Charlton just qualifies as a London game – it is geographically in the capital, but has an atmosphere completely differently to any other London club (apart form Wimbledon/Palace, which has whatever atmosphere the away fans choose to take with them). It is very much a family club nowadays, and a good place for a day out, if you can stand another train journey from King’s Cross.

We did the usual ICPP (inter city p**s pots) trip for the game in 1995/96 season, keeping up our civilised appearance on the way down by staying off the drink on the train.. We met up with Steve and Tony from Chester le Street as arranged, and dined at Del’s before moving on to the Lamb. We managed to persuade the landlord to get us a couple of taxis for the next leg of our journey to Waterloo, and they duly arrived – a Sierra and a Sweeny style Granada, giving us in the second car the chance to utter the immortal phrase “follow that cab!”

On the train, and having stuck our miniature Sunderland scarf on the window (a la car back window), we noticed a couple of youths pointing and sniggering at us, apparently because of the way we spoke. They were duly summoned over to our seat, and given a copy of “Viz”, open at the Biffa Bacon page, telling them in no uncertain terms to read, learn, and inwardly digest. Their attempts to translate Biffa into Cockney were hilarious, and kept us amused until we arrived at Charlton, where we met the next members of our party in the pub nearest the ground (it works for every ground in the country, and you can always find somebody that you know).

The barman made my day by only charging me for three pints instead of the five he served me, and then we were approached by a young man selling Charlton scratchcards. He was a little dubious about asking us to buy them, but, as the pub was absolutely chocka with Sunderland fans, he had little choice. Unfortunately for him, someone had given him a pile of cards that contained at least 74% winners, and every two minutes there was a cry of “I’ve won – where’s me fiver?” The poor lad was virtually in tears when he managed to escape at quarter to three, with less money than he’d come in with.

Having collected the final members of our group at the turnstiles, we endured one of the worst games inflicted on us by Mr Buxton. Goodman aside, we lacked both ideas and commitment The team looked as if they knew this, but did not seem to have the heart to do anything about it. It was only February, but we agreed that the team had relegation written all over it We were awful, gutless, and lost 1-0 to a poor Charlton side.

In the taxi from Waterloo to King’s Cross, we told the driver that we needed to go to the pub behind the station, to which he replied that it was frequented by “thieves, pimps, and whores”, and insisted on payment up front and a “rolling exit” outside said establishment. Two of us did the off-licence run, while the remainder decided to be brave and get the beers in. The “thieves, pimps, and whores” turned out to be wearing Leicester colours, and were in as bad a mood as we were about football, having just been thumped at Arsenal. They provided good crack for half an hour until it was time to share out the carrier bags and head for the station. Unfortunately, we had to walk past the offy on the way (it looked like something out of the Bronx – all wire mesh, and the cashier behind a plate glass screen), and one of our party showed distinct lack of moral fibre (not for the first time) and popped in for a half bottle of whisky. The game had been that bad, he said., that we needed more substantial refreshment.

The return journey was the usual combination of drink, song, and being asked to keep it quiet in the “number twenty 2” in Darlo before the final desperate beers in Bishop. Like I’ve said before, never let the ineptitude on the pitch spoil a good day out.