Do you remember Persil tickets? I f you saved up enough vouchers from the top of the Persil boxes, you could get a two train tickets for the price of one. A fine marketing ploy by the manufacturers, and one which ensured the cleanliness of all travelling football fans at the time. One of the many times we took advantage of this offer was to travel Rovers in April ’80.

We arrived early lunchtime, and I deposited an eightpack of Maxim in a left luggage locker at the Temple Meads – this would ensure no dehydration on the homeward journey, and it was (as it is today) a sight cheaper than buying drink on the train. Cocktails were taken in the city centre as we revelled in the culture of the cosmopolitan South-West, and then the local constabulary marched the red and white army en masse to Eastville. This stroll took us through the St Paul’s district, which to soon gain notoriety thanks to what were described at the time as riots. I think we’d call them war these days. Let’s just say it was building up nicely towards them on the occasion of our visit – you could feel unrest in the air. Anyhow, our procession was viewed by the locals as the equivalent of marching down the Scotswood road wearing a Sunderland top. Muscle-bound monsters armed with baseball bats lined our route, and hurled obscenities at our every step. Mind you, their husbands looked pretty rough as well. My nervous bowel just about held out until we reached the sanctuary that was Eastville – a right tip, but a welcome sight nevertheless.

The game provided far less entertainment and much less tension than the walk from the station, although a 2-2 draw, en route to promotion, wasn’t that bad. Goals from Barry Dunn and Pop Robson had secured another vital point. After the match, as we waited the customary fifteen minutes (specifically designed to allow the local thugs to set their ambushes in the surrounding streets) in the away end, the police made the announcement I was dreading. The train home would be making an unscheduled stop at a nearby halt to pick us up, meaning that we did not have to walk all the way back to the city centre. Panic! I explained to a policeman that I had some personal items – not precious, but of enormous sentimental value to myself – secured in a left luggage locker at Temple Meads. I held the vain hope that he might agree to an armoured convoy taking our party back through St Paul’s to retrieve them, but his answer was what I expected, not what I hoped for.
“Tough” he said, and with that, all hopes of a night on the Maxim evaporated into the evening air. No “lamp oil” for me.

Luckily, one of our party was of a generous disposition that day (he must have backed our goalscorer, or found a pound note), and let me share his beer – probably to stop me crying. We were lucky, in that the train stopped at Birmingham, allowing us to replenish our stock of liquid refreshment. We performed the usual post-match train home antics of drinking and singing, until we had to change at York. This gave the best laugh of the day, as one of our party decided to ignore the advice of the station staff, and try to board the train that was just leaving, instead of waiting half an hour for the next one. The train of his choice was already moving down the platform when our hero decided that he would get aboard, despite all of the doors being shut. He had spied an open window, and he was going to go for it, whatever we said. Now, let’s not name this person, but he knows who he is. Let’s also say that he is of the big-boned variety of football supporter, and that he propelled himself through the air with surprising grace, immediately getting a good proportion of his person through the window at the first attempt. Using his unique upper body shape and weight as a counterbalance, he teased his bottom half through the protesting opening, despite catching various items of clothing on the frame.

My everlasting vision is of a pair of flailing legs protruding from the train now departing platform one, revealing a steadily increasing amount of arse as his belt snagged on the window frame, and his body slithered into the carriage with a plop that could be heard back in Bristol.