Please someone invent a 'canadian gobshite twatting machine'.
20,000
I actually live in a city. And no, I'm very proud of my team and its location.
I'm so glad. Makes me feel all warm inside.
- Joined
- Sep 14, 2009
- Messages
- 652
i bet your preston mrs has crossed her legs and made you sleep on the couch the last few seasons Lasher .🙂
Splendid. Er, cha.
- Joined
- Jul 21, 2010
- Messages
- 39,306
A Preston speaking Lasher, whatever next. I bet they like their pet Prestonian at Bloomfield Road.
Not so. She knows which side her bread's buttered.
When was the last time Blackpool got 20,000.............
Oh yes i forgot , your ground only holds 16,000 doesnt it !!!!!!
- Joined
- Jan 17, 2010
- Messages
- 4,232
That is a good one.
What ? The gayer has a missus ??
Boxing Day, & Carisle... I've some good stories of both from many, many moons ago... & Scunthrope too..
Don’t judge a book by its cover
Never underestimate any teams firm; we did, finding out the hard way. It was a game over the festive period and I’d been picked up by Elli - driving again - early and into the back of the van I went.
I was terribly hung-over; one of those hangovers that feels like someone is banging a hammer inside your head. I’d been out the night before and then back to a mate’s on his homebrew. I threw that very same homebrew up, all the way to Scunthorpe. The van stunk of stale ale, brussel sprouts and Christmas pud. If anyone had lit a match, the van would have gone up. Destination: not so sunny Scunny - who put the cunt in Scunthorpe?
A few cars loads had been there in the FA Cup in November, having no trouble with the locals. Saying that, they’d had a bit of a run-in with Blackpool on the motorway services. I asked Rambie for his version of events of what happened that day but he was concussed after a kick to the head. He’s got a memory like a sieve at the best of times and doesn’t remember a great deal now that he’s a granddad! So, C takes up the story.
C: Ten of us went to an FA Cup game away at Scunthorpe, and on pulling into the services on the M62 we notice three cars; a Jag, a Granada and a Vauxhall Viva emptying their contents of lads. Who then run a coach load of other fans? Our two cars pull up ‘Sweeny style’ and attention is drawn to us. It’s Benny’s mob from Blackpool. It then kicks-off and Pia gets knocked down as usual and a good old toe-to-toe tit-for-tat takes place. One of ours goes down, one of theirs goes down. Then a Blackpool lad produces a blade, we back off slowly towards our motors and help Rambie who is concussed with the rest of the lads getting tooled up. The service staff must have alerted the coppers; they’ve arrived just before it really got going again. Both us and Blackpool jump into our transport, Blackpool shooting off quicker, in a better class of car!
Not much to report about Scunthorpe, a 1-0 defeat early exit (as usual). There’s always next year!
On the way back, we stop at the same services, but on the other side of the motorway, bumping into some more Blackpool; a van full plus a carload. Also on the services was a coach full of Preston, they totalled the car with the van escaping with bricks bouncing off it.
We followed the van till it pulled off at Wakefield or somewhere like that. It was last seen going up a slip road with its lights off. You know when they’ve had enough.
Getting back to the season of goodwill: Twenty lads are in the back of the van plus two carloads and we pull into a big boozer’s car park just off a roundabout in Scunthorpe. We’re informed off the landlord that it’s about a good miles walk to the ground, so we settle in. No walkabouts today the lads fancy a rest and a bit of banter, I’m still drinking pop and honking up. Then the yearly ritual starts, “Who got you that jumper?”
“Have you got your Dad’s shirt on?”
“Did your Gran knit you that?”
(One lad, not present that day Micky P, Mad Dog, once got a bright yellow, chunky Stone Island jumper for a prezzie at Crimbo. There was four of us in a pub in Preston having a pint when his sister’s boyfriend, who wasn’t a footy lad says, “Mick. Did ya mum knit ya that for Christmas?” If looks could kill! Me and Rambie holding it in like Roman Centurions.)
