“Now, hyair on the right is wair we meek the toffee, you see…” Gwynne Williams stretched out a hand toward an enormous sunken vat, with a state-of-the-art mechanical stirrer, “Now, yew’ll have to be quick, like, ‘cause the stirrer thingy will knock your arm off, but stick your hands in and get a big dollop to try. It’s bloomin’ lovely, it is!”

I didn’t fancy getting my hands all sticky, so I lit a Woodbine and watched as the others rushed off to fill their faces with the milky liquid. There followed searing screams of pain.

“Is it hot, is it?” asked Williams, approaching the vat smartly. “Tommy? Tommy?” A surly-looking worker emerged from a nearby hut. “Is the toffee hot, then? How long’s it been on?”

“About twenty minutes.”

“Bloomin’ heck! No wonder you burnt yourselves! Sorry about that. Let’s move on.”

Jack Dudley had not submerged his hand and came over to cadge a fag while we walked to the boiled sweet section. “I think Coffins is more annoyed about missing out on the sugar than burning his hand,” he muttered, drily. Eddie Gilbert, once nicknamed for his skinny build and grey palour, had recently had his moniker pluralized, as there was no way he would fit in a single casket. He had also developed two cholesterol-red cheeks Some said he was gorging himself with black-market chocolate, sugar-beet and Tizer in order to forget the War; others that he was trying to grow into his de-mob suit. Some of the lads had been trying to get him to start drinking and smoking as a healthier alternative, as yet without success.

The boiled sweets were collected in a deep pool, and we were encouraged to remove our jackets, climb in and play around. This was fairly good fun, though we lost Coffins for a short while and had to remove some obstructions from his trachea once he’d been brought to the surface. The back-slapping added some severe bruising to his second-degree burns, but Coffins remained in jovial mood as we reached the Marzipan Department.

The back-slapping added some severe bruising to his second-degree burns…

“When I’ve got a few minutes spare, like,” said Williams (I was beginning to get the impression that the chap had far more time on his hands than was profitable), “I like to mould things out of this stuff. Have a go!”

Either side of a long work bench, we began fashioning snakes, then snails, a dog. Williams occasionally got involved, encouraging some of the less able but also praising those that showed promise (such as Bert Tribbins, who got quite some way along with a miniature replica of his own house on Staveley Road), but when I noticed that Coffins was rolling out a gun to put on a Panzer turret, I thought it best that we move on.

“Not so fast,” said Williams, putting his hand out like a policeman, “I’ve got something to show you.”

From a locker he produced a wooden chopping board upon which stood a life-sized marzipan head.

“Do yew re-cognize him?” he asked with an encouraging smile.

“Lloyd George,” suggested Bert Tribbins.

“Claudette Colbert?” asked Pete Ludlow.

“Is it ‘Tanner’ Hammond?” asked Coffins. This turned out to be a mate of his he’d last seen face-down on Sword Beach.

Gwynne Williams shook his head disbelievingly. “It’s Harry Clarke!” he cried.

There was silence.

“Never heard of him,” said Jack Dudley, wiping the marzipan off his hands and lighting a Woodbine.

“Come and have a dip,” he called, already out of breath. “It’s cha-llenging at first, but you can stay afloat.”

“You’ll have heard of him by four o’clock,” replied Williams, “Best centre-half in the country, I shouldn’t wonder. Six foot three of football beauty. He makes the Great Wall of China look like a Japanese Byōbu,” he stood admiring his work for some moments more, a beatific smile on his face, then locked it up again and led us to the Chocolate Department, while removing his dust coat, tie and then his shirt. Once completely naked he dived into the chocolate.

“Come and have a dip,” he called, already out of breath. “It’s cha-llenging at first, but you can stay afloat.”

After the incident in the boiled sweet pool, I advised Coffins against swimming, and he stood with me and Jack while seven or eight chaps waved their arms in the air and tried to duck each other. After a good half hour, everybody climbed out. Coffins licked most of the chocolate off Pete Ludlow, while the other bathers washed themselves in nearby sinks. Then it was time to head to the social club for a pint and then onto the game.

