Far have I travelled, much have I seen:
The Growth of Mission Culture
24/01/03 | Part Two by Mark Ingram

To use the term 'car' to describe the four-wheeled shed that us missionists toured the country in for 18 months could be considered massively misleading. Sure, it had wheels, seats, and we were pretty certain that under the bonnet was something other than just the oily sludge we saw when we plucked up the courage to inspect it.

However, this was no ordinary motor vehicle. Various badges about the car's exterior claimed it to be a Pugeot 305 SR (what SR stood for nobody ever quite knew, although as time passed the S was commonly taken to stand for 'shite'), and although it probably left the factory radiant red, it had now faded to mouldy orange. The car was of B registration and its laughable performance was sources of much humour throughout the car's long service.

You expect that such a crap car would have crap reliability. This, strangely, was not the case. A mission was never failed. Once in Portsmouth (stayed over the night before; got lost going down; went via the M5 after I got it mixed up with Plymouth; took nearly seven hours to get there) due to some boring technical problem (glow plugs not working because the... zzz zzz zzz) it seemed determined not to start, just bellow smoke. Me and 'Captain K' (A much-decorated veteran missionist who doesn't want to own up to any part of this sharade - Ed) sat up-front praying for it to start, smoke still pouring from the exhaust. But eventually, after a good fifteen minutes trying, it struck up.

Portsmouth it seems was jinxed for the poor old wagon as this was the second time in two trips to grotty southern dump (went the right way this time; got back in time to go to clubbing that night and fell asleep in a corner; awoke wearing a party hat) the car suffered technical difficulties.

When coming in to Portsmouth the first time, the exhaust dropped off and proceded to drag along the road behind us. Sparks were a-plenty as we were going flat out (probably little more than 45mph) down the M3, so we had to pull into a lay-by and tie it up with the string from a JJB sports bag. This held all the way back to Nottingham until we left Trent Bridge Macdonald’s by which time we didn’t care and decided to drive the six or so miles home grating metal.

It has since been scientifically proven, however, that it was not Portsmouth jinxing the car but jinxing me as something boring (alternator failure) happened to my new car on the way home and I had to be rescued by a less than pleased father in the middle of the night.

It was with father, and Alex, that we went to the first away game in the car. Accompanied by my dad as I had only a provisional license, we set off to Sheffield United (a city described as once a thriving centre of industry, which is a posh way of describing a load of slums coated in smog; can’t remember if we won or not) avoiding all motor ways. Alex about shat himself on the way home after one or two, umm, near misses.

The car's first parentless mission was a trip to see Forest take on Oxford (in a FA Cup third round replay) shortly after passing my driving test. Our party was reduced from 5 to 4 the week previous when one lad's mother witnessed my driving and was rumoured to have exclaimed: “You ain’t getting in a f***ing car with that pratt!” - that was her crossed off my Christmas card list!

The mission to get down there passed off without problem except for the complete circulation of Oxford's outer ring road (harbouring the belief that ‘maps are for wusses' has done me few favours). Once parked up we wondered to the ground to see what was, well, going down.

Not a lot it turned out... the game was snowed off.

Bugger!

Despite our generous offers to clear the snow from the pitch, the game was cancelled and we had to come up with a plan. Our much-planned day out could not be ruined by such a minor incident as there being no Forest game to attend. So we wandered off to the newsagents to see if anybody else was playing near by.

Two hours later we were sat amongst a heard of poorly-spoken Fulham fans at Kenilworth Road (home of Luton Town, post-apocalyptic place; all the one-way streets go the wrong way). I think they won about 2-0. We got some funny looks wandering around in Forest shirts, and also some funny looks for being able to speak properly.

During those 18 months the car went all over the country, from Tranmere (the only football club name so far not recognised by my spell checker) and Darlington (ended up talking to a couple of smack addicts from Stockton who had been let out for the day (I seem to recall they supported Middlesborough, which explains a lot - Ed)) in the north, to Portsmouth and Gillingham down south.

At Gillingham (wouldn’t recommend going) we got stopped leaving the ground and questioned by a copper who was amazed that such a car had actually made it from Nottingham. We too were in a state of amazement, at how such an ugly, dense muppet had made it into the police force.

