Friday morning began like most other mornings at Number 88 with the alarm going off at 6am.  As usual this was greeted with the usual grunt and flailing of arms trying to reach for the snooze button. After hitting the snooze button for the third time I suddenly remembered I was off oop north tonight, we were playing the Tiggers this weekend and I had been looking forward to this game since the fixtures had been announced, and yeah it was on a Sunday.  So with a spring in my step I leapt out of bed and got on with the usual nonsense that entails me getting ready for work and out the door.

 

Work was even going quite well, arrived just before 8am (on time for a change) a quick check of the message board and found the troops were being rallied along nicely. The message board was actually beginning to have a buzz about it and that had nothing to do with my useless computer or Sportnetwork having a dicky moment, there was something brewing here. I quite happily went about my business of deciphering a spreadsheet that had been crammed onto the size of a postage stamp.

 

10am came and another quick look at the message board to find Leipy’s link on the Briz game thread:

 

Problems at Bristol Airport, good thing it’s not on the weekend of the game.

 

Oh bugger, I thought, this does not look good, and on reading it realised that, Oh bugger, this definitely is not good.

 

It transpired that Easyjet had cancelled all the morning flights in and out of Bristol due to problems with the newly re-surfaced runway, apparently they had used axle grease instead of tarmac which meant that a quite a few planes had skidded on landing in the wet weather, a couple of them ending up actually off or to the side of the runway.

 

Updates were to be made during the day.

 

So on I went deciphering my postage stamp.

 

By 3pm I had found out that my flight for the evening had been cancelled but there was one scheduled for 9am Saturday, so I re-arranged my booking and hoped that things would dry out overnight.

 

An hour later and it was time to go home, yippee, it was the weekend.

 

So there I was back at Number 88 with cuppa in hand and the telly chatting away to itself in the corner, and then began the phone calls and texts telling me to put on the local news.

 

The runway was not drying out, in fact it was getting worse and Easyjet had cancelled all flights in and out of Bristol for all of Saturday, other airlines were beginning to follow suit.

 

My face dropped, I was not going to see the Tiggers after all.

 

But wait, a slight glimmer of hope as they mentioned that some of the flights would be diverted to Cardiff instead.  Okay it might take a little longer than usual but hey, this was one game I did not want to miss.

 

As the night went on Easyjet eventually put a list on their website of those flights that had been diverted.

 

Faro, Prague, Rome, Timbuktu etc etc my heart was sinking as I read further and further down the list, and there right at the end was EZY556, go to check in as normal.

 

Hooray, I cheered, there is a god, (although he wouldn’t be playing on Sunday), time to pack my bags and have an early night.  Check in began at 6.30 which meant I would have to be up before the lark at 5am.

 

Easy.

 

I headed off to bed a happy little bunny.

 

5am came and again the alarm went off, this time greeted with a smile.  Quick shower, something to eat while I checked the Airport website to ensure that nothing had changed overnight. All fine and dandy in fact departures listed it as Check in desks 1 –5.  So off I skipped out the door and whizzed across to the other side of a very quiet Bristol in the direction of the Airport.

 

The Airport was pretty busy, a few people sitting on the floor looking glum next to their cases, but mostly nice orderly queues heading out the door in the direction of the awaiting coaches, nowhere near as bad as I have seen on the news before when flights have been cancelled.

 

Quick check at the departure board, yep the plane was still listed, and check in at desks 1-5.  Easyjet had even stuck a sign up by their desk listing the time the coaches were departing.  There at the top of the list was the 9am flight to Newcastle, coach departing at 7.50.

 

Over I bounce to the check in desk and am asked “Where are you flying to?”

 

“Newcastle” I reply.

 

“You do realise the flight is delayed” said the woman behind the desk.

 

“What do you mean delayed?” I asked.

 

“The flight from Cardiff has been delayed until 6 o clock tonight” she replied.

 

“But the board at the front of your desks say that the coach leaves in an hour”

 

Maybe she’s got it wrong I thought.

 

“Yes the coach to Cardiff does leave in an hour” she replied “But the plane is not leaving until 6pm”

 

“Would you still like to check in?”

 

Now here I could have quite easily turned into one of those ranting and raving people as shown on the telly, but this was not her fault, and I am a laydeee (No, honest I am!)

 

“No thanks” I replied “It would be quicker to drive” not actually realising what I had just said.

 

She then advised that there maybe another plane heading to Leeds Bradford and maybe I should ask at the information desk.

 

So over I wander to the information desk, weaving in and out of the coach queues that were now beginning to circle around most of the check in area.

 

“Could you please let me know if there are any planes heading north this morning” I politely enquire.

 

The woman looks at her computer, hit a few keys and I was half expecting her to say

 

“Computer says no”

 

But in fact what she did say was

 

“There is a flight to Newcastle at 9am”

 

D’oh !