This was the first and only time that FA Cup games were held over two legs, but that didn’t seem to take any of the excitement away for the players and supporters of Lovell’s Athletic, who were making their first ever third-round appearance. Harry Clarke – whom I recognized from his marzipan likeness back in the Lovell’s factory – had a very good first half, keeping Wolves at bay while his forwards fashioned a two-goal lead. Ted Vizard must have given his team a stern talking-to at half-time, though, for a rejuvenated Wanderers side ran out with a 4-2 win to take back to Molineux, to the hearty applause of those Wolves fans who hadn’t burnt their hands on sugary milk earlier in the day. Settled on the train home, I tried just one of my complimentary Lovell’s toffees, and gave the rest to Coffins, who chewed thoughtfully, looking through the window into the dark Monmouthshire hills.

Bintus chain-lit a Senior Service, threw the old nub-end onto the street and rolled up the drivers-side window, creating in the cabin of the Mk I Volkswagen, an instant Brigadoon from the smoke of three-dozen clowns and two avid Wolverhampton Wanderers supporters.

“Should never have happened,” he barked, for perhaps the thirtieth time that day (and we had barely passed Albrighton).

“So speak to da union,” replied Pichirilo from the back seat, in a sardonic Illinois drawl.

“Ah, da union,” said Bintus, with a dismissive wave, “I’m tellin’ youse, dis ve-hi-cul is fer performances only. Less dan a tousand miles on da clock.”

“What clock?” said Buba, his head poking through the passenger-side footwell.

At this, an alarm bell rang in the back seat and Voz Vos removed a foam clock from his mouth before secreting it in one of his many pockets.

In the front, Jack Dudley lit a Woodbine and looked over his shoulder towards me, squashed in a row of eight behind the driver, Bintus. Like Voz Vos, he didn’t need to talk to express himself.

A tractor overtook us, as we lumbered on towards Tong.

□ □ □ □ □

“Is that a knocking in the engine?” asked Jack as we neared Whitchurch.

“Engine’s in the back, dummy,” barked Bintus, before pulling up, getting out, opening the “trunk” and allowing seven or eight clowns to emerge from the front of the car and relieve themselves in a roadside bush. For the hundredth time, Jack and I exchanged weary glances. Bintus climbed back in and slammed the door, which fell off, as did the door on Jack’s side. At this point, a steady stream of cyclists adopted single file to avoid Jack’s door while passing, and I heard a familiar tune being whistled,

For the G.A.P. --
The Gallant and Admirable Pedallers are we
That's the G.A.P. --
On the road to a Wolves game is where we'll always be...

Of course, motorized transport wasn’t a bad idea in itself. When we’d approached Bintus and Bobble (the latter being the latest in a succession of heads to appear in the passenger-side footwell and blow great storms of smoke up into the cabin) about a ride, we’d assumed that the Hal Condor Big Top Circus would be travelling together, in the large convoy of trucks and trailers that we’d spotted at the show at Dunstall Park. We knew they were moving onto Liverpool next and it seemed an excellent way to save money on the outward leg, as long as the terms of our passage didn’t include shoveling anything from the animal cages. It didn’t, but for some reason – be it the traditional high-handedness of circus owners at the time, Bintus’ obvious taste for confrontation, a mixture of the two or an entirely unrelated circumstance – when we arrived at the racecourse that morning we’d been shown to the clown car and told to get in, even though it was evidently full.

Following the comfort break we were now back in motion, after a head-count that took a little longer than usual as Bobble had lost his Senior Service and was scrambling under Jack’s seat in search of it for a good couple of minutes.

□ □ □ □ □

In Chester the Beetle shuddered to a halt. Garbus and Poncho got out (once everybody else had got out to make way for them) and began looking at the rear-mounted engine. Garbus, a hunchback with green wig and dungarees that looked fairly appropriate to the task, hit things with a spanner, while Poncho looked on, rubbing his jowl “thoughtfully”. It was clear no fix was in sight and we left them to it, heading to the nearby Oddfellows Arms to find refreshment.

Jack got the first round and I found a seat in the corner. Through the smoked-glass windows the continuous sound of impatient car horns and personal taunts could be heard; I was glad to be in the relative tranquility of a smoke room full of clowns, tripping each other over, falling and pushing their way to the bar. Bintus was philosophical.

