The Bus
April 12th, 1997
The minibus is large; a seventeen seat white Ford Transit with patches of rust above the wheel arches and the legend Halo Van Hire printed on the side. Perched high above the ground behind the steering wheel, I’m feeling slightly daunted. Apart from the journey home from the hire firm yesterday I’ve never driven anything this big before. Yet here I am about to drive fifteen passengers four hundred miles from South Wales to Liverpool and back. Weeks of planning have led to this moment, there’s no backing out now.
I turn the ignition key. The diesel engine chugs into life and the fuel indicator slowly rises to FULL. BBC Five Live echoes through the empty van and grimacing I listen to the eight-thirty sports news.
‘…and Everton host Tottenham at Goodison Park today hoping for a first win under caretaker manager Dave Watson. Watson has been in charge since Joe Royle resigned on transfer deadline day...’
I check the mirror and catch sight of the Everton flag fixed over the rear windows before feeling my jacket pocket for the tell-tale lump of the match tickets. Reassured by both I depress the clutch and put the bus into first gear. ‘Here we go then,’ I mutter, checking the side mirror and engaging the clutch to pull off.
Leaving Abertillery behind I drive down the Ebbw Valley, stopping to make pick-ups along the way. Each time three or four lads, most of whom I’ve never met before, clamber on board with their newspapers, cool-bags and boxes of beer. They squash into the cramped seats filling the bus with expectant chatter.
‘Duncan’s fit. I reckon he’ll score today.’
‘Nah, it’ll be Speed. Two-Nil. I’ve got a tenner on it.’
‘Where’re the redshite? ‘
‘Away at Palace tomorrow.’
‘Don’ matter they’ve blown it. It’s United’s now.’
The weight of the van increases with the passengers and I almost lose control taking a bend too quickly. ‘Only another four hundred miles,’ I say trying to ignore the comments coming from behind me.
‘Fuckin’ ‘ell! Almost fell out of my seat’
‘Who’d you say the driver is?’
At Newbridge I cross over into the Sirhowy valley and drop down through Cwmfelinfach to pick up my brother, Dai. He waves as we approach. I stop and he gets in the front passenger seat of the bus, places his cool-bag on the floor, takes off his wooly hat and rubs his bald head. ‘Got the tickets?’
‘Course I have,’ I reply checking the jacket pocket I placed them in for the umpteenth time.
‘I’ve gotta good feeling ‘bout today,’ he says rubbing his hands and grinning before reaching down into the bag for a can of Strongbow. I pull off again as he turns around and chats to one the lads he’s booked on the trip, ‘Alright Toozey…’
Ten minutes later we’re in Risca; the final pick-up point. Here Martin, my broad-shouldered workmate is waiting with his brother Paul and the final few passengers. They load three boxes of lager and two of cider, around a hundred cans in total, onto the bus.
‘Sure you got enough?’ I ask, eyebrows raised, smiling.
‘It’s between five of us,’ he beams in reply before placing the most vital piece of equipment required for this trip onboard; a lidded plastic bucket for them all to employ as a toilet. We all know that without this we’ll soon be stopping every five minutes.
With the final pick-up complete I make a final check on my pocket for the tickets. ‘Here we go then,’ I say again as we pull off but still, no one is listening. They’re all too busy laughing, chatting and drinking. I concentrate on the road and fifteen minutes later we’re exiting the M4 onto the A449 and heading northwards. Perched high above the traffic and becoming familiar with the van I’m almost beginning to enjoy the experience of driving it. Shouts come from my passengers.
‘Foot down drive!’
‘Put some music on!’
I slide a cassette into the player and there’s a little cheer as the acoustic guitar chords of ‘Wonderwall’ morph into ‘Hello’.
‘I fuckin’ love this album,’ says someone behind me. I smile, Liverpool here we come!
September 16th, 2000
The fuel gauge of the Civic is getting low. It only holds twenty nine litres and there’s less than a quarter of a tank left. We’ve been checking every petrol station we pass but they’re all displaying handwritten signs with ‘No Petrol’ on them.
‘What do think?’ Simon asks me. I shrug my shoulders.
