The day started interestingly enough, as a cavalcade of 1940s vehicles rumbled down Newgate Street – off to help the victims of the latest flood, which put the day’s journey in doubt – and I took on board one of the Red Star Café’s cholesterol specials. While Darlo had been an away game, the amount of folks in work attire showed that it was a bit of a doozy in terms of effort – closer than Sunderland for many - but Scunny was a proper away game, the real deal, which is necessary for the likes of myself, who managed to bugger up the train arrangements. This meant that by the time Heather rang to inform me of an empty seat next to her and Al, they were at Donny and I was just boarding at Darlo.

Thankfully, there’s always someone you know on a train on the way to a Sunderland game. There was some sort of security alert on platform one at Donny, which wasn’t much of a surprise as there were numerous dodgy characters about (on my own, they weren’t in SAFC colours, mebbe I’m just being paranoid) but I didn’t see what it was as various folks rushed around with their walkie-talkies and the Cleethorpes train arrived. The guard with the world’s biggest twitch confirmed that it was the one for me, and off I went on what must be one of the most depressing train journeys in the world. They still have grey pit-heaps and pit-head gear, for goodness sake, among the rest of the industrial dereliction. I seem to remember this part of the world – the Isle of Axholme - being touted as a famous market garden area, but the allotments on view from the train were largely filled with scrap cars.

I eventually met up with Al ‘n Heff in the Honest Lawyer in Scunny, which was smashing beer-wise, but the scran included things like “ a chiffonade of l eaves” (lettuce, I think) so we nipped down to the ‘Spoons, which quickly took a bad turn as the polis outside was heard saying “ah’ve been black and white aal me like, me.” Inside were the usual youngsters trying their first pint – I would have asked their Dad for I.D. so we wolfed down our beer and burger special and shot back to the Lawyer for more decent beer and a double Dekka –our first chance, football-wise, to raise a glass to Poss on the fifth anniversary of his passing.

Absent friends.

A quick taxi to the ground, and we were there – a new stadium, in the now traditional retail park location, with a depressing number of pillars to obscure your view. An unusual team, with no natural wide-men in the starting eleven, no Kavanagh, and a first appearance for “don’t mess with” Etuhu. We’d barely worked out who the players were when what looked like a blatant hand-ball let Scunny in and their lad calmly passed the ball into the net. Two minutes or so, not the best of starts, and not the first time the ref appeared to make a silly decision. For the second consecutive game, I was paired in the seats with MadClurey, and we along with the others, tried our best to get the team going, but there was no natural shape on the field. Yorkie tried a swerver which didn’t swerve as we tried to press, but Scunny were always first to the ball in midfield and thus were able to keep the pressure on. On the half hour, Ward showed his worth with a fine save off his legs, and the rebound was put wastefully (from a Scunny point of view) way over the top. We had a decent penalty shout just before the break – one of a number of wild tackles from the home side - but nothing was given.

Half-time was a bit like being thirteen again – down to the bikeshed and spot all the lads having a crafty smoke.

The second half saw the expected plethora of substitutions, with John and Connolly going up front and Miller placing Super Dick Etuhu. There was also some bloke we didn’t recognise appearing in the middle of defence but was apparently a trialist (that takes me back), and Billy Dennehy. If there’d been a reserve league last year, more folk would have recognised him, and the lad tried very hard but to no avail. As the game wore on, we accepted that we were going to get nothing from the ref, and that Scunny are a more than decent side who will probably do quite well in the Championship in the coming season, and that we were a bit off colour and out of shape. Murphy’s late effort that shaved the post almost got us something we barely deserved, and then it was all over.

Chopra had little to feed off due to our strange formation, so let’s give him a bit longer to settle in, and Etuhu was probably crowded out for the same reasons, so it was difficult to make realistic judgements on the new lads – including the mystery man at the back. John continued where he’d left off on Wednesday, as if he’d never met his team-mates before – while Connolly, in contrast, looked sharp.

To the lads who were giving the team grief at the end – “don’t you f*****g come and clap me, you useless b*****ds” - and who were probably the same ones acting as if we’d won the FA cup on Wednesday –I’d say grow up a bit before you turn into Man Utd fans who smash the house up every time they don’t win the treble. It was a friendly, it was a try-out formation, it was disjointed, it went wrong – get over it. Shit happens at every team and you should know that it’s part of football. It wouldn’t be much fun without it.

Outside the ground, there were free buses on to take us to the station, which was nice. Until the station turned out to be Althorpe, which is one barn and a small housing estate in the middle of nowhere, and not where we wanted to be. Smart-arse PC 171, who guaranteed that, despite what was printed on my ticket, and train would take me to Donny, just wait until the letter of complaint drops on your chief constable’s desk. Which it will. Because the police state we were heading for under Thatcher is just waiting under the surface and the longer we let them get away with stunts like this, the more likely it is to re-appear. I was vexed, to say the least, at this removal of our civil liberties.

Fascist Junta – it’s there waiting or you, so don’t let it happen. If you were on that bus (the only one that went to Althorpe, as it happens) get a letter written to the match commander. I’ll get you address.

So we managed an unplanned hour in Donny to try the Plough (wouldn’t let us in on the way to Sheff Wed last season because they were playing Scunny) where the beer was excellent but the bogs stunk, and the Tut, which was a bit scary when Hey Jude cam eon the jukebox and a bloke tried very obviously to get off with Al (believe me, if I were that way inclined I wouldn’t try it on with Al – no offence, mate) and me (believe me, if I were that way inclined I would) so we were on the train four minutes earlier than planned. Being a rebel I stayed on until Durham instead of Darlo and rounded the night off with a spot of traditional mag-baiting in the Half Moon.

Man of the Match? Well, both Ward and Fulop did nowt wrong, and Leadbitter hoyed himself around in the first half, but based on my recently formed pre-season 90 minute rule, I’ll give it to the Noz. Please feel free to form you own opinion.

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