The Club Trip

We arrived in the car park of the working men's club at 7.30am as per instructions and parked the four coaches side by side, clearly identified by a number Sellotaped into each near-side windscreen. It was a sparkling Saturday morning in June, 1970 and the rear emergency exit doors from the concert room were wide open so we could see that the members had made an early start. The vast room was packed with men shrouded in cigarette smoke, eagerly drinking pints of bitter to the sound of the jukebox blasting out Gene Pitney’s ‘Twenty four hours from Tulsa’. Best suits, Brylcreem and the Sporting Life were the order of the day and the members were easing themselves comfortably into their annual excursion. This year, they were transferring their world to Morecambe for the day.

The club secretary greeted us jovially, and offered the four of us a pint of Tetley's finest. He accepted our refusal with some puzzlement, but undaunted, ushered us to the end of the bar and pointed to a large pile of beer crates. This was the members’ ration for the journey and was to be divided and loaded equally onto the four coaches. Slightly bemused by such an unexpected scenario, I loaded my quota and was wondering what would happen next when suddenly a hundred and fifty comfortably lubricated and expectant revellers spilled into the car park, found their respective coaches and were ready to go.

This was serious stuff. It was the highlight of the club year and the men had been paying into the kitty since the previous year’s outing. Breakfast was booked en route, lunch reserved in Morecambe and entertainment organised on the return journey. This was precision engineering and it began with an envelope being handed to each driver containing a five-pound note. They were seasoned campaigners and knew that to get the drivers on their side was the first important manoeuvre. They expected unquestioning compliance with their agenda and a five-pound note secured this immediately. Remuneration at the end of the day was the norm in this business, but these guys were playing safe. They knew that tipping the driver whilst semi-conscious was unlikely, and they had planned well for every eventuality.

The convoy departed on time and headed northwards towards Bradford in close formation. I was number two, had never been to Morecambe before and was determined not to be left behind. My friend the Ford Thames Trader struggled to keep up with Geoff, but he knew its limitations and played the mother hen with great style. He was senior full time driver and led us like his brood through Brighouse and Bradford and out on to the Skipton road. If we were separated at traffic lights he waited for us patiently, before continuing northwards. At nine fifteen Geoff suddenly pulled into a lay-by outside Keighley and the rest of us followed suit. Fearing some problem, I was relieved to hear that this was a drinks stop. The lads were thirsty, the refreshment was in the boot and stopping was the only solution. Passing motorists hooted in salute as a hundred and fifty men drank bottles of pale ale in a lay-by on the A650, at nine fifteen in the morning.

Breakfast was booked at a pub in Gargrave, north of Skipton and we were eagerly expected. Huge helpings of ham and eggs were devoured and washed down with even more pints of beer. I had never seen the like of this before. By 11 o'clock that morning some of the members had drunk seven or eight pints of beer and eaten two breakfasts. The landlord was obviously well prepared and very well pleased. The dominoes came out, the drinks flowed and a huge feeling of well being filled the establishment. The secretary had to work hard to lever the lads out, but he was aware that lunch was booked in Morecambe at 1pm and we were still a long way off. Gargrave had not seen such a benevolent invasion since American forces during the war and it smiled in the morning sun as the convoy headed north west.

The coach interior quickly filled with taproom conversation and cigarette smoke. Nijinsky, with Lester Piggott aboard was favourite for the Derby and opinion was divided on whether Newcombe or Rosewall would win Wimbledon. Fontwell Park and Lingfield were discussed, places everyone had heard of, but few would ever locate. The Ford diesel engine droned contentedly alongside me and the bright sunshine filled the coach with a welcome extra warmth. The convoy, still in close formation, passed through Settle and Ingleton and then turned due west away from the glorious Yorkshire dales towards Lancaster and finally, Morecambe. We had made it exactly on time, exactly as planned and without mishap.

As my passengers disappeared into the sea front hotel for their lunchtime experience, a huge sense of relief and achievement came over me. We had reached base camp without mishap. We had moved Bradley & Colne Bridge WMC to its temporary base without most of them even noticing the dramatic changes in scenery. We had passed through the familiar depression of the heavy woollen district into the liberation and exhilaration of the Yorkshire dales and the dramatic Pennine hills with little recognition or response. The drink and the smoke and the noise would all be exactly the same in this seafront hotel as they were on the coach and in the club in Huddersfield. The racing on TV would be watched as usual and the members would become more and more insulated from their new temporary environment with each pint of anaesthetic. Whether we were in Morecambe, Cleethorpes or Monte Carlo was irrelevant. The constant theme that emerged with all such trips was beer, smoke, racing and excess. Very few participants could describe the route taken, the sights seen or the pleasures of the resort. Their club was their world and like Brian the Snail, they took it with them wherever they went.

In the coach park we four drivers bonded into a working relationship, sitting together on Geoff's coach. Apart from the breakfast and a brief association at the depot that morning, this was our first opportunity to gel as a team with a common cause. I already knew Geoff quite well, but Jim and Frank were part timers like myself, and we rarely met. Groups like ours always congregated on the leader's coach, a sort of homage to his rank. Pecking orders were established with exaggerated tales of heroic driving feats, hideous experiences on the hard shoulder and conquests with eligible female passengers. Geoff was single and a ladies man without equal. He could select a female from his interior mirror whilst at the wheel, chat her up during the first coffee stop and have had his evil way with her before lunch. His back seat thrashes were legend throughout the coaching fraternity and we all marvelled at his effortless ability. Such was his reputation, that he even became the topic of conversation amongst drivers from other companies, a feat unparalleled in my experience. What made him legend amongst his profession was the occasion in the Station coach park, Bridlington.

