I hadn't had a holiday for three years. Decorating, car maintenance and my parent's silver wedding anniversary had used up any available holiday funds in previous years.
But this year I'd managed to stash enough away under the mattress for a fortnight on a Spanish Costa and then what happens? Carlisle United get to Wembley for the first time in their history.
The glossy brochures filled with sun, sea, sand and sangria in the magazine rack were thrown out and I returned to the travel agent for London weekend break brochures. Yet again I resigned myself to the fact that I wasn't going to be a bronzed Goddess this summer. Never mind, I thought positively, at least I'll be able to visit a few places in London that interested me, like the Natural History Museum and, er, that Russian submarine.
With a month of calendar and clock-watching in hand after the second Rochdale match, I started thinking. This was our first visit to the sacred Twin Towers - could we really rise to the occasion and give a good account of ourselves? We had mentally prepared ourselves for the challenge ahead of us, we were an experienced team and we had ensured that a demanding programme of physical training was undertaken prior to the event. The reputation of our club and county was at stake here and it was imperative that we uphold this for the eyes of the nation. I am not referring to our footballing ability - there was no need to worry about that. I'm referring to our drinking ability! My concern was whether or not our group could rise to the "pissed by Crewe" challenge. It was only two hours away and the 06:38 departure on a Friday morning wasn't a favourable factor. However, our track record was impeccable - I'd managed to put away a litre and a half of Liebfraumilch and two cans of Strongbow before reaching Skipton on the way to Bradford, and after our Boxing Day encounter, I have apparently become a legend in Hartlepool. I'm told there are still remains of all the intoxicating beverages I consumed pinned up in The Corner Flag.
D-Day arrived. Departure Day, Drinking Day, whatever. Bleary eyed and laden with enough beer for a long haul 747 flight, stickers and sheep. Anything bearing the words Carlisle United and Wembley would do, just to remind everyone at Preston Station where we were going. We thought it sensible to line our stomachs with something from the buffet car's offerings to prevent any possible illness. There's nothing worse than having to be sick on a train - with all that swaying it's difficult to hit the target! A bacon roll and a can of Dry Blackthorn provided sufficient nourishment. One and a half cans later we arrived at Penrith where, judging by their luggage, the boarding blues had similar ambitions to ourselves.
By Oxenholme our carrier bag bin was filling up nicely, I was 60p up at Newmarket and several cheeks were beginning to get flushed. In one particular case this may have been to do with a strategically placed sheep, but I don't want to go into that. Glyn Askew obviously did though.....
Pulling up at Preston we spotted a PNE shirt waiting to board. Although there were several empty seats in our carriage, he seemed somewhat reluctant to join us, regardless of our show of friendliness - waving, singing and the like.
By Wigan we were into our second carrier bag, I was one pound down, Glyn had somehow managed to burst Baa-rbara and one man (who had unfortunately reserved a seat in our proximity) had relocated to more peaceful surroundings. Next stop Crewe Had we realised our ambitions? Does the Pope pray? I can safely say that we managed to keep intact the big-drinking reputation of we Cumbrians.
I never got a chance to see any of London's tourist attractions, but there is light at the end of the tunnel - I learned on my return that our household had won £1000 in the Evening News and Star's Future League United Masters competition. So maybe I'll return to the Paddock in August with a tan after all!
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