By TTT Subscriber Tony Mc.
So our first game of Premier League season 2021/22 is at promoted Norwich City. Will I be going to Carrow Road for the game? Not after what happened to me after the Norwich v Liverpool game in December 1973.
If I was going to a Liverpool away game in the 1970s and 1980s, I would usually travel on one of British Rail’s “footy specials” (think cattle truck only more crowded and less luxurious) or on one of Sunniways Executive Coaches (the executive bit was added by someone with a warped sense of humour). Neither option was available for the Norwich trip so my two brothers and I booked with Scallywag Clapped-Out Coaches (or something like that). It was a 6-hour trip by road from Liverpool to Norwich so we were out of the house at dark o’clock, taking a taxi to the city centre meeting point for the coach. Our fellow passengers arrived in dribs and drabs, looking like extras in a movie set in a Dystopian, post-nuclear future. There were two in particular who caught our attention because, in the middle of December when everyone else was wearing boots and heavy coats, they were clad in cheap trainers and thin Harrington jackets. We were from a big Liverpool Irish family living in a cramped council house where money was tight, but even to us these lads looked really hard-up and we quickly, and cruelly, christened them The Biff Twins. We heard the coach approaching before we saw it as it made a noise like a dozen black taxis, each with a faulty exhaust. It actually looked worse than it sounded. About 25 of us climbed aboard, seated ourselves on those seats that didn’t have springs threatening to break through and rip our arses apart (thankfully, the coach was only half-full) and settled in for a kip during the long and uneventful trip south. The sound of snoring and farting almost drowned out the noise of the labouring engine.
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