We’re all in jovial spirits, when some bright spark comes out with, “Who’s up for a bit of boxing on Boxing Day?”
“You dickhead. It’s the day after Boxing Day!”
“Well who’s up for taking their end anyway? It should be a laugh.”
And I was thinking that the 70’s thing of end taking had well and truly gone.
It was approaching three bells so we drank up and made tracks, leaving two greedy cunts, Rambie and Kingy, as they fancied ‘one for the road.’
We’re now facing a hill that resembles Mount Everest with not a drop of Bovril in sight. Lads are blowing out of their arses at the summit.
There were no waiting coppers so we paid into the home end full of Christmas spirit, still taking the piss out of each other. Unbeknown, we’d been clocked by Scunny’s lads and by the time our 25 have walked into the stand an un-welcoming committee is half assembled. We get in position at the back of the stand and before we could get into carol singing mode, ‘crash, bang, wallop’ - what a picture.
The mighty Scunthorpe launch an attack, they’ve caught us off guard when we should be prepared for action. Boys, lads, men and women are laying into us. One bloke in full motorcycle leathers crashing his helmet down onto our heads. We’ve to retreat towards the pitch side over hoardings, slugging back on the move. The locals looked well pissed off! They must have got some shitty Crimbo presents that year, and with us being in their end, it was the icing on the Christmas cake. The turkey stuffing is well and truly knocked out of us, spilling over the barriers trying to hold it together - not a chance.
A cheer goes up from the Preston fans on the away end “Preston aggro, Preston aggro, hello, hello!” I wish.
The police get a grip, escorting us round to the away end. Our egos are well and truly bruised and the trudge round the ground is a long one. Passing the dugouts, both teams’ benches give out dirty looks. ‘Done off little Scunny’ I was thinking! Who would have thought it? Heads bowed into the away end we go.
Playing in the game that day was a legend, not a football one, a cricket legend, Ian Botham. He got stick all through the game, “You fat bastard. You fat bastard.” And other songs about his rounded physique.
Preston go 5-0 up away from home, something I don’t think I’ve witnessed since. Not many could ever say that they have either or ever will do again. “Beefy, Beefy what’s the score?” The Irons pull a conciliation goal back to chants of, “What’s it like to score a goal?”
A radio presenter reported next day: ‘Perhaps England all rounder Ian Botham should stick to cricket after he was hit for six, I mean five by Preston footballers at the Old Show Ground.’
What a sight Beefy looked that day, long mullet hairstyle, a big ‘tash and a couple of stone over weight. His knees were bandaged so much you could have wrapped an Egyptian mummy in them.
Oh yeah, the two lads who we’d left in the pub having another pint had arrived just before half-time going on the home end! Kingy through gritted teeth had grabbed hold of a lad saying, “Get ya boys!” Luckily, for them, a copper collared the two, and brought them round to us before they’d some serious damage done to their person’s.
Game over, strike whilst the iron is hot, revenge is upper most on everyone’s mind. There is running scuffles all around the car park, which ended with CP and Rambie getting nicked. Rambie was rugby tackled into a lamp post, banging his head. There was definitely no festive spirit that day as he was told, “I’ve been after you all day you little runt.”
We’re moved on and start our decent, which is a bit easier than it was coming up the hill. Our priority now is getting the two lads out of the nick and home.
Half-way down the hill the sound of breaking glass is heard all around us. We’re under attack, lads coming out of gardens, unloading milk bottles. Hands over heads to protect ourselves, we start moving a bit quicker. The noise stops, their ammo gone, and we turn round to have a go back only Scunny have disappeared quicker than they’d appeared - the Ghost’s of Christmas past had gone.
Now loaded up into our transport we head towards the police station but we’re told on arrival, “Not a chance of them being released. It will be tomorrow.”
We then head home with our tails well and truly between our legs.
Don’t judge a book by its cover, what a saying! We thought Scunthorpe would be a throw away, paper bound, cheap read. It turned out to be a right hard back violent thriller.
