Shrewsbury came too soon, or too late, depending on your outlook. Bob Stokoe had returned in an ultimately unsuccessful bid to clear up the mess that mackemenemy had left, and we had but a handful of games left in which to preserve our second division status (sounds awful, but it really did happen).

Being the end of season, we managed to pull in the usual detritus of West Ham fans exiled in Bish (Pop), and got B&B arranged in the town. We duly parked up at the White Swan, frightened the landlord by tossing a tenner apiece into an ashtray and calling it “kitty”, and walked the mile or so to the town centre. We’d arranged to meet Reg (ex-Bishop, then of Ipswich) in the Castle Vaults, as it served Marston’s beers and Mexican scran. The landlord had other ideas – the smoggies had been there the week before and made a bit of a mess, so we weren’t allowed in. The teddy boy on the door at the Station Hotel asked how many of us there were “three? I can handle that”, so that was us settled for our pre-match gallon.

A lovely sunny day saw the red ‘n’ white army basking on the terraces at Gay Meadow, shirts off. Our pre kick-off performance even prompted the local constabulary to ask what we did when we won a game (cue usual response from his colleague “he’s only been following them for 30 years”). The best fun of the afternoon was the little old gadgie running around three sides of the ground every time the ball went over the stand into the Severn. Thanks to the antics of our Teesside pals the previous week (they sank the coracle), he had to carry a net on a ten foot pole to retrieve the ball, and drew huge applause from the away end as he hobbled past. In a typical end of season battle, Benno diverted Mark Proctor’s shot in to the net for the only goal, and we left the ground convinced that salvation was guaranteed.

Back into the Station, where we knocked back a couple of celebratory pints before the local nutter arrived, in a temper so obviously foul that we put it down to the home team losing. Unsurprisingly, it was my round, so, as he stood at the bar cursing and swearing at everything that moved, I sidled up next to him. “four pints of best” I asked, in my best middle England accent. He caught me by the eye immediately. “been to the match?” he snarled. No point hiding the fact, I thought, so I replied “aye”. It then turned out that the reason for his foul temper was that he’d backed Alex Higgins to win the snooker, and he’d fallen over drunk and cost our new mate a tenner. We enjoyed an hour or so with him, re-living Shrewsbury’s greatest moments (how did we stretch it to an hour?) before setting out on the pub crawl to end most pub crawls. We fell in with a Sunderland fan who was Hereford born and bred, and had apparently taken to us after our joyous response to the mags’ hilarious FA cup exit in his home town. We ended up back at our White Swan just in time to get a double round of Pedigree in, and watch Dave “boy” Macauley knock seven bells out of some poor contender. Sharing our accommodation was an American, christened “okie from miskokie” by John, due to the daft bugger’s fondness for repeatedly stating the bloody obvious.

Breakfast came in the form of a pint left on the window sill from the night before, then the full English job. Have you ever seen a man eat Weetabix without milk? Under normal circumstances, it’s bad enough, but after a gutful of Shropshire’s finest ale the night before, Pop’s antics at the breakfast table had to be seen to be believed. Our American friend (?) made one snide comment too many (“is he talking to God on the big white telephone”), prompting the normally restrained John to threaten him with the insertion of a buttered toast rack.

The Sunday morning was a sunny delight, which we enjoyed in the riverside park with the second issue of the Sunday Sport. A man who turns into a leopard? That’s when we decided it wasn’t worth taking seriously. A quick trip up the M6, and we were in Lymm for our lunchtime bevy. The fact that Denis Teuart lived there had no influence on our decision to stop off there, and he never showed up for the domino handicap in the Spread Eagle anyway. A couple of beers later, and John’s sensible motoring ensured that we were back in Bish with plenty of time for a Sunday night of celebration. At least we didn’t know what was to happen at the end of the season (you bastard, Cascarino), and were able to enjoy the moment.