Maybe it was the degree of comfort that we were feeling that made us stop, or maybe the lure of a cup of tea and a warm urinal. Whatever it was, the unanimous vote to stop at the services on the M42 could have been our downfall – but the 15 minutes stretch did the job and delayed the Deep Vein Thrombosis a little longer. Resuming after a cuppa, we headed onto the M5 and pointed south. Worcester was next on the list, and a particular favourite of mine, being an old style, traditional ground. Having visited St. Georges Lane on a number of times, and enjoyed a few pints at the canal side pub next door, I knew it was slap bang in the middle of a housing estate. On a road that would test even the ‘Fourways Flyer’, we pulled into the ground just as BBC Wales was treating us to the pleasures of ‘Lambada’, narrowly missing a pensioner who appeared hell bent on either death or reaching the Worcester City Social Club before the end of the bingo. Photos were taken, much to the amusement of two Worcester City officials who were exiting a nearby portakabin, and it was back into the luxury of a dry, warm car for the journey ahead – another one down, and the clock saying 20.35pm. The streets of Worcester were teeming with the young and beautiful, off out to finish the week with a bang – I felt a slight pang of jealousy, as we picked our way through the pretty side roads and on by the cricket ground. It would be nice to be able to sink a few right now, we all concurred, as we all drifted off in unison to our fantasised watering holes. It was planned to meet up with some new-found friends in Merthyr, and much planning had taken place involving them meeting us for a beer (only a half, mind…) at around 10.30pm on the Friday night. All sounds quite gentle. What met us, however, was far from that. We were met by three lads, bounding up enthusiastically to meet us. Our initial reaction was to surreptitiously look for any weapons they were carrying, but fortunately this resulted in a ‘no trace’. They introduced themselves, manically shaking our hands, but I’m afraid to say that I could only understand one of their names and that was Mark who I knew anyway. We were quickly ushered into ‘Strikers’, and I immediately put my foot in it by mentioning that I was sure I’d been in a bar just like this, called ‘Chasers’, in Slough. The lads pushed us through a crowd at the door, the bouncers all broken noses and tattoos (and that was just the women…) and thrust us towards the bar. They’d had a whip round and refused our advances to ‘get them in’, saying that it was down to them, as hosts. Their generosity continued, as money was forced upon us at every opportunity, personal cheques as well as a collection from their Supporters Club. I thought I’d risk a shandy, Johnny and Bazza slurped greedily at a bottle of Bud whilst Gav and Kev sagely stuck to soft drinks – it was like nectar from the Gods but could we squeeze another in? Glancing around ‘Strikers’, in between shouting conversations with the lads, the place was absolutely heaving. Tough looking women, with more cleavage than a Thai lady boy, shavenheaded blokes drinking snakebite and Abba pounding out of the sound system – heaven, to five 33 | P a g e
CLARETfication! 75
t h
Anniversary Edition