Don’t judge a book by its cover
Never underestimate any teams firm; we did, finding out the hard way. It was a game over the festive period and I’d been picked up by Elli - driving again - early and into the back of the van I went.
I was terribly hung-over; one of those hangovers that feels like someone is banging a hammer inside your head. I’d been out the night before and then back to a mate’s on his homebrew. I threw that very same homebrew up, all the way to Scunthorpe. The van stunk of stale ale, brussel sprouts and Christmas pud. If anyone had lit a match, the van would have gone up. Destination: not so sunny Scunny - who put the cunt in Scunthorpe?
A few cars loads had been there in the FA Cup in November, having no trouble with the locals. Saying that, they’d had a bit of a run-in with Blackpool on the motorway services. I asked Rambie for his version of events of what happened that day but he was concussed after a kick to the head. He’s got a memory like a sieve at the best of times and doesn’t remember a great deal now that he’s a granddad! So, C takes up the story.
C: Ten of us went to an FA Cup game away at Scunthorpe, and on pulling into the services on the M62 we notice three cars; a Jag, a Granada and a Vauxhall Viva emptying their contents of lads. Who then run a coach load of other fans? Our two cars pull up ‘Sweeny style’ and attention is drawn to us. It’s Benny’s mob from Blackpool. It then kicks-off and Pia gets knocked down as usual and a good old toe-to-toe tit-for-tat takes place. One of ours goes down, one of theirs goes down. Then a Blackpool lad produces a blade, we back off slowly towards our motors and help Rambie who is concussed with the rest of the lads getting tooled up. The service staff must have alerted the coppers; they’ve arrived just before it really got going again. Both us and Blackpool jump into our transport, Blackpool shooting off quicker, in a better class of car!
Not much to report about Scunthorpe, a 1-0 defeat early exit (as usual). There’s always next year!
On the way back, we stop at the same services, but on the other side of the motorway, bumping into some more Blackpool; a van full plus a carload. Also on the services was a coach full of Preston, they totalled the car with the van escaping with bricks bouncing off it.
We followed the van till it pulled off at Wakefield or somewhere like that. It was last seen going up a slip road with its lights off. You know when they’ve had enough.
Getting back to the season of goodwill: Twenty lads are in the back of the van plus two carloads and we pull into a big boozer’s car park just off a roundabout in Scunthorpe. We’re informed off the landlord that it’s about a good miles walk to the ground, so we settle in. No walkabouts today the lads fancy a rest and a bit of banter, I’m still drinking pop and honking up. Then the yearly ritual starts, “Who got you that jumper?”
“Have you got your Dad’s shirt on?”
“Did your Gran knit you that?”
(One lad, not present that day Micky P, Mad Dog, once got a bright yellow, chunky Stone Island jumper for a prezzie at Crimbo. There was four of us in a pub in Preston having a pint when his sister’s boyfriend, who wasn’t a footy lad says, “Mick. Did ya mum knit ya that for Christmas?” If looks could kill! Me and Rambie holding it in like Roman Centurions.)
We’re all in jovial spirits, when some bright spark comes out with, “Who’s up for a bit of boxing on Boxing Day?”
“You dickhead. It’s the day after Boxing Day!”
“Well who’s up for taking their end anyway? It should be a laugh.”
And I was thinking that the 70’s thing of end taking had well and truly gone.
It was approaching three bells so we drank up and made tracks, leaving two greedy cunts, Rambie and Kingy, as they fancied ‘one for the road.’
We’re now facing a hill that resembles Mount Everest with not a drop of Bovril in sight. Lads are blowing out of their arses at the summit.
There were no waiting coppers so we paid into the home end full of Christmas spirit, still taking the piss out of each other. Unbeknown, we’d been clocked by Scunny’s lads and by the time our 25 have walked into the stand an un-welcoming committee is half assembled. We get in position at the back of the stand and before we could get into carol singing mode, ‘crash, bang, wallop’ - what a picture.
