1987/88 was a great season. We were still in the Third Division courtesy of Phil Purnell's goal at Newport County on the last day of the previous season (and you can't help but feel given the circumstances that if it had been us relegated at Somerton Park we could easily have done what they did and shot out of the league) and a certain Gerry Francis had taken over the managerial reins. He'd plucked from obscurity a ruddy Cornish goalkeeper by the name of Nigel Martyn and a few weeks later Olly was to return to his roots. We had some shaky moments in the early part of that season - losing 3-0 at Aldershot on New Year's Day and having Glyn Riley sticking three fingers up at the away end was a definite low (though we had our revenge the next season) - but finished like a train. Sunderland and Walsall took a hammering at Twerton and we finished eighth in the League. City got into the play-offs and David Kelly had a field day. Happy days, and also the season that I started going away a bit. Grimsby was undoubtedly the most bizarre of the six away games I got to that season (it would have been seven but for a fascist bank manager depriving me of a trip to Brighton on the last day).

Soccerbase tells me that it was April 30th 1988. I'm not sure I knew the date even at the time, let alone sixteen years later. It was that sort of weekend. Rovers had been on a good run away from home, winning three away games in March and turning over York 4-0 at Bootham Crescent in April. Looking at the fixture list I saw that we had Grimsby away coming up. A map told me that Grimsby was pretty close to Sheffield, where my mate was at Uni. The perfect opportunity for a weekend in the self-proclaimed Steel City and the chance to watch a resurgent Rovers. I got to Sheffield midway through Friday afternoon and followed that old rule… when in studentland do as the students do. It would have been rude not to. So at about 4pm we set off on a long straight road from the Union building straight down into the city centre, stopping off at every pub on the way to spend some poor taxpayer's hard earned money.Some fifteen hours later and I found myself back in the city centre at the train station. I knew it had been a top night (and it was still feeling like one to be brutally honest). We'd been to some very good pubs, some OK pubs and some downright awful pubs. We'd ended up in The Leadmill and had had as good a night of indie tunes as I can remember in ages. Wedding Present, Flatmates, Half Man Half Biscuit, Redskins, Primitives, Shop Assistants, Fuzzbox, it was all there and more. It must also have been a good night in other respects, because I'd woken up in a strange part of Sheffield and it wasn't the one I'd arrived at on the Friday afternoon. Luckily she pointed me in the direction of the train station, where I vaguely remembered agreeing to meet my mate to get the train to Cleethorpes.We both got there at about the same time and he looked as wrecked as I still was. We both stumbled into the station and saw a train for Cleethorpes due to leave in a couple of minutes. Too good to be true? You bet. If there's a rule in life it surely has to be - don't charge into a train station and jump aimlessly onto the first train going to where you want. Because as happened with us, you end up on a two carriage train which stinks of a mixture of musty seats and oil, goes about 20 miles an hour and stops at every hamlet going. It takes about four times longer than going on the nice train that steams past you only stopping at Scunthorpe, has no sign of a buffet or trolley that will deliver you that water and food that is needed to fight off a fast approaching hangover and consequently dumps you in Cleethorpes feeling like a piece of s**t. Of course there was no internet in those days to tell you the best pubs to go to for away games. I'm pretty certain though that we didn't go in any of the ones featured in this week's away guide. After getting a much needed bag of chips we spent about three hours wandering around a variety of rundown seaside pubs with one or two people in them that didn't even match the worst ones we'd been in the night before. And so to the game. I could have gone to Chester. I could have gone to Doncaster. Or Chesterfield. Or York. Instead I went to a 0-0 draw in front of 2505 people and I honestly can't remember anything happening. That may well be due to the events of the previous night and the lunchtime just passed but I'm not so sure it was. I'll bow to the better judgement of anyone who was at the game and who either has a very good memory and/or wasn't rat-arsed at the time, but to me it was the most obvious case of "you've come a long way for nothing". A classic end of season 0-0 bore draw (though I doubt it was for Grimsby fans - Soccerbase tells me they got relegated for the second season in succession). In fact, there's only one thing that still sticks in my memory. No dodgy refereeing decisions, no hitting of posts, no missed penalties. No, the only thing I remember is Jimmy Edwards.These days, away fans at Blundell Park get the end behind the goal. That particular day we were situated on a terrace down the side. The view was pretty good, but it also happened to be directly next to the Police Box which was used to monitor the fans. From the away terrace you could look directly into the box and to be quite honest watching what they were doing was more interesting than the game. Then, about halfway through the first half, some bright spark pointed out the copper who had just taken over binocular duties. He was fiftysomething, portly would be the kindest word to use and he also had one of the biggest handlebar moustaches I'd ever seen in my life. It was too good an opportunity to miss for the assembled Gasheads who, like myself, were looking for some entertainment in some form or another and it was obvious it wasn't going to be on the pitch. "one Jimmy Edwards, there's only one Jimmy Edwards". "Jimmy, give us a wave, Jimmy, Jimmy give us a wave". It speaks volumes about the game that every time he appeared the chants went up. I'm not sure Jimmy was too pleased about it, but the junior officers were certainly finding it amusing judging by their faces.

I suppose it could have been worse. We were on an open terrace in Cleethorpes in April - at least it stayed dry. Thankfully just as the Jimmy chants were wearing a bit thin the ref did the decent thing and blew up and allowed us to get the alcohol levels back up. But a surreal day wasn't finished yet. Walking past the solitary Eagle of Bristol coach me and my mate got treated to a chorus of "going down, going down" by a bunch of Gas scarfers, which didn't even stop when I pointed to my little enamel Rovers badge. Some things never change eh? Then walking down the seafront a lad came jogging across the road. Just when we thought it was getting a bit dodgy he opened his mouth. "alright lads, want a lift back to Bristol in our minibus?" We explained that we were going back to Sheffield but even if we'd been stuck for getting home I think I'd have turned it down. "No worries, but we're a bit worried like. The Old Bill are escorting back to the van 'cos we've got a mob of Grimsby following us. Trouble is, the driver's been on the piss with us since eleven - hope they don't stop him".

After that, it all got a bit more relaxed. We had a few beers. We got the fast train home. We went back out in Sheffield and had yet another good night. Looking back on it, even though I didn't know it at the time, it was a day that would sum up following Rovers away. A good excuse to get away and see different parts of the country, lots of beers, plenty of bizarre goings on, good banter, some more beers, all more often than that interrupted by some poor quality football in a rundown stadium. You wouldn't change it for the world.

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