1972, and my first trip to London for the last game of the season. I secured a day off the milk-round, and caught the midnight express bus from Aycliffe, much against the wishes of my Mam, who thought that I was way too young to be heading off for the smoke (the place, not the tabs). We arrived at Victoria around 6:30, and at 7 o’clock decided to go sightseeing. We looked like a couple of extras from “Oliver” as we wandered around, clutching our little packets of bait. We cautiously got the tube everywhere, although, in hindsight, it would have been quicker, cheaper, and easier to walk.

At that tender age, you don’t realise that maps of the Tube aren’t drawn to scale.

Sightseeing over, we arrived at Craven Cottage early (very early), and paid to get in the open end, assuming that, as there was no roof, it was where the away fans would be expected to go. We were the only ones on the terrace at this hour, and our scarves were fairly conspicuous. We spotted a dozen or Sunderland fans in the opposite end of the ground, and our hearts sank – we had got into the home end by mistake. We approached the stewards, and asked if we could walk around the pitch to the other end. No chance, lads, you’ll have to go out and pay to get in again. More expense, but we entered the other end safe in the knowledge that we would be among friends. We duly joined up with the lads we’d spotted from afar, and who we quickly discovered were from the London branch, and were, how can I put this? Shitfaced is a more contemporary term that springs to mind.

Realisation dawned slowly upon us as we looked back across the pitch, and saw that the end we had recently vacated was rapidly filling up with, yes, you’ve guessed it, Sunderland supporters. So there we were, scarves away, and standing emotionless, as you did in the seventies when you were only little and stuck in the home end when you were away from Roker. Standing in the wrong end, we were protected by our new “Friends”, who turned out to be as mad as shit-house rats. They couldn’t have cared less if they got a good hiding or not, and it was probably this attitude which persuaded the home fans that these unusual visitors were not worth tangling with. Anyway, we survived, and the lads gained a point from a 0-0 draw, largely thanks to the usual heroics from Monty, and a less than usual central defensive partnership of Pitt and Horswill – hell’s teeth, that pair, and Mick McGiven in midfield, must have scared the dinner out of the Fulham forwards! (thought - have we ever had two gingers in the team at the same time since then?).

England were playing West Germany at Wembley that night, so we decided that another Tube journey would be a good idea, just to get a look at the place. Little did we realise that only twelve months into the future, we would be there as part of one of the greatest sporting events the old stadium was ever to witness. Although we had no intention of going in, as our bus left at 10pm, we were tempted by the offer of tickets at £1.50 from a tout on Wembley Way.(£1.50? Not much of a tout!). In we went to watch Moore, Hurst, Ball et al. England lost 3-1, and we didn’t see all of the goals because we needed to get back to Victoria for the bus.

First trip to London, and I had seen all of the sights, watched the lads pick up a point, survived the home end, and seen England at Wembley. When I got back to good old Aycliffe at 6 am, I was greeted by my bleary-eyed Mam, who hadn’t slept a wink all weekend, so worried was she that her little boy would come to some harm in big, bad London. She needn’t have worried, I’d been perfectly safe the whole time.