Cod Almighty | Article

by Tim White

3 July 2003

Cod Almighty's Diary recently revealed that he has never had the experience of an away day in Hartlepool. If he or you should be considering a Friday night journey there this September to see the Town, then let me tell you a tale.

Back in the days of fourth division football and student grants, my mate and I decided during a drunken lunchtime binge in the Hull Cheese to hitch-hike to the land of the hanging monkey, French spies and espionage – well before ITV Digital and their monkey – to witness the evening's offering of 90 minutes of pulsating football entertainment. (Yes, we went to college in Hull – and spraypainted GTFC RULE all over the city the last time we played the Yorkies there.)

Our journey began quite steadily with a leisurely bus ride from Hull city centre. From just outside the city we eventually obtained a lift to Selby and then managed to cadge a ride all the way to the outskirts of the kingdom of the monkey. Now that sounds like a fantastic piece of hitch-hiking. But I kid you not: the final 80 miles were spent in the rear of a open-backed pick-up truck, trying to keep warm under a tarpaulin sheet, feeling like frostbite was about to kick in. Our driver was a distant relative of Scott and the only thing missing was the huskies.

At our drop-off point, we could now see signposts for Hartlepool. Fantastic – not even 5 o'clock and only six miles to go. The pub was calling: "Lager, lager, lager" (later stolen by Underworld).

Here our luck took another twist. Thumb out, car pulls up: "Alright, lads – where're you heading?"

"Hartlepool for the footy, mate."

"You're in luck, lads – we're going there ourselves." Not only going there, it turned out, but playing for Hartlepool. They dropped us right outside the ground – with a drinking establishment just around the corner – and left us complimentary tickets on the gate. Six pints of lager later, not forgetting the happy hour doubles of Southern Comfort, we were ready for anything.

Two hours afterwards, with Town defeated, it's: "Oh shit – how are we going to get home from here?"

With a little bit of shrewd negotiation we manage to obtain a lift on the official supporters' coach. At the first port of call – Selby again – we unwisely decide to disembark (nautical phrases inherited from my grandad).

Now footy fans can be a strange bunch at the best of times. But the chances of running into a crazed Spurs supporter in the middle of Yorkshire are few and far between. Especially one on his way home from witnessing defeat at Bradford City in the League Cup. Desperately seeking a fast passage to the comforts of north London, he offers to drop the two of us at the junction of the M18 and the M62. But alas – in his haste to escape the north he overshoots the junction and, in a southern shandy-swilling strop, abandons us at junction 6 on the M18.

Now forgive me, but Goole at one o'clock on a Wednesday morning is not a European Capital of Culture, nor will it ever be

Time check: midnight. In desperation, we decide to walk the six or so miles back to the M62 junction – without taking into account the South Yorkshire constabulary who, half a mile into this leg of our journey, appear from nowhere and immediately take the pair of us into custody in the comfort of their Range Rover. Which, to be fair, was warmer than an all-nighter at Cleethorpes Winter Gardens.

After various calls to MI6, MI5, and local HMPs it's decided we are not a threat to the country's national security. And after informing the nice officers of our plight and desperation to return to our student hovel in Kingston Town – sorry, Hull – they kindly agree to transport our weary selves to Goole.

Now forgive me, but Goole at one o'clock on a Wednesday morning is not a European Capital of Culture, nor will it ever be.

Dropped into a howling gale and lashing rain, our only thoughts are of a warm bed, but the only immediate shelter available is the old red phone box. By now even the comforts of drunkenness have worn away, as the day's intake of alcohol has now passed through our systems, leaving us teetotal in the cruel night.

Suddenly a shadow appears at the phone box door. The cloaked marauder outsider turns out to be none other than the local bobby on the beat. Without so much as a "good evening gentlemen", we are hastily informed that we cannot loiter in the confines of the phone box and abruptly asked to move on.

Time check: 1:30am. Moving along, as requested by Plod, we are stopped again within minutes by a panda car pulling up alongside. Asked of our intentions, we kindly inform the officer that we are trying to get to Hull. At which point the car radio bursts into life, informing the copper of an incident at Mrs Thomas's, who was reporting the sighting of a number of strange flashing lights in the sky above her house. Without delay, the officer asks us to move on and speeds off into the darkness in search of little green men, UFOs and ET.

Drawn like moths to a flame, we hastily make our way towards the railway station and thoughts of catching the mail train. Now forgive me, but a mail train stopping in Goole at two in the morning... don't be stupid. Sure enough, no sign of a train, or even one of those pushy up and down things that Laurel and Hardy always used to find.

Without warning, and straight out of a scene from The Sweeney, blue lights come a-flashing, cars screech to a standstill, doors fly open, loud voices scream: "Up against the wall! Don't move! Spread 'em!"

The passenger in the lead car steps out, clad in a mac, slippers and pyjamas (oh shit – it's a flasher with an escort) and demands to see our hands. Upon enquiring why, we are informed that masked gunmen have raided the local abattoir. Just where two blokes in leather jackets and jeans would hide half a cow and various other pieces of offal is beyond me.

Feeling well pissed off at not catching the prime suspects red-handed, Officer Dibble proceeds to flag down a taxi and demand that the driver remove these two idiots from his town forthwith. An hour later – after waking the rest of the house to borrow the £22 taxi fare – our ordeal is finally over.

Or so we thought. Three months later Hartlepool was now a distant memory, but it was about to raise its ugly head again.

Arriving for the weekend at my parents' house on Friday teatime, I opened the door and cheerily called: "Hello Mum!" Out of nowhere my mother appeared from behind the door and cracked me sharply across the head.

"Christ! What's that for?"

"What's that for? How dare you bring shame upon this house!"

You've guessed it: the two coppers in the nice warm Range Rover had only done us for hitch-hiking on the motorway.

Fined £24 each. Taxi fare £11 each. Drinks in Hartlepool £25 each.

Let this be a lesson to all those who travel in search of the monkey. Do not accept lifts with strangers, especially from north London.

Have you words of consolation or admiration for Tim? Or a travelling tale of your own to share? The feedback form is ready and waiting.