It was to be an early start from West Yorkshire. The Clarets were later to be at home to the Tigers from Hull. Mrs D was complaining she had no time for breakfast; a quick cup of Asda’s Earl Grey had to suffice. The reason for the early departure was Mrs D’s insistence that we visit at least once every Primark store in the United Kingdom and beyond. Today was store number 23 on the list. The SatNav was duly set and off we went into the rainy wilds. Twenty minutes into the journey, Mrs D spotted a suitably, hospitably looking hostelry. We ordered the amazing “Two for One” breakfast and added one on the side just in case. Hebden Bridge might not be rated amongst Europe’s finest dining out venues but by heck they know how to do a breakfast. I was regrettably the designated driver for the trip, so I washed down the excellent black puddings et al with a solitary pint of Guinness. Mrs D free from the restrictions imposed from driving under the influence, quaffed 3 pints of Somerset cider and belched respectfully.
We arrived early at the selected Primark store. I managed to park in a Disabled berth right in front of the store. I occasionally borrow my neighbour’s “Blue Badge”, he looks a lot like me and the generally myopic Traffic Wardens don’t seem to notice the slight difference in grey hair tones. Mrs D seems to have undertaken as a raison d’être the need to buy 3 XL colourful cotton tee shirts for under a fiver at any opportunity. She was out of the car quicker than Gray speeding in on goal. Grabbing an enormous wire shopping trolley adorned with wheels that would not look out of place on a Land Rover, in she went. After carefully spending about forty quid she had somehow managed to kit us both our entirely for our impending visits to Benidorm and the Yorkshire Dales. More of that later! It is quite remarkable how many items of “Made in Vietnam” clothing 40 quid and a few extra coppers will buy. Either the Vietnamese workers need a serious pay rise or the Purchasing Director of Primark deserves a Knighthood. Either way, it really is as cheap as chips at Primark.
Speaking of which, it was now a couple of hours since breakfast. The back of the old Peugeot was loaded up with the Primark booty. It didn’t seem worth trying to cover it all up. Who in their right mind would want to steal 40 quid’s worth of Primark’s finest? We have regularly frequented one of those new Gastro Pubs which just happens to be on the top of the old Roman Messenger Road overlooking Todmorden. Why ever the Romans ever came to Todmorden, only they will know? The Gastro Pub serve a “Simply to die for” Steak and Kidney pudding. The suet really is out of this world. Added to a good sprinkling of crinkly chips, mushy peas and gravy we both knew the lunch would see us through to teatime. I had however to have their famous Spotted Dick and custard while Mrs D settled for an Eton Mess that came in a bowl which would easily accommodate a dozen goldfish and trimmings. I managed another Guinness and Mrs D really getting into the swing of things now, supped another 3 pints of Somerset’s finest. I would seriously recommend a visit to this eatery but it has a double barrelled animal name that I can never quite remember. Perhaps the Dog and Rabbit, the Bull and Buffalo, the Owl and the Pussycat? Sorry, but it’s completely gone! Anyway, off we went to the secondary purpose of our escape from West Yorkshire, to watch the Clarets v the Tigers in the Championship game of the day.
Sitting comfortably in our usual seats, all warm and snug underneath a Scottish tartan travelling rug that Mrs D had bought previously for the princely sum of 3 quid from the Torquay Primark store, we patiently waited for the Clarets to emerge from the gladiatorial tunnel. Michael Keane and Ben Mee instantly began to terrorise the Hull defence from set pieces. Arsene Wenger will find no argument in the Davids’ household that the Clarets are anything other than dangerous from set plays. Steve Bruce was standing almost in front of us and by heck does this bloke block the view? He really has put some timber on since his playing days ended. It was goalless at half-time. Mrs D announced that she was feeling a bit peckish again, so I slipped her a Hot Dog that I had secretly organised with the nice young lad who sits directly behind us. For the first 20 minutes after the resumption, Hull were giving our lads a bit of a chasing. They had one golden chance that was wasted, other than that for all of their pressure, the Tigers remained fairly toothless. The Tiger’s substitutes had been warming up enthusiastically in front of us. Bruce was promising them sort of bonus if they could go on and change the game. I felt the need to have a quick gander into the programme. Having seen the Hull substitutes warm up and following a quick check on the pitch, I could finally verify the Clarets were indeed playing Hull City and not an African Nations Cup Select Eleven.