 

“Oh no there isn’t” I said (who-ever said panto was dead)  “That has been delayed”

 

She then looked at a scruffy piece of paper on her desk, and concurred that the flight was indeed delayed.

 

I eventually found out that there was a British Airways flight actually leaving Bristol Airport at 8.30am going to Leeds Bradford, but the ticket cost an arm and a leg and after contemplating the fact that this would most likely be a Propeller plane (yep, flew with them last New Year) and it was taking off on the ice-rink currently know as Bristol Airport, it might actually be my arm and a leg.

 

So there I was 7.30 on a Saturday morning stood outside Bristol Airport, going nowhere.

 

Beep, a text on my phone from Monkey.  “I have checked departure board on t’internet and all systems go for launch.”

 

Ha, little did he know. So a long debating conversation ensued with Umms and Ahhs, and then it hit me out of the blue.

 

“I could drive!”

 

Remind me in future that 7.30 on a Saturday morning is not a good time to be making decisions.

 

Anyway, Monkey has driven down and lots of other people manage to drive all this way for the far flung away games, so, yes, of course, give it a go, it will be easy, no problemo.

 

Famous last words.

 

A few directions given from Monkey on how to actually get oop north (Yes, Monkey Travel!) and off I went to find my ickle car somewhere in the car park which I had paid a tidy sum to park at over the weekend.

 

My ickle car is called Peewee, a strange name, (says the one called Crouch n’ Hold) but a family tradition of trying to make names out of the registration plates.

 

Peewee is a 10 year old Ford Fiesta 1.3i and is purple, or samakand if you want to be pedantic.

 

He doesn’t really go very far, to and from work, a few trips to Birmingham in the days when I was younger and thought that going to nightclubs was “soooooo  cooooooool”.  The furthest he has ever been was probably somewhere in Devon.

 

“Peewee we are going on a grand adventure” I said to him.

 

He didn’t seem too bothered. After trying to get out of the car park through the endless queue of other poor souls that found out flights had been cancelled we headed back to the other side of Bristol, from where we had just come 2 hours ago and joined the M5.

 

8am and the M5 was nice and quiet, off we whizzed only to find that half an hour into the journey we had to make a pit-stop.  Peewee was fine but Cn’H was not, I needed to Pee!

 

Off we whizzed again, this was going to be a breeze.

 

Birmingham came and I remembered that I was to get off the M5 here and join the M42.

 

“We’ve never been up this far before Peewee” I chirped to my ickle car.

 

Peewee went a bit faster.

 

10am came and yep once again Cn’H needed another pit-stop.  I do believe that I was actually born with a bladder the size of a Pea, (quite apt I suppose).  So a quick stop at Tamworth and a cup of coffee.  Maybe not a good idea when you have a bladder the size of a pea, but everyone says you should drink lots of coffee when going on long journeys.

 

Off we went again and finally joined the M1.

 

Peewee went a bit faster taking in all the sights along the way, “Robin Hood country” I said, “Look out for those bows and arrows”

 

11.30 and we were at Wooley Edge, just outside Leeds, and yes another C n’ H pit-stop.  This time I gave the coffee a miss.

 

An hour later and I decided that maybe I should let Peewee have a drink as he appeared to have been very thirsty and drunk most of his ickle tank.  So we turned off at Bradford and somehow or other the sign for services led me to a Morrisions. What the hell I thought and had another pit-stop.

 

Back onto the A1 we went and hooray, the sun had come out, the roads weren’t too busy and we were flying (or not as the case may be!) and there standing in all its glory, the welcome to the North East, the rusty clothes peg or whatever you northerners like to call it, but it was my Angel.  The Angel of the North, I was finally here.  Peewee said a quick hello, but although I asked him if he would like a closer look he declined, he was well into his stride.

 

Next came the Metro Centre and although the draw of shopping tried with all it might to lure me in I took one look at the queue trying to get into it and decided that maybe that was not a good idea either.

 

On we went, and there it was, the sign post for Kingston Park.

 

“There you go Peewee” I chirped to my ickle car.  “That’s the reason your idiot of an owner has made you drive all this way”

 

Peewee beeped hello.

 

So 2pm came and we finally pulled into Morpeth.  “Thank you for being such a good little boy” I said to Peewee and ran into Monkey’s house to use the loo.

 

Now you would think at this point that the sensible thing for someone to do that had to drive back Sunday evening, as they were due in work at 8 o clock Monday morning was to have a quiet night.  But no, we went to the pub.

 

Sunday morning arrived, and “Yeah” we are playing Tiggers today, but “Ohhh” my head.

