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Piss and chips
Unleashed from work, and in charge of a credit card, I take myself to Grimsby to have a good shout with the other Morecambe fans. We scored in the 90th second and the 86th minute, but in that interval Grimsby scored thrice.
After the match I was taken to what I was assured is "the roughest pub in Grimsby" by three men I met on the train from Cleethorpes (Grimsby's ground, confusingly, is in Cleethorpes). I stayed for a couple, but got a bit tired of one bloke telling me at length, with photographic illustrations, of what great sex I could have if I went to Thailand.
I had booked a "hotel" for 35 quid. I was welcomed into a large living room where a silent man was watching the television and a dog was eating the remains of their dinner from a plate on the floor. The owner was a Chinese woman, who, in between nodding like an oriental Parkinson's sufferer, took me into the yard and showed me the outdoor privy which was to be the loo. We then went upstairs, me wondering why the inside toilet on the first floor was barred to me, and she showed me into a room-sized fridge which looked like some drug rehabilitation hostel, with a mattress directly on the floor.
Back in town, as I thawed out in a well-known chain pub, I was tempted by a notice about rooms being available. I texted the "hotel" to say that I had decided to stay in town and would be back to collect my things the following morning. I had a large double room with a bathroom the size of my bedroom for 68 quid.
I went down for breakfast yesterday morning, Remembrance Sunday, and thought I was in some sort of film set for Carry On Up The Colonials.
Doncaster. The only town in the United Kingdom
where they eat cafes
On the journey back I had a bit of time to kill in Doncaster, so I went to The Plough, where a bloke said that he'd been to Blackpool where he bought a present for a friend. "I got her this cock rock. Be more of a man than she's had for a while." The landlord, who looked like a character from an Alan Sillitoe novel, with slicked back thinning hair, brought out a free buffet of cheese, crackers, sausage rolls, and black pudding.
Back on the train, a couple of Scousers were counting out hundreds and hundreds of pounds in twenties and tenners. After a verification process that seemed to be taking place, with confirming nods between them, they started chatting to me, asking me if the Morecambe fans had taken up the usual away supporters' chant, "We Piss on Your Fish."
6 comments
Doncaster seems like it would be hard work - not only is the tourist expected to eat delicious cafes, but they are also expected to entertain cinemas and theatres, and find time to relax squares and parks. Exhausting.
They’d eat me alive up north!!
Sx
It’s quite an ask isnt it? :)
Sounds a fine day/night out at the match… sans the result of course… another swell adventure indeed though i’d like to know what all the money counting was about… though i have my suspicions ;)
I know a guy—a book dealer—who goes to Thailand for these excursions. I stopped buying books from him. I felt dirty.
I wouldn’t expect much for 35 quid but the outdoor loo is a bridge too far. Sometimes you just have to spend more.
How can I get a seat at The Plough? Could I make that happen.
Here we go into the winter months. Buckle up.
I just don’t understand why you’d chose to share all that kind of thing with strangers. I mean, there’s blogging for that :)
And the hotel – well, “buy cheap, buy twice.”
You’d fit in very well in the Plough. Number of tourists per year: I can guarantee almost nil.
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Yes it’s always fun when one’s away from home, unleashed!