WHEN news filtered through that an unexpected fuel delivery had arrived in town there was only one thing for it -- join the hordes of eager motorists to find out what the eager petrol-punters thought of the current crisis.

And of course get myself a much-needed fill-up in the process.

The rumour was that a filling station on Shadsworth Road, in Blackburn, had been designated a delivery yesterday morning. Heading out to the Esso service station it soon became clear that the rumours were true and had reached hundreds of other motorists.

Police officers shepherded the traffic, descending on the area from all sides, to form one orderly queue on Shadsworth Road. One huge orderly queue.

I joined the queue at approximately 12.15pm. By half-past I had not moved an inch. We were all in for a long wait and we knew it.

Children walked past pointing and sniggering at the foolish motorists waiting patiently for our fix. Some of them teased that the fuel had already run out and we would be left high and dry. Naturally few of us smiled.

By 1.30pm the convoy had slowly crept forward but there seemed to be no end in sight. Drowning in a sea of cars you would think the drivers' patience would be running as low as their fuel although the majority were actually in support of the protesters whose blockades at the oil refineries were causing the crisis -- even if it put their chance of becoming the World Arm Wrestling Champion in jeopardy.

"I've got the championships coming up next week in Virginia Beach, America," said Neil Pickup, the current British and European Arm Wrestling champ, who had walked to the petrol station from his home on the Oakdale Estate in Darwen armed with a plastic container. "If I can't get any petrol I won't be able to get to Manchester Airport for the flight out. I agree with what the protesters are doing as long as emergency services still get some fuel."

As the hours slowly passed -- and the traffic even slower -- things began to look up. Like an oasis in the desert the welcome sight of the filling station signs began to loom into view.

On the forecourt motorists quenched their thirsty vehicles although watchful attendants made sure that no more than £10 per customer was allocated so that everyone could drink from the holy cup.

At last the turn was mine. After almost three hours I dutifully fed the rationed amount into the engine and drove back past the ever-lengthening queue. Smirking and pointing.