“If da baws wants ta use da show ve-hic-les for transportation, he’s gotta know da risks. And da terrain. Goddamn hills in dis country, crazy….” The little 25HP engine had struggled through Shropshire and all passengers had had to alight and walk while Bintus negotiated the steeper climbs. “Ya pays ya money ya takes ya choice. Show business.”

Through an intricate series of mimes, Voz Vos suggested Bintus call a tow-truck, and Mr Condor pay the fee on arrival.

“Da baws ain’t gonna like dat,” answered Bintus.

Some of the clowns were now juggling with the bar skittles, and the landlord looked testy. I went outside to check on the car.

Garbus continued to hit the engine, louder now. Poncho was simply directing traffic around the obstacle, holding the northbound queue as a steady stream passed south: an Austin A5, an ambulance, three buses all at once and then a big, black saloon with a roaring engine, which slowed and pulled in to the pub car park. Poncho ran into the Oddfellows and within seconds the entire troupe was standing to attention on the pavement, while Hal Condor inspected them coldly in evening wear and a top hat.

“What’s wrong with her?” he asked Garbus, who still held the oversized spanner with which he’d been hitting the motor. He shrugged in reply, and Condor raised his voice. “Well? You’re da mechanic, ain’t ya?”

Voz Vos tried to intervene, miming somebody driving and then shaking his head.

“I get that it doesn’t go, Voz. But why doesn’t it go? You been pushing her too hard, Bintus?”

“No, sir, Mr. Condor, sir.”

“Yeah, sure.” Condor surveyed the scene with distain. “And who are you?” he asked, cigar see-sawing in the mouth.

“I am Gonby, sir. From Wolverhampton, Staffordshire.”

“Wolverhampton? That two-bit town we played last night? Did you give this clown a ride, Bintus?”

Bintus lowered his head. “Yes, Mr Condor.”

“So the repairs can come out of your wages, you big schmuck. Now push her into the car park and you can ride the rest of the way.”

After some pushing, shoving, falling and slipping, the clowns pushed the Mk I around the corner of the pub into the car park. Two minutes later they emerged again, on tiny bicycles, filling the street. Cars honked and drivers cursed, but with grim determination they maintained their course. We began walking, and in a few strides had overtaken the clowns and were jumping onto a bus. We got to Liverpool in good time, had a couple of pints in the King Harry and watched Denis Wilshaw give us the lead before Bill Jones equalized in the second half. All in all, a decent day out, and not too expensive either, for we got a lift back from the Jolly Joe James Empire Funfair who were moving on from Liverpool to Wolverhampton that evening, sitting in the waltzers, drinking Champion Pale, and exhaling Woodbine smoke into the warm late-summer air.

It was a glorious St Martin’s summer that year, and it seemed to me, pedalling under the near-cloudless sky, with insects still buzzing and only the relative breeze of the still air hitting my freewheeling hands and face, that there could be nowhere better to enjoy such weather than Norfolk. As the patchwork of arable fields passed beside me, it was almost as though the ride were an end in itself, as if the football were incidental to the true pleasures of the open road and the countryside. But there was nothing quite like visiting a new ground, and the thought of our arrival at Carrow Road began to fill me with excitement too. And then I felt thirsty.

“When’s the next pint due, Sid?” I asked.

“Not for a good forty minutes, Gonby,” answered the chairman of the Chapel Ash Non-Motorized Mechanical Touring Party (CANMMTP), Sidney Dawes. “I’ll let you know.”

“And I’ll let you know right now,” said Tom McClarty, of Rupert Street, “That I’m thirsty, and so are the rest of ‘em.”

“Won’t be long, Tommy,” said the balding chairman. I was impressed at his stamina, able as he was to out-pedal younger and much slimmer men, but I was as annoyed as the others about his timetable. Licensing laws were pretty effective at limiting your intake in those days, even without Sid’s restrictive scheduling.

The previous day’s ride had been pretty dry, too, but there was some logic to that, as we needed to get to Shouldham Thorpe in time to pick up the the key to the windmill whose grainstore we would be sleeping in. Now we were making comfortable time and as a pub came into view on the horizon, the clamour for refreshment intensified, but the calls went unacknowledged but for a shake of Sid’s bald head.

