Hull can’t be left out – it has been such an important part of the footballing education of my generation. The place is just like Blackpool – only two hours away, crappy old ground, always a big travelling support, and a great night out. OK, I lied about the night out, and (as the song went) it smells of fish, but here is always Northellerton or York for refreshment on the return journey. So many things have happened on Hull trips over the years - Gary Rowell’s first league goal, courtesy of a slow, slow dive by Geoff Wealands in the “pussycats” goal, or 3,000 people with hangovers on New Year’s Day 1990, courtesy of an 11 am start.

Anyhow, back to November 3rd 1973, when we travelled on the “beer bus” (they probably all called themselves that). A combination of a mobile bar that opened at Scotch Corner and our relative drinking inexperience meant that one pint of Brew Ten in a rugby scrum of a boozer in Hull ensured that Boothferry Park was the first ground I ever saw in stereo. The 17000 crowd was 10000 up on their average. If the day had started well, with a few beers and an enjoyable chat with Laurel & Hardy, the two poliss who were always on away coach duty when we came to town, then it was downhill all the way to the final whistle. The team Sunderland announced would probably have cost us a fine had we been in danger of actually winning anything that season. Bob Stokoe obviously had an eye on our game the following Wednesday – away to Sporting Lisbon. Having won the home leg the previous week, but at the cost of an away goal that would ultimately prevent certain European glory, the team of Monty, Superdick, Bolton, Watson, Horswill, Young, Lathan, McGiven, Belfitt, Guthrie (in midfield, I ask you!), and Bobby Mitchell (making his solitary first team start) didn’t exactly set our pulses racing for the right reason. At least we had Ray Ellison on the bench –‘nuff said! Hull didn’t enter into the spirit of things, including future stars Roy Greenwood and John Hawley, and duly stuffed us 2-0.

Hull had a novel early 70s method of keeping the opposing fans apart, consisting of a large piece of plywood across the corner of the ground. The rules were that the home fans could abuse, taunt, and fling missiles at visiting fans, but a scowl in the opposite direction meant immediate intervention by the law. Hull also had a typical early 70s fan, a fat lad with a Northern Soul jumper – you remember the type, black with a big yellow star on the front, and when their second goal went in, he went crackers. I mean, he so obviously lived under the stairs six days a week, and was taken on a leader to the match on a Saturday. He pointed at us, screaming something unintelligible and dribbling down his chin. We responded in the time-honoured fashion, and were immediately pounced on by the waiting poliss, who informed us that any more pointing at Hull fans would result in summary execution.

As we trudged back to the bus, a dispute between the two sets of fans attracted the mounted police, who duly galloped straight over our feet. The response of some young Hull lads brought a similar response to that which had attracted the law inside the ground, and we found ourselves once again under the threat of arrest. We eventually hobbled back onto the bus and set of for Northallerton for a quiet night out. The over 20s headed for the WMC, and the younger set shot into the first quiet pub we could find. Recognising our accent and miserable faces, the landlady revealed that her husband was a Sunderland supporter. “Has he got back form Hull yet?” we enquired. “He couldn’t go” she replied “ he flew to Portugal this morning for the match” What a hero! We left in awe, to find solace at the Young Farmers’ disco in the town hall, where, to our delight, every young woman in the area had congregated, intent on finding a bloke. Unfortunately, they wanted a bloke with a big farm, and our city-slicker charm only worked on a few of the less fussy. I eventually found myself in the clutches of a particularly attractive daughter of the soil, and was just explaining the crop rotation method I favoured on my smallholding, when our shop-doorway clinch was interrupted by her brother threatening to take a shotgun to me. He looked the part, with his sensible brogues, screw-on flat cap, checked waistcoat, and tweed jacket – straight out of the Fast Show. As I couldn’t produce the deeds to a farm, and was wearing a red and white football jumper, he deemed me unsuitable breeding-stock (the fact I wasn’t related to his sister probably had a bearing as well), and the suspicious bulge in his jacket was all the proof I needed that farming was not for me.

We had barely stumbled back onto the bus when most of North Yorkshire Constabulary boarded, and announced that we were all under arrest, courtesy of the disappearance of a sheepskin coat from the club. Searching the luggage racks, they found, among the sleeping bodies, the coat in question, which, we reckoned, must have been thrown in through an open rooflight by the thief when making his escape. Realising the impossibility of identifying and extracting the guilty party, the law sent us on our way. No sooner had they got off than one of the lads dropped his keks to reveal a pair of tights. “I don’t know how they got there” he protested, and I doubt if the original owner was likely to complain to the police that she’d allowed a Sunderland fan to remove her tights and then put them on himself. Whatever turns you on!

Safely back on the A19, we found a couple of crates of Maxim to speed up the last leg of our homeward journey – the perfect end to a perfectly normal day.