 

The decision had already been made the night before that Peewee would go to KP. Unfortunately Cn’H was in no fit state to drive him, so the Monkey drove him, albeit without his parking pass.  Yep, you heard it here first, the Monkey driving a Fiesta.

 

It had to be done, Peewee had to make it to Kingston Park.

 

 

It must be a first for Cn’H to not have a pint in my hand upon arrival at KP, but what with the thought of the long journey home and my not too happy stomach, I stood by the side of the pitch, hoping the fresh air would sober me up and watched our lads warm up, happy in the thought that my grand adventure was all worth while.

 

And boy was it ever !!

 

I did have a passing thought that maybe if they opened the gates between the south and west stand Peewee could actually have parked near the side of the pitch, which, in hindsight would have been a good idea.  If I had put my headlights on Davey might have been able to see Toby kick the ball instead of the nail-biting fiasco that ensued.

 

The final whistle was blown, and KP went wild.  I happily managed to hum along to Blaydon Races, not having a clue what the words were, but who cares, I didn’t have a voice left anyway.  A quick trip into the bar to enjoy all the smiling happy faces and bask in the pleasure that we had beaten the Tiggers and against all odds, I was there to see and feel part of it.

 

Cn’H now perfectly sober drove Peewee back to Morpeth, slowly navigating the potholes out of the car park..  It was during this short journey back along the A1 that I began to think maybe the 5 hour drive back to Bristol (not including the pit-stops) was not such a good idea, phone call was made to work and I would set off in the morning.

 

Monday morning came and just after 11am Peewee joined the A1, today it was busy but not too bad, and we merrily trundled along.  A quick pit-stop around Scotch Corner, although not literally and back on we went.

 

Eventually the A1 turned into the A1M and although again the traffic was busy we were making good progress.

 

It was a while into the journey that I found myself suddenly wondering why I was back on a dual-carriageway.  I couldn’t remember this on the way up, and then I came up to a roundabout.

 

“Nope, this definitely is not right” I said to Peewee and luckily there was a service station just off the roundabout, so we turned off.  A progress report to Monkey confirmed my suspicion that indeed this was not right.

 

“Where the heckers are you?” he enquired.

 

“Haven’t got a clue” I replied, quickly looking around the service station for some indication of wherever the heckers I was.

 

“Oh hang on” I said suddenly noticing the sign on the Travel Lodge opposite, “somewhere called Blyth”

 

“Ahh” there was a pause.  “You appear to have come off the M1 and are back on the A1”

 

Bugger! Thinks me, how on earth did I do that.

 

“Not a problem, you are not too far off course” and yes once again Monkey Travel was giving me directions back onto the M1.  Indeed I was not that far off course and within 20 minutes I was heading down the slip road of junction 30 only to find the motorway going very, very

s-l-o-w-l-y, and eventually grinding to a halt.

 

So there was Peewee and I parked on the outside lane of the M1. Going nowhere.

 

A quick change of radio stations and there was the news I was dreading.  I had just landed myself at the back of a 12 mile queue due to an earlier accident which had led to fuel being spilled all over the motorway.  All lanes had been closed to clear it up.

 

Great!

 

After 2 hours of sitting stationary on the M1 we eventually started to crawl along. Just under 3 hours later we reached junction 29, which as you guessed it meant another pit-stop.

 

It was now 5pm and what little sunlight left was rapidly fading, I was just over half way home and beginning to feel like I would never ever get there.  I decided to get a bite to eat, a cup of coffee and stretch my legs.  I was starting to feel tired now and really not looking forward to the rest of the journey.

 

An hour later and I decided that I could not spend the rest of life in a service station somewhere around Nottingham and hit the road once more, taking things a bit slower than I was hoping.

 

Another pit-stop and black coffee just the other side of Birmingham and I thought to myself “nearly home.”  Nearly home being the delights of the West Country and the weather that comes with it, rain and gales.  Poor ickle Peewee was being blown all over the place making it rather hard to control so yet again slowing things down.

 

Finally the sign I had been waiting for, Bristol 35 miles.

 

They felt like the longest 35 miles of my life, but at around 9pm Peewee was pulling up outside Number 88 and I crawled in and flopped onto my sofa.

 

What a weekend !

 

I take my hat off to all those who drive around the country following the Falcons, I don’t know how you do it.

 

Would I drive again?

 

No. Bristol has now cut grooves into their runway and all flights are back to normal.  I will never moan again about being delayed and having to spend an extra couple of hours at the bar.

 

Was it worth it?

 

Of course.  I wouldn’t have missed that game for the world!

Bookmark or share this story with:

• Digg
• Delicious
• Facebook
• Reddit
• Stumbleupon

SPORTNETWORK SPECIALS

• Think you know your sport? Click here to try the Sportnetwork Prize Quizzes