OF MANCHESTER UNITED FANS CAME INTO THE PUB. THEY WERE BEING BOISTEROUS SO I MADE A JOKE ABOUT THEIR TEAMS LOSS AT SOUTHAMPTON THAT DAY. NEXT THING I KNOW ONE OF THEM GRABBED ME PUT ME UNDER HIS COAT AND THREW ME IN A MINIBUS. THEN THEY ALL DROVE OF WITH ME DRINKING BEER AND EATING CRISPS OUT OF MY HEAD ALL THE WAY BACK TO A PLACE CALLED RAWTENSTALL WHERE I HAVE BEEN HELD HOSTAGE SINCE. THEY HAVE TORTUED ME, SCRAPED SOME OF MY SILVER OFF AND THREATENED TO SNAP MY HANDLES OFF. PLEASE END THIS NIGHTMARE.

Needless to say the train went the other route to London so the closest we could get to Wolverhampton was Stoke on Trent. As the train was leaving at about 5 mph I leaned out carefully and slowly place the cup onto the platform edge and there the story ended or so I thought.

A few weeks later a mate from work told me how on the way to some relations in Shropshire he had been on a diversion which took him past the Wheatsheaf. When he arrived at his destination whilst having a cup of tea he came across the following in the Shropshire Star newspaper. He handed me the paper, which read:

‘It’s coming home, It’s coming home, kidnapped cup of joy. Underneath was a big story about the incident including what they called a ransom note attached to the trophy and the following unbelievable quote from the transport police:

“The trophy was hurled from a speeding train narrowly missing passengers waiting for other trains”.

I sent a final letter to the paper stating that the transport coppers must have as vivid imagination as the kidnappers following that statement. As far as I aware the letter was never printed but this remains one of my favourite ever memorable stories following United.

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Although I considered myself a Stretford end left sider my shock transfer to United Road came about because of boredom in truth. The Stretford End undoubtedly was glorious in the sixties and seventies but by the early eighties it had become a little bit tame and mellow by the standards it had set from the previous two decades.

On November 27th 1992 Eric Cantona joined United from Leeds. Ten years earlier to the day United played Norwich City at Old Trafford in front of just under 35,000 fans. Half way through the game I walked around the front of the Stretford End towards where the corner flag was. There was a big fence separating The Stretford End to United Road paddock but all the jibbers of that era claimed if you weren’t too fat you could squeeze through a gap at the bottom of the fence. Believe it or not I wasn’t actually that fat in those days and I managed to negotiate the gap, although I admit it was tight and I only just got through.

I made my way straight along the stand until I was in the last pen, which was of course as close as you could get to visiting supporters. On looking up this fixture I noted we won three nil but quite honestly I don’t remember one thing about the actual game, all I remember was the banter and abuse of visiting fans from the reds in United road. I was now hooked and although there was no child concessions in United Road I paid £2.80 every game instead £1.10 in the Streford End and didn’t mind one bit. I stayed a regular in United road until they put seats in there and felt a real tinge of sadness when the terraces there went. I actually sit at Old Trafford now in what was the last pen near visiting fans all those years ago and although the ground is totally unrecognisable I still have flashbacks to those enjoyable days and the characters around.

Every set of away fans was abused in various ways. Attractive women were wolf whistled at before “get your tits out for the lads was aired”. If they waved they were cruelly serenaded with “she’s a slag, she’s a slag etc”. A big chorus of “billy bunter billy billy bunter” for the fat fans and of course we had the legendary copper Smiley. One game as the Police were walking around the front of the pitch somebody noticed one of coppers grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Smiley Smiley give us a wave”. To our surprise he duly obliged. Every home game for at least a couple of seasons we sing the song and he would wave with a big grin on his face. The other coppers must have been jealous as fuck. If one of the away fans was cheeky we would adapt the song “smiley smiley sort em out” and he often did.
Once some visiting fans sang, “where’s your famous Stretford End?” We didn’t care and launched into lots of United road songs. “Karma Karma” being the most well known one but believe me there was others. Indeed we used to sing “scoreboard” then “K Stand” then “Paddock” give us a song. Then we sang “Stretford Stretford Fuck of home”. The Stretford End had had its day we were the boys now, well we thought so anyway.

Just after the infamous ICF hooligan documentary was aired on TV we played West Ham at Old Trafford. We spotted several faces in their end and launched into “we saw you run on the tele” oh such memories. We would often mock people for ridiculous reasons like err soap operas. Yes we hate brookside re the scousers and crossroads if we played a team from the West Midlands. The best one was probably “he shot he cum, all over Angies bum, dirty den dirty den” genius and not even one of mine.

Being in United road did however see a young me first start a song off. Not my own just one of the established songs of the day. I have always looked older than my years so when a 13-year-old Boyle bawled out “pride of all Europe” I actually probably looked about 18. Whenever we played a team from somewhere further than an hour away and we went ahead, there was a rush to see who could break into “all this way for nothing” first. Once it was me and guess what? Nobody joined in. Now that may have emotionally scarred many a person but clearly in my case it just made me even more determined to get fans singing.

People go on about being to young to witness the punk era or the Stretford End or even the madchester era but really I feel for any young reds that never witnessed the United Road paddock during the eighties. We’ve had some good banter between J & K stand in recent years but nothing will come close of the days in United road.

Pete Boyle.

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