Four days later, and another B in Lancashire. Turf Moor was a hole in the ground back in the 70s, and the natives were most certainly not of the friendly variety. On our visit on New Year’s Eve 1975, we travelled down in style, in Tubby’s new(ish) Escort. Our first New Year’s eve drink was in Accrington, and if ever a town’s fortunes mirrored the fortunes of football team, this was it. The whole place looked like it had gone bust in the early sixties. Even the Vauxhall Viva behind us at the traffic lights burst into flames, and we watched the driver frantically beating at the blazing engine with his jacket, instead of following our example and getting the hell away from it. The Rolls Royce (must have been a stranger), behind him , ), which, as we all know, carried a full fire fighting kit, pulled alongside as if to render assistance, and then zoomed off down the street.

Our pint in the town was enlivened by Stubber’s usual success on the fruit machine– he managed to get all of the lights on it flashing frantically, but didn’t have a clue what to do next. As we stood in a small circle around this impressive, but baffling, 1970s equivalent of a laser disco, the barman leapt over the counter, and pressed another four buttons on the machine. “There you go, lads” he proclaimed proudly, as he stood back to await the fruits of his labours. As we waited for the inevitable torrent of coins, the bandit flashed a slightly different sequence of lights, made some whirring noises, and plopped a solitary ten pence piece into the tray. The barman looked suitably impressed, and went back to work. Stubber collected his winnings, bought two bags of crisps between the three of us, and we left. It just about summed up Accrington – think small and you won’t be disappointed.

On to Burnley, which is only a slightly upmarket version of Accrington, and to the football. Once in the ground New Years Spirit arrived early, in the form of a half bottle of Bell’s hitting me in the chest, still with a couple of shots left in it. The locals continued in this festive vein throughout the first half, spending most of the time throwing bottles and bricks over the fence at us. This fence ran down the middle of the side terraces, and the polis decided it was sufficient to keep the Burnley fans on the appropriate side, and duly positioned themselves between us and the fence. It kept them on the appropriate side right enough, but it didn’t stop them the from pulling the metal posts out of the fence and poking them at us, before launching them into the air above us, reminiscent of a scene from Zulu.

Another Lancashire draw, this time of the goalless variety, and we decided to leg it back to the car as fast as our little legs would carry us. Unfortunately, we had parked facing into a dead end back street, so that a hasty exit was extremely difficult. A quick exit would have been handy, as my distinctive headgear had been noted by the prowling Burnley boys. I thought that a nice big Homburg was just the fashion statement that the travelling Roker fans should consider at the time, and would look great at away games. A focal point, if you like. It was, and they didn’t like. This was its first and last outing - it was back to the tried and tested, multi-cultural, flat cap for me.

We listened to Lynyrd Skynrd all the way home (strange what you remember, isn’t it?), and flew along the A66 as I lay across the back seat singing “Freebird”. We arrived home in plenty of time for Tubby to park up in Shildon, get down to Bishop, and claim our seats in the Station to see in the New Year. We celebrated the strokes of midnight by cheering loudly as Stubber kindly ensured our anonymity at future away games by putting a match to my Homburg.