It began to happen somewhere in Donny on a freezing night. The search was on. The 1600E Cortina was, not for the first time, out of petrol. We knew that because we were pushing it. The £2.50 petrol money didn’t go far in those days. Recollection was 1974, Division 4. We were hungry. So hungry.
Then we experienced it. The smell. There was light a terrace of houses with a solitary light at number 15. Everybody else was sleeping. It was ten minutes to ten o’clock. ‘Scunny’ skinheads were probably still chasing our shadows. They didn’t want to fight us, just steal our jackets, marked with London Borough of Hounslow on the back.
In those days there were no people in Scunthorpe with hair. The richest man was not the Bookmaker, but the Barber. By now, another Cortina, as there were only Cortina’s to drive in those days, drew up behind us. It was the ‘Watt’ brothers from Hounslow. Both 60 Watt and 40 Watt were there. They sensed it too something was going to happen.
The bulb shone bright from the ceiling. You could see the woman, barely dressed wearing a greasy apron, with blood and fat stains. A big man with a northern accent in the background with a sharp knife. Was this a converted house of horror? However, we were scared. This was a house in the middle of Coronation Street Parade with ‘Fish n Chips‘ painted over the porch. Just one frying bin inside, no display cabinets. The board on the wall showed the menu. There was only one item… ‘Fish ‘n Chips’… the price… 45p the lot.
The Northerner cut up more fish and threw it in the fryer. Our corduroys were emptied of change. Somebody ventured for the mushy pees. It was a celebration… we drew 1-1. The food arrived, our eyes bulged whilst somebody proposed marriage to the 70-year-old lady as she wrapped the enormous portions, sensitively in a two-year-old copy of the Yorkshire Evening Post. Somebody else proposed marriage to the northern chef, since being the only skinhead Brentford fan at the time, he was impressed by the size of the knife.
What a dream? An away goal at Scunny. A 1600E with a wooden dashboard and Rostyle wheels, Fish ‘n Chips for 45p the lot. No bruises. We shuffled outside to the front garden of this semi-derelict, or would-be shrine to take away food. The garden four feet long. We shuffled back in. It was pissing down.
I selected another fat chip. It was unique, since it had ‘classified ads’ smudged on the back of it. We submitted to the hospitality of the owners and, in our shame, surrendered the salt and vinegar pot that we had stolen. She accepted that it was a mistake. It was no dream. We ran outside to the cars, wiping our fingers on each other.
Somebody trod on his silk scarf (tied to his leg) and fell over, hurting his enormous nose. We laughed and jumped up and down on his fat chips. We were hard. We chanted ‘Brentford Agro’ at nobody down the dark, misty, deserted street because everybody did in those days and frightened the flies hovering around the doorway. We bid our farewells to the passing ‘Donnies’ of the night and agreed to return someday. They knew we were warriors. They knew we would go in search of fatter fish ‘n chips. They knew we would be back….
THEY KNEW US AS THE FAT COD MOB !
Doug The Pike