I continued pedalling, though the beauty of the day, if beauty really is in the eye of the beholder, was quickly waning. Why had I chosen to come with the CANMMTP? It wasn’t as though Sid Dawes’ autocratic leadership came as any surprise: at the start of the season he had banned tandems from the Touring Party an hour into a ride to Ninian Park, insisting that the ban take immediate effect and forcing Peter and Erasmus Bowers to take a different route (the Bowers got lost and ended up watching a random match at Penydarren Park, Merthyr Tydfill while Wolves thrashed Cardiff 4-1). He had also tried to enforce a “horns-only, no-bells” policy (ultimately failing but expelling ten members in the attempt) and forwarded a motion to replace the modern CANMMTP rock’n’roll anthem, “Free-wheelin’”, with a waltz. “Free-wheelin’” had persisted, though, and these days was, sung, more often than not, as a call to resistance, a protest against Dawes’ dictatorial style.

I had originally planned to travel with the Flying Squadron, but the still weather forced them to cancel. The train was just too expensive. And so I’d accepted Tom McClarty’s invitation over dominos at the Noah’s Ark that Wednesay.

McClarty, incidentally, had formed the CANMMTP after becoming frustrated with the lack of organization within the Gallant and Admirable Pedallers, whose end-of-season forays had turned into interminable pub-crawls leading in some cases to emigration and disappearance. He’d approved, at first, of Sid’s desire to put furlongs ahead of firkins, but, as he himself put it, “even moderation has to be taken in moderation.”

Alas, Sid was not one to listen to advice. His quest to reach the horizon was uncompromising,. He insisted on being the only map-carrier, and, after slow progress on a trip to Nottingham in ‘63, caused by the CANMMTP stopping at one pub only to decide that a previous one looked better, he brought in a “no U-turns” rule by which turning back for any reason would result in immediate expulsion from the group. “Whatever you do,” McClarty had said to me that Wednesday evening, between mushroom clouds of Woodbine smoke, “Don’t look back – not even to talk. It simply isn’t worth it.”

One more, and then we’ll stay…

The grumbling continued, and the renditions of “Free Wheelin’” got more biting, until finally, on our way out of Briston, Sid finally gave a “slowing down or stopping” hand signal and we turned into a place called the Green Man. Following the sound of fifty cycles being all but hurled to the ground, the clamour to the bar gave the barmaid, a pretty young red-head (and the landlord’s daughter, as we were soon sternly advised) quite a start, and she was still shaking as she poured the first pint, which was passed along to Tom, who finished it before another could be pulled. Halfway down his next one, he pulled me to one side, as a group at the bar argued over the team’s change to gold shorts. “Finish that, get another one, and get Sid one an’all.”

“Sid’s got a full pint.”

“Get him another one.”

I did what Tom had told me and joined him at a window seat where he offered me a Woodbine.

“You have to know how to do it,” he said, taking a long draw on his cigarette, “After a pint, he’d be nagging us to get on. Get him a second, and we’re all right for a while.”

And so it was. We got onto our machines again at around half past one, feeling fine but also aware that we needed to make good progress to see the kick-off. Surprisingly, it was Sid Dawes that began belting out “Free-wheelin’”, and we followed him in a rather serpentine pattern along the pretty country lane.

A clearly-signalled, but nevertheless surprising left turn took us up a smaller lane some fifteen minutes later.

“Are you sure about this, Sid? It said ‘Heydon’ on the sign…”

“Who’s the map-carrier, Tom?”

“Don’t you think we should look at the map?”

“No need, Tommy, no need.”

Within a few minutes, the hedges gave out onto a picturesque village, with a well-house , an impressive church, the inevitable pub, and… a gate.

Jonny Farnebrook of Clifton Street tried it.

“It’s locked, he said.”

A middle-aged man in Wellington boots emerged from the Earle Arms and approached us. “Thar’s no through road, I’m afraid, gentlemarn,” he explained, “That’s the path to Heydon Hall.”

“No through road at all?” asked Tom.

“None. You’ll have to turn back.”