Policemen, it would seem, never took to the car. Whilst waiting to exit Barnsley (we won, which was rare for a Platt game; no pubs near the ground, you have to get pre-match beer in the bloody local leisure centre) car park we started off a pointless but humorous game of hooting tunes (the car's horn made an odd high pitched noise, kinda like squeezing a clown's nose). Some policemen walked in front of the car. We carried on, minding our own business, hooting away when plod walked over tapped my window and said something in Yorkshireish about stopping or he’ll nick me. He must have been depressed at having not seen any sun in Barnsley for 23 years.

Of course my enthusiastic stylee of driving led to several near misses. The most notable was on the M1, going to QPR when we, doing 90 odd (down a very steep hill), came upon an Alfa doing about 20; only the swift deployment of the anchor prevented us re-shaping the Alfa. One passenger, Dom, shat his self so bad he switched to somebody else’s car for the remainder of the journey.

But upon missions we have only crashed once, at Huddersfield (a town built in a big hole). As with any road accident, there are two stories to what happened. Firstly, what I put on my insurance form: "Whilst turning at a junction I was hit by a speeding motorist who ignored a red traffic light." This is, of course, very different from what really happened: "Whilst trying to decided which of the two pubs looked less threatening, I was paying f*** all attention to the oncoming traffic and far to much attention to the sign promising 'Burger, Chips and a Pint' for £3.50. Some poor bloke clipped my car and crumpled his front wing. My car, being a Mk II Panzer tank, suffered no damage."

Our return to Huddersfield the following season was a much merrier affair. Leaving early to play football in the morning we, feeling peckish, called in at Sainsbury’s to pick up some snap. Wondering back to the car we noticed a sign that read “Show your chuffin’ receipt to that there women or you ain’t getting out of 'ere”, or words to that effect. Having deciphered this alien language, we realised that none of us had a "chuffin' reciept". Captain K was panic stricken, but he had not been on as many missions as me. Cooly pulling up to the booth, I was asked by the women "'ave you got one of them there receipts, ma lad?" to which I replied triumphantly "nope, but I’ve got some sandwiches". The women promptly raised (probably out of confusion at a sentence that did contain the phrase "them there") the barrier raised and the mission was saved. Never cross a man with sandwiches.

In the car’s life we travelled some 28,000 miles which is approximately (measured with a ruler and my old school atlas) the distance to Ulan Bator in Mongolia and back, repeated three times over. It is also six trips to Kabul, or two trips to both Kabul and Mongolia. Further permutations of this can be worked out using the formula nK + 2nM = 6 if nK is number of trips to Kabul and 2nM is number of trips Mongolia (the letters K and M are both the same constant, 1, and can be removed but are included for continuity).

Sparing you the maths, it also works out as approximately 93,600 return trips to the Black Lion public house from my house*. If you take nP to count as number of trips to the pub, the formula can be adapted thus: nP + 15600nK + 31200nM = 93600. nP has to be a multiple of 15600, however, you are not forced to go to the Black Lion from my house on the way to Kabul/Ulan Bator. Just find pubs that are a 263 yard deviation from the route.

To drive those 28000 miles, assuming average speed to be 65 mph, I drove for approximately 431 hours, or 17 and a half days solid. Quite a long time in a car which smelt of shit.

All good things, as they say, must come to end and they do. This saying is pointless bollocks, because so must all bad things, like my car. Returning from a game (somewhere in the South or the West, or possibly even the South West) the head gasket decided it could take this world no more and blew at junction 23 of the M1. Only by a miracle (and club footing it) did we make it home.

The car would never see football service again. It was a sad day that I can recall well and will probably never forget. It was the end of an era. Although no tears were shed, as news spread mission veterans mourned the car's passing.

Where would we go now? (To the garage, to get a new car.) Could missions survive? (Indeedy doo) All will be revealed in the final instalment (or in these annoying brackets) of this series next time!

Please e-mail me to tell me about quality web porn and again to tell me of your dislike for my writing: trentendlad@hotmail.com.

Please don’t e-mail this address as it doesn’t exist and will be a waste of time: arsetitbum@poopoo.co.uk

* Mark Ingram is a responsible adult and is therefore well aware of compensation culture, for this reason he does not recommend drinking and driving - you do it at your own risk.