Back to September ’72 for one of our first real (ie not Boro or the mags) away games. We decided on train travel, bought our half fare tickets for (about £1.50 return), and once aboard, headed straight for the buffet car. A small can of Brown was 48 pence, at a time when a pint cost around 14, so I’m told. Arg! These exorbitant prices, coupled with the low wages in the distribution side of journalism and dairy products at that time, ensured a virtually dry trip.

We followed the big lads from the station to a pub near the ground, where we secured a half apiece, and sat on the wall outside. This wall dropped a good eight feet to the yard below, where the pub’s two boxer dogs lived. To our eternal delight, we quickly discovered that these brainless animals would chase anything dropped near them- and I mean anything. We amused ourselves for a good while, watching several items being eaten for the second (or third) time that day, until the mounted police arrived.

The travelling support had been in general good humour, and everything was hunky dory until my mouth got in the way – spotting a policeman on a white horse, I gave a loud cry of “hi ho Silver, awa-a-ay!”. Everyone on foot had a good laugh, and even the officers on the brown horses managed a smile, but the Lone Ranger certainly did not. He leant towards me and explained in no uncertain terms what he would do with his truncheon, should I dare to attempt satire again. As his truncheon was the size of an industrial broomshank, I decided that comical backchat was unwise. The match itself was a half - decent affair, as we didn’t lose, and Ian Porterfield scored with a shot over his shoulder from somewhere near the halfway line. In true Sunday morning style, the centre half left it for the goalie, who in turn left it for the centre half, and the ball dutifully floated into the top corner. A particularly large Sunderland fan celebrated by throwing me what seemed like nine feet into the air, and forgetting to catch me on the way down. The effect on my ankles was such that I spent the rest of the match hopping from one foot to the other in some kind of manic rain-dance. Despite the classic strikeforce of Dave Watson and John Lathan, we couldn’t improve on this, while at the back, Keith Coleman, wacky Jacky, Tricky Dickie, and Mick McGiven kept Town at bay on all but one occasion.

With a 1-1 scoreline at the final whistle, it was scarves away, in true 70s tradition, and back to the station. We had time to kill before our train came in, and had to share the waiting room with a group of Town fans drinking “ale” (Huddersfield slang for Newcy brown), and talking very tough. As this was before ’73, when Sunderland gained huge popularity in all parts of Yorkshire except Leeds, we kept as inconspicuous as possible by saying nothing and smiling sweetly. When our train arrived, we duly climbed aboard, expressing relief as the doors closed and we began to roll along the platform. Passing the waiting room, we spotted the aforementioned Town fans, and hailed them in the time-honoured fashion with the usual gestures and taunts. Fifty yards towards down the platform, and not yet clear of the station, the unexpected, but inevitable, happened. The train stopped, we exchanged glances of horror, and looked out of the window, back down the track. Sure enough, heads popped out of the waiting room, exchanged glances of glee, and set off at speed towards our carriage.

Now, I’ll never know if this is true or not, but I’m convinced that the Casey Jones in the driver’s cab knew exactly what was happening, and thought it was a big joke. Just as the Huddersfield raiding party arrived at our carriage, the train slowly began to move away. As the station, complete with fist-waving Yorkshiremen, receded into the distance, we breathed a sigh of relief, and decided that, on future train trips, silence would be maintained until we had crossed the city limits.