“But we don’t turn back,” said Sid Dawes, a little flushed. “There must be some path out of this place?”

“There is: the warn you came in on.”

“Come on, Sid,” said McClarty, “We ought to get a move on.”

“No U-turns, that’s the rule!” shouted Sid, impatiently.

“No U-turns, that’s the rule!” shouted Sid, impatiently.

“You’ve no choice, this time!”

“We don’t turn back!”

“We do!” said Tom, emphasizing the first word, “If you want to stay here there rest of your life, well, it’s not a bad little place…”

And with that, we mounted our cycles and pedalled away; by the time we hit Norwich there was already a new song, courtesy of Alfie Shears of Larches Lane.

And so the Swinging Pedals were born, bringing a fresh, young outlook to cycling to Wolves’ away games. It was assumed that the line about “Ronnie Allen’s stars” would have to be changed in time, but in fact by the time Bill McGarry took the helm, Tom McClarty had left to form the more conservative Lady Wulfrun’s Devoted Mounters, and the Swinging Pedals withered on their once-bountiful Norfolk bush. Sid Dawes stayed overnight at the Earle Arms and left in the morning (which didn’t count as turning back, apparently), and rejoined the ranks of the Gallant and Admirable Pedallers.

As for the Wolves, they secured the first of five consecutive victories against the Canaries, with a comfortable 3-0 victory. Come on me babbies!

Jack Dudley was looking uncommonly glum, the pint of beer in front of him, like those of Harold “Chimdy” Sweep and Frank Badger, all but untouched. I took a sip of my own and asked them what the matter was.

“I cor really put me finger on it,” replied Jack, “It’s just… I dunno.”

The other two murmured agreement. I passed out Woodbines, which were accepted gleelessly.

“There’s a match on, you know, you lot” I said, yet I also knew how they felt. This was the first time Wolves had ever been to Brighton, and something about the place was different to anywhere we’d ever been. Different, and just not right.

The weather, overcast almost to the point of rain, wasn’t helping, and the poor light was augmented inside the public bar by a single dim bulb. The smoke lifted blue and slow into the air.

“That’s flat,” said Jack, returning his pint to the table.

“That’s flat,” said Jack, returning his pint to the table.

The locals didn’t seem to be faring much better. Laudanum palours and autumnal knitwear was the fashion here, and the only woman in the place had six-inch white roots to her jet black hair.

There had to be a better pub. Spotting the floodlights in the distance (unlit, as yet), we headed towards them through grey pebbledashed streets. We felt no sea air. Our legs were heavy and the impending fixture still hadn’t lit my heart as any Wolves game naturally did. We called in at the Cooper’s Arms, not because it looked appealing or that we had any great thirst or desire for a chat, but simply because the road seemed long and uphill. I missed Wolverhampton, and the St Martins summer we’d been enjoying up there, with long evenings of bowls and beer at the Stile or the Molineux.

Inside the Cooper’s there were more grey faces, more flat beer, more unappreciated cigarettes. We continued toward the floodlights, still unlit. We began to make out some chanting:

Ignatious Stark’s grey and brown army…

Frank gave my a puzzled look. “I thought they played in blue and white?”

“Ar, that’s what Pete Frazier told us,” I said. Pete sometimes watched Walsall when Wolves were away, and had seen the Dolphins play at Fellows Park.

“Eh! And I thought it was the ‘Goldstone Ground’!” cried Jack Dudley, pointing at a sign on the facade of the stand that said, “Welcome to the Leadstone Ground.” Though we had the correct change in our hands, we decided to retire to another pub and try to work out what was going on. The floodlights came on as we were leaving, dim bulbs bereft of lumens. To see a team in brown under such light could wreck a man’s eyes.

The beer was no better in the Sombreton Arms, but there was more desire to drink it. Chimdy dismembered a cigarette packet and began sketching furiously. I brought him some toilet paper, but his fountain pen blotted right through it. Finally, in a low voice, he said, “I’ve heard of this sort of thing before.”

“A different ‘dimension’?” I asked. “Ar, a different ‘dimension’?”

“What’s going on, then, Chimdy?”

“Somehow we’ve stepped into what they call an ‘alternative reality’.”