As usual, he had selected his prey that morning before leaving the borough. Eye language took place between them, but no conversation was possible because the group didn't want to stop en route. His victim was also slightly hampered by the presence of her boy friend and two children of ‘push chair’ proportions. As the passengers alighted in the coach park a wink was exchanged between the two participants and Geoff retired to his coach along with two other drivers from the convoy. Not two cigarettes later the willing victim returned to the coach on the pretext of having forgotten something. Without a word spoken she accompanied our champion to the back seat, draped a coat over the gap across the aisle and proceeded to test the shock absorbers, in full disbelief of the two witnesses sitting at the front. Some minutes later they both emerged from their exertion flushed and unrepentant and went about their business as if nothing had happened. His position as number one was unassailable.

At the agreed time of 6pm the four coaches were reunited with their passengers. The secretary had worked hard to achieve this situation and it was clear that he intended the timetable to be kept. The entire group had ventured no further than the sea front lunch venue and the nearest betting shop and were now the worse for five hours of serious enjoyment. As the Trader refilled with cigarette smoke and lubricated geniality, we left Morecambe and headed for the M6 motorway and Manchester. The 1960 model Trader was not designed for the rigours of the motorway and I treated it like a mother testing the baby's bath water. First a cautious elbow, then a hand and finally a reluctant submersion. At 50mph the engine protested loudly and transmitted an unease that increased my anxiety level considerably. Geoff was already disappearing into the distance in his newer and more powerful coach and the rest of us were struggling to keep up. His motherly concern, which had been so welcomely abundant that morning, seemed to have disappeared, as indeed, gradually, did he and his passengers.

Three quarters of the convoy was now rudderless and as the second coach in line, I now found myself leader. Driving in a straight line down the M6 became a temporary cover for my anxiety, but it couldn't last forever. To my immense relief a toilet stop was requested by the desperate, and I pulled into the next services with a nonchalance that I hoped disguised my increasing trepidation. The other two coaches followed suit and the twenty-minute stop allowed Jim, Frank and myself to hold a hasty meeting. We knew that a booking had been made for an evening at the Pendlebury & District WMC, somewhere in Manchester. The club secretary was on Geoff''s coach and he had the map with directions. We had nothing, and decided that we must admit our predicament to the passengers and hope that someone could help.

Bob from Bradley was a brewery delivery driver who knew the club well and he came to our rescue like a St. Bernard that had drunk the contents of the barrel. He guided his driver Jim, allowing Frank and I to follow gratefully. Within an hour we were parked outside the club, but with no sign of Geoff or his passengers. "Serves 'em right" was the cry and we eased into an evening's entertainment with a sense of collective relief.

By the time Geoff’s group arrived we were well into the bingo. We had already suffered a medley of popular tunes by your organist Ken, ably assisted by Reg on the drums and several rounds of drinks had already been consumed. After a few minutes of pack bonding the group settled back into its familiar alcoholic amorphousness, looking forward with anticipation to the highlight of the evening. Big Julie was the stripper's name and she would appear as expected at 10.30pm. By this time some of the members had consumed well in excess of fifteen pints of beer since arriving at their club that morning. Only the interruption of food and raucous company kept them conscious. This careful balance of ingredients was expertly maintained by these seasoned campaigners and would probably just see them through the day.

Big Julie, the stripper, was enough to see them all through the day and her appearance on stage, to Ken and Reg's rousing accompaniment, was a startling antidote to encroaching oblivion. Poor Ken, the organist, had to don his reading glasses in order to read Julie's sheet music and was thus prevented from uninterrupted witness. Reg’s broad grin proved no such frustration however, as only his arms and feet were occupied as he beat his drums in unison with the clapping and stomping of a frenzied membership. It was an unforgettable experience as Big Julie proved her title. Parachute sized garments fell away, revealing the lava flows of pink flesh that hung from her barrage balloon frame. She was a medical student's nightmare with at least two editions of everything, each one overlapping the other. The members' excitement reached epic proportions as she attempted to suffocate an unsuspecting front row victim with her monstrous breasts. As she came amongst them, grown men passed out from a mixture of nervous apprehension and alcohol. Ken and Reg were carried well beyond their previous bests by the occasion and pulled out all the stops as Big Julie’s act climaxed with the assistance of two semi conscious volunteers, a large ostrich feather fan and an aerosol can of St Ivel whipped cream.

As we started our engines, exhausted men limped and coughed across the car park, supporting each other like mustard gas victims as they struggled aboard. Insulated by the day’s excesses from the chill of the night and the lack of any recognisable interior heating, they fell into a collective coma as we climbed the Pennines and fell back into West Yorkshire. Dazed and bemused men stepped cautiously down the steps of the Trader and were swallowed up by the night. Bob the dray man was propped up against the car park wall in the hope that someone would collect him. It was 1.30am and my first ‘proper job’ was over. I drove back to the depot, swept out the Trader and climbed into my car exhausted and cold. Attached to the windscreen wiper was a note that read: "Paul, please report at 8am Sunday for a job to Leeds." This was only six hours away and I still had a twenty- minute drive home. What had I let myself in for?