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Bolton


nomoss
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Or since 't market 'All became a swanky shopping mall with a Debenhams. And since 't market changed into something almost akin to the worst French market. As a kid, I used to go every Saturday with my mum to buy fabric, which she would then make into something for me to wear out on Saturday night. Not a fabric stall in sight, last time I went.

Or indeed, since Burnden Park became an out-of-town shopping centre and Bolton Wanderers moved to almost Horwich.
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This loses a lot in the telling, but it's a true story.

My mum's cousin's husband was the Chairman of Bolton Wanderers in their heyday: my mum saw the Stanley Matthews cup final from the directors' box at Wembley, and uncle Charlie could always be relied on for tickets to the big games.

And so it came to pass that my uncle, grandfather and my godmother's son went to Wembley for another Bolton match, courtesy of Uncle Charlie.

Much was made of the dangers of travelling to the Metropolis, and many dire warnings were issued before the three set off. Pickpockets, thieves and ne'er-do-wells were said to abound in London, and the match tickets had to be kept safe at all costs.

So, the three were walking up Wembley Way towards the towers, with my uncle repeatedly checking that my grandfather indeed had the tickets, and that they were in a safe place, and my grandfather repeatedly assuring him that all was well.

The swell of supporters crowded towards the turnstiles, and promptly ground to a halt whilst my grandfather, now at the entrance, unbuttoned his overcoat, his suit jacket, waistcoat and shirt, to reveal the tickets...pinned to his vest with a safety pin.
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