“‘Alternative Reality’?”

“Ar, an ‘Alternative Reality’. We’re at the right coordinates in space and time, but in a different version of reality. A different ‘dimension’, if you like.”

“A different ‘dimension’?”

“Ar, a different ‘dimension’. I do’ reckon this is just a different Brighton. There’ll be a different London, a different Coseley – even a different North Street.”

“A different North Street?”

“Ar, a different North Street. We need to get back to our reality: not just to see the match, but…”

“…to get home,” said Frank Badger.

“Exactly.”

“What are you three on about?” asked Jack Dudley, who’d finished his pint while we were talking and sat with a bewildered look.

“Get another round in, mate,” I suggested, “we’ll fill you in when you get back.”

While Jack was gone, Chimdy and I batted ideas about. We didn’t get very far. Though technically-minded, Chimdy would have been the first to admit that cross-dimensional tele-transportation wasn’t his area of expertise, while I was relying on common sense and Frank things he’d seen in Flash Gordon. I was beginning to feel quite apprehensive about the task ahead of us. As Jack finally approached the table, I thought of his Madge, and then quickly checked my thoughts. All things considered he’d probably want to see her again.

“What took you so long?” I asked when he settled in his seat.

Agnes and Philomena

“Sorry,” he said, rummaging in his pocket for his Woodbines, “I saw Agnes and Philomena at the bar and they were pestering me to buy them a drink. I couldn’t get rid of them.”

“Agnes and Philomena from the Coven Coven?” asked Frank.

“They’re not with the Coven Coven now,” I said, “They’re freelancing out of Cross Green, I think.”

“Coven Heath,” said Jack.

“No, they gather on the Heath, but they live by the Fox and Anchor. I saw them when we took the cut up to Stoke…”

“What are they doing here, Jack?” asked Chimdy, a little impatiently, I thought.

“Drinking, as usual. But they said something about a witches’ convention.”

“Drunken hags,” said Frank.

“Stafford Road scum,” said Jack.

“That’s a big strong, Jack,” I protested.

“Gentleman,” said Chimdy, “Do you not think that witches that we know from home who are here by choice might be useful, in some way?”

There was silence. I lit a Woodbine and waited for Chimdy to enlighten us.

“You don’t think, for example, they might be good people to ask about, you know, getting back to our own dimension?”

About to take a sip of beer, I held my pint before me and stared at Chimdy. “Harold Sweep,” I said broadly, “you are a genius!”

“Yeah,” said Chimdy wearily, “That’ll be it.”

□ □ □ □ □

We eventually tracked the witches down to a pub called the Hare, which was a good deal more lively than the other seven we’d visited in Sombreton. We had to ply Agnes and Philomena, plus the entire Coven Coven, with whom they were apparently reconciled, in order to get the simple instruction: walk back to the railway station, cross the footbridge twice, spit on the platform, and call the guard at the ticket barrier an oaf. To this day I’m not convinced that the last instruction was a necessary part of the spell, but running away from the 6’2”, sixteen-stone ticket guard gave us a head start to the Goldstone Ground.

I don’t know whether it was the contrast with Sombreton but Brighton seemed amazingly gay and colourful that day: light danced off the sea and everywhere you looked there was bright paisley and interestingly-coloured trousers. “Marrakesh Express” played in almost every shop doorway, and blond-bobbed girls in mini-skirts smiled disarmingly. Even Chimdy thought it “fabulous”. After a quick pint in a shimmering place called the Heart and Hand we headed to the game and were in before kick-off. Wolves weren’t at their best; on sixty-five minutes, and two-one down, Chimdy wondered out loud whether the real Wolverhampton Wanderers were stuck in Sombreton, and I began to regret not visiting the Leadstone Ground when we had the chance. But Hugh Curran managed to brighten things up and sent us home with a 3-2 win.

Back in Wolverhampton, Madge Dudley waited impatiently on the doorstep, to tell North Street the time and remind Jack of his responsibilities. Thus, any lingering doubts that we had returned to the correct dimension were thoroughly dispelled, and I headed home secure in the knowledge that there were two quart bottles of brown waiting for me in the pantry.