‘Strensham’s ‘bout five miles. If there’s nothing there, then we’re stuffed,’ thinking about how we’d found ourselves in this situation.
I hadn’t organised a bus for the match, there was just me, Simon and his mate Ryan. We’d bought the match tickets weeks ago, long before the protests erupted. All this week we’d been praying for them to end and by Thursday they had. Unleaded was slowly becoming available again. Yesterday someone had told me it would be on sale in Crumlin petrol station in the morning. I phoned Simon. ‘Are we gonna chance it?’ he asked.
‘Oh aye. After all, it’s United at home.’
This morning saw the three of us climb into my Civic. It spluttered its way five miles down the valley on dregs remaining in its tank. Then we queued for twenty minutes before getting the twenty quid maximum that everyone was being rationed. ‘That’s enough to get us to the M5. Bound to get some there,’ I said. I knew that was the furthest we could go before having to turn around and head home or face being stuck.
We turned up the steep incline of Hafodrynys through Pontypool to Usk and the A449. The weather was fine and traffic light, an unexpected plus side of the protests. I took it easy, trying to conserve fuel. Now were at the make or break point.
I see the M5 junction ahead and join it and pull into Strensham . We’re greeted by a handwritten sign ‘Unleaded – No more than £20 a car’. I smile, the gamble’s paying off.
April 28th, 2001.
Leaving Birmingham and the West Midlands behind; the M6 tracks on through the green rolling hills of Staffordshire and the Potteries. The LDV Transit we’ve packed into today struggles to climb up these gradual inclines, its engine dying away and our speed slowing to a mid-forties crawl. Completing each ascent it rolls down the other side picking up speed until we plough along at seventy miles an hour again. Then we reach the next incline and begin to slow once more.
I switch the cassette tape and Soulwax’s ‘Too Many DJ’s’ blares out as we begin chugging up the next hill. The thrum of the engine increases as it begins to struggle and I change down a gear, increasing the noise volume inside the bus. We’ve been on the road for two and a half hours and the atmosphere inside the van is a fug of beer, cider, body odour and cigarette smoke. Suddenly the smell of ammonia cuts through the miasma, assaulting my nose, as the lid is ripped off the ‘toilet’ in its side-door well location. The blocks I placed in it to mask the stench of litres of stale urine are having their desired effect.
A voice begins reciting the surnames of Liverpool players. ’Owen, Murphy, Dalglish, Hansen, Barnes, Gerrard…’ I quickly glance over my left shoulder to see Tooze’s head and shoulders peering above the front passenger seats. He’s staring at the van’s ceiling as he continues his inventory.
‘What are you doing?’ I inquire with a quizzical half-smile.
‘Stage fright,’ he replies. ‘I always struggle to use this and I’m trying to take my mind off it.’
‘Right…why the Redshite footballers?’
‘’Well, I don’ wanna piss over Everton players. Do I?’ he grins. A look of satisfaction settles on his face as his catechism has its desired effect.
April 26th, 2003
The traffic’s queuing on the Queen’s Drive section of the ring road, a wide tree-lined avenue of large semi-detached houses. We’ve made good time today and spirits are high. It’s only Coventry so we’re expecting them to win.
I look at the clock. It’s half twelve and some of the lads have been drinking steadily for over three hours now. Black bags full of empties rattle each time we stop and the urine can be heard sloshing about in the almost full bucket. Suddenly the side door of the minibus slides open.
‘I wanna hug a tree,’ slurs Gynge’s deep, slow voice. Fag in one hand and a can of lager in the other he leaps out. He’s about twenty eight with thick-lensed glasses that give him an owlish appearance. His arms wrap around the nearest tree as the bus dissolves into laughter. Martin, who’s been keeping an eye on the traffic lights up ahead, sees them turn green and the vehicles ahead of us start to move. He slams the door shut and shouts ‘Go.’
Grinning, I pull off leaving Gynge even more wide-eyed than usual. The occupants of the van are now in hysterics as they watch him give chase on foot. Three hundred yards along we stop again as the lights return to red and he finally catches up and bangs on the door. Martin slides the door open for him and Gynge climbs back.
‘Bastards!’ he pants.
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