The Clarets showing the Dyche “relentless” tag started to control the game. Gray had buzzed like a busy ex-Bee all afternoon, in between and around Dawson and Davies the two Hull accomplished centre backs. Big Sam Vokes a bull of a man, with the strength of an ox was giving as good as he got and then some. The Welsh international latched on to a Barton inspired rebound and smashed home the winner from close range. Somewhat inexplicably, he was booked moments later for being brought down by the flailing arms and right foot of the Tiger’s goalkeeper, when a second Burnley goal looked inevitable. Talk about myopic Traffic Wardens? The Clarets calmly saw the game to its conclusion. Mrs D was overwhelmed both with the victory and the thought of another imminent meal. If you have ever wondered what the term, “It’s raining cats and dogs!” was like in reality, it was waiting for us we exited Turf Moor. Rain was falling in stair rods; we quickly used the Tartan rug as an emergency umbrella. Our view being somewhat restricted, we collided with a disabled man in a high powered turbo charged motorised wheelchair. Mrs D was badly shaken, the blow being softened, somewhat luckily by the 40 odd Teddy Bears and Bertie Bee replicas the perpetrator had thoughtfully strapped on the front of his Boadicea like chariot. It is extremely odd that a person can charge head on into a rain sodden crowd, riding an unlit vehicle without realising that a few thousand people’s lives are being put in serious jeopardy. The good news is that the Sunday morning X-ray at St Jimmy’s revealed only serious bruising. Mrs D should be fit enough to run around the Dorchester Primark store within the allotted 3 weeks.
We returned to our vehicle, not bothering to check on our Primark booty. We positively knew that no-one would nick the clothes, not even someone from Padiham. We reached the top of Todmorden Road after about an hour and a half. A combination of driving rain, an absence of policemen and a couple of learner drivers attempting U-turns brought about a serious delay. Mrs D kept on interrupting the Radio Rovers coverage of the Burnley game. Mrs D said her tummy was really rumbling but I still managed to listen to Sean Dyche discussing “relentless”. Happily, we finally arrived at our favourite watering hole on the outskirts of Sowerby Bridge. Mrs D by now hobbling badly, managed to find a seat at her favourite table. I quickly bought her a double brandy to help ease the pain. We always have fish and chips with mushy peas and a large plate of brown bread at this most agreeable of pubs. I realised 4 or 5 hours had passed since I last imbibed, so I ordered myself a pint of Dublin’s finest. Mrs D now looking traumatised from her collision with the wheelchair guy had another double brandy with a pint of cider to help chase it down. Two lovely raspberry pavlovas were to follow. The cost of the whole lot was only 30 quid. The Civil Service pension is not worth what it used to be but you still have to eat! I had a black coffee and a packet of custard creams to finish, Mrs D selected another double brandy and one more pint of cider to end her session.
We returned to the battered old Peugeot to begin the final stage of our journey home. By now, the early start, the Primark dash, the partaking of food and alcohol, coupled with watching the Clarets record a famous win had taken its toll on Mrs D. She was obviously warm and probably a little sozzled too? The 4 Co-codamal tablets she swallowed with the final pint of cider would probably not have helped either? Driving steadily east in the pouring rain, listening to the smoothing tunes of Nat King Cole, I reflected on a great day out in Lancashire. My thoughts were interrupted by the incandescent lights of the main Gregg’s bakery on the arterial road. Probably on that rainy, dreary Saturday night, countless thousands of baker’s produce was being manufactured. Where do they put it all? In sharp contrast, Elland Road was dark and dull in the evening’s blackness. I concluded, perhaps unfairly that a fair quantity of the Gregg’s produce would ultimately end up being consumed by the Leeds United manager, just a thought? HMP Leeds was in darkness at the top of the hill. It looked for all the world like the prison officers had locked it all down and gone to work on the Gregg’s night shift. Perhaps they had, Cameron’s cuts are affecting just about everything. I parked up in the Davids’ home driveway. Safely home! Mrs D was out for the count; I covered her up with the aforementioned but now slightly damp Primark Scottish tartan rug and locked the car doors, safe in the knowledge that the contents of the vehicle would be perfectly safe until in the morning.