The lads set off in high spirits, optimistically armed for the journey with “pieces” that would hardly see them across the county border, far less anywhere near their distant destination; and everything was going to plan until the intrepid band were halted in their tracks by a horrendous crashing noise from the front end of the van. They were far south of Hadrian’s Wall, in a spot vaguely described by Billy as “Russia”, unlikely as that may sound … and indeed it does! You might well think it was the drink – but as alcohol has never passed Billy Dunlop’s lips, neither before nor since, that was not a factor in any confusion over the exact locus.
Investigation suggests that it may have been an area called ‘Little Russia’, in the Tottenham district of London – but that is pure speculation, as it is by no means certain they took that route. Alternatively, it may have been Rushden, Northamptonshire, which may well have been on the favoured route south at that time.
Whatever … the jalopy had developed a catastrophic fault. The deafening noise had been the sound of a piston penetrating the engine block; and there was nothing in Joe Duffy’s well-equipped tool box that could restore it to anywhere near good running order. They might just as well have been in Vladivostok, so slim were the chances of coaxing that mortally stricken motor another yard, let alone across three more national borders!
Owner, Jim, had to make the agonising decision of whether to abandon his precious van or the trip of a lifetime … “Hobson’s Choice”, or what? In the end, he decided to stand by his wheels, surrendering his match ticket (which figures largely in this story later on) to his mates, who opted to struggle on by “thumbing a lift” – some lift!
Then there were three…
These days, three football fans in team colours would probably get short shrift and a very wide berth from passing traffic, such has unfairly become the yobbish image of the breed. However, back in the “Swinging Sixties” they were considered more like eccentric travelling troubadours, which, indeed, that band of Billy Bhoys truly were. So it was that they got no end of offers; but sadly, none that could accommodate all three, plus luggage; and as they had made a firm commitment to stick together, it seemed they were well and truly up the creek without a paddle.
Then, as so often happens in unlikely fairy tales … hallelujah … fate stepped in – in the form of fellow diehard Celtic fan cum long-distance lorry driver, John Breslin, who pulled over, told them to jump in and volunteered to transport them as far as his destination …Paris!
A postcard from Lisbon
The show was on the road again. That guardian angel trucker was as good as his word, even smuggling them through the ferry from Dover to Calais, with the ‘Three Amigos’crouching out of sight as they rolled on and off. Once safely on the French side, the stowaways jumped out to negotiate customs before climbing back on board for the onward journey to ‘Gay Paree’.
