We travelled by coach to the game in November ‘76, and almost immediately after arriving, became separated from the rest of the Shildon and Aycliffe lads. The atmosphere in and around the Baseball ground in the mid seventies was a million miles away from the fairly friendly situation around Pride Park that you find these days, and we toured the neighbourhood in some trepidation as we searched for our companions.

The area around the ground was fairly run down, and we eventually came across a backstreet boozer from which came the familiar sounds of football fans in song, so we cautiously entered, half expecting a smack from some Rammette. What we did get was a chorus of cheers as we opened the door – not for us, but for a well-known Shildon gent, who was entertaining locals and Red n’ Whites alike by riding a very small child’s tricycle around the pool table, throwing in the occasional (unintentional) stunt trick before alighting and allowing play to continue. Where he got the bike from we’ll never know, but I doubt if was ever the same again, as he is a fairly big chap.

The Baseball ground itself ended its days like Roker Park – dated and redundant – but was a formidable, compact stadium then. It was covered on all four sides, quite a novelty in the days when away fans were expected to occupy the nastiest, most decrepit part of the ground, and with the crowd close to the touchline, it was an intimidating place for most. Not, however, for our young left back. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the one and only Joe Bolton. Younger readers unfamiliar with Joe’s style of play should think of Stuart Pearce, Mike Tyson, and a bit of Ghengis Khan mixed in with Ollie Reed, and voila – Poker–Face Joe. His expression never changed, whatever (or whoever) he was doing at the time; Vinnie Jones is a flower arranger by comparison. Joe’s adversary that day was a Roker character of the future, Leighton James, who was exactly the type of opponent Joe loved – a skilful, fairly fast winger, and more than a bit of a workie-ticket. The kind of player the opposition fans loved to hate.

Leighton had a typical game – he teased, taunted, and goaded Joe; virtually inviting him to clean him out and thus win an early bath. Not one to disappoint, Joe duly obliged, until the contest came to a head in the second half. Leighton held up the ball in the corner-kick quadrant with his back to play, wiggled his arse at our fullback, and Joe predictably clattered him a beaut. In the book, Mr Bolton, said the ref. Five minutes later, and the Welsh Wizard repeated the trick. Joe hurtled towards him with the usual blank expression, with only the experienced Bolton-watcher noticing the steam coming from his ears and recognising it as a sign of his murderous intent. Luckily, one such experienced person was Billy Hughes, who had seen this play before, and knew what was likely to happen in the final act. Billy, a teetotal, non-smoking Scottish lay-preacher, happened to be close enough to get both arms around Joe and haul him away from the inevitable foul and possible custodial sentence. With much finger-wagging, he explained to Joe the error of his ways. Two minutes later Hughesy got himself in the book by continuing Joe’s good work and flattening Mr James. I think I saw a smirk on Joe’s lips at this, but it could have been a trick of the light. I also think that Joe was substituted shortly after this, as he was not the type to calm down very quickly, but I could be wrong. The only time I can say with any certainly that I saw Joe smirk was immediately after an unfortunate clash of heads with well-known Irish radge-packet Terry Cochrane at Ayresome, but that’s another story.

We lost the game 1-0, and stopped in Sheffield on the way home, for a spot of entertainment. Two of the Aycliffe stalwarts, Alan Oliver and Tink, tried gamely to follow us around the pubs, but at 15 years of age, were repeatedly refused entry. They eventually gave up and went to the pictures to see Jaws for the seventh time that season. Don’t ever say that following the Lads is not a cultural experience!

Those of us above the age of consent (for alcohol abuse) took up residence in a large but previously quiet hostelry, where the lone barman vainly tried to cope with a busload of thirsty Sunderland boys. Every time he went to serve in the Lounge, drinks in the bar were mysteriously replenished. Every time he went to serve in the bar, the same happened to drinks in the lounge. This tactic has since become known amongst travelling fans as the Shildon pincer movement. The downside to this sampling of free drinks was discovering what Underberg tastes like – you know the stuff, it used to be displayed in a bandolero next to the salted nuts, advertised as a “pick-me-up”. It may well have been a miracle hangover cure on a Sunday lunchtime, but early on a Saturday evening, it tasted like tar with a fart in it. We also had great fun playing the very expensive looking electric organ in the lounge, which the management had kindly left plugged in, along with a couple of microphones. It was unfortunate for the rest of us that the lad who grabbed the mike first had a voice like Donald and Davey Stott – I honestly think those characters were based on this lad and his brother.

We finally complied with the barman’s repeated requests to go away before he got the sack, and headed, pints in hand, for the town centre. They weren’t too keen on us going in the Mucky Duck, but Mr Hope, the Shildon cultural attaché, negotiated entry for our party. Skinner insisted we drank snakebites made with Sam Smith’s bitter and Woodpecker, much to the consternation of our stomachs. He also led the community singing during the interval, much to the consternation of the locals. The band was called Green Carnation (the rubbish that sticks in your mind, eh?), and being from Sheffield, did Joe Cocker covers to the exclusion of everything else. They indulged us at the end of the night by allowing us on the stage to sing “Sailing”. What a magnificent sight that must have been, as we swayed from side to side in time with the beer sloshing about inside us. Rod Stewart, eat your heart out.

Needless to say, Sheffield was glad to see the back of us.