The mighty Scunthorpe launch an attack, they’ve caught us off guard when we should be prepared for action. Boys, lads, men and women are laying into us. One bloke in full motorcycle leathers crashing his helmet down onto our heads. We’ve to retreat towards the pitch side over hoardings, slugging back on the move. The locals looked well pissed off! They must have got some shitty Crimbo presents that year, and with us being in their end, it was the icing on the Christmas cake. The turkey stuffing is well and truly knocked out of us, spilling over the barriers trying to hold it together - not a chance.
A cheer goes up from the Preston fans on the away end “Preston aggro, Preston aggro, hello, hello!” I wish.
The police get a grip, escorting us round to the away end. Our egos are well and truly bruised and the trudge round the ground is a long one. Passing the dugouts, both teams’ benches give out dirty looks. ‘Done off little Scunny’ I was thinking! Who would have thought it? Heads bowed into the away end we go.
Playing in the game that day was a legend, not a football one, a cricket legend, Ian Botham. He got stick all through the game, “You fat bastard. You fat bastard.” And other songs about his rounded physique.
Preston go 5-0 up away from home, something I don’t think I’ve witnessed since. Not many could ever say that they have either or ever will do again. “Beefy, Beefy what’s the score?” The Irons pull a conciliation goal back to chants of, “What’s it like to score a goal?”
A radio presenter reported next day: ‘Perhaps England all rounder Ian Botham should stick to cricket after he was hit for six, I mean five by Preston footballers at the Old Show Ground.’
What a sight Beefy looked that day, long mullet hairstyle, a big ‘tash and a couple of stone over weight. His knees were bandaged so much you could have wrapped an Egyptian mummy in them.
Oh yeah, the two lads who we’d left in the pub having another pint had arrived just before half-time going on the home end! Kingy through gritted teeth had grabbed hold of a lad saying, “Get ya boys!” Luckily, for them, a copper collared the two, and brought them round to us before they’d some serious damage done to their person’s.
Game over, strike whilst the iron is hot, revenge is upper most on everyone’s mind. There is running scuffles all around the car park, which ended with CP and Rambie getting nicked. Rambie was rugby tackled into a lamp post, banging his head. There was definitely no festive spirit that day as he was told, “I’ve been after you all day you little runt.”
We’re moved on and start our decent, which is a bit easier than it was coming up the hill. Our priority now is getting the two lads out of the nick and home.
Half-way down the hill the sound of breaking glass is heard all around us. We’re under attack, lads coming out of gardens, unloading milk bottles. Hands over heads to protect ourselves, we start moving a bit quicker. The noise stops, their ammo gone, and we turn round to have a go back only Scunny have disappeared quicker than they’d appeared - the Ghost’s of Christmas past had gone.
Now loaded up into our transport we head towards the police station but we’re told on arrival, “Not a chance of them being released. It will be tomorrow.”
We then head home with our tails well and truly between our legs.
Don’t judge a book by its cover, what a saying! We thought Scunthorpe would be a throw away, paper bound, cheap read. It turned out to be a right hard back violent thriller.
I don't wish to put a dampener on this "we're a bigger club than you" debate, but what ambition and prospects is this that you speak of?
Paul Szacsky
The Gentry (RIP)
I'm home for Xmas and can't wait to go on, so plus 1
- Joined
- Mar 15, 2010
- Messages
- 185
Just been ticket office - Carlisle now sold over 3,800 currently
I have indeed, Mr Patel. Amazing isn't it?
OP
I wonder how many we have sold, perhaps our OfficalPNE friend can let us know ?
Not enough. We need more cash.
OP
Well so much for a massive border invaision.....only 3200 sold as of 12.14 today. This is their biggest game in 10 years.
http://www.newsandstar.co.uk/carlisl...rPath=/1.49997
Posted by roofer32 on PNE v Carlisle boxing day thread, will they even sell 4,000 for their "Derby" even though they have not played us for over 10 years !
