The euphoria of promotion had hung over Wearside like cloud of intoxicating gas all summer, and a 3-1 home win over Everton, which included the best OG I’ve seen scored for us, meant that applications for the first away trip of the 80-81 season were at an all-time high. As kick-offs were strictly 7:30 in those days (unless your chairman had been at the front of the queue when big chins were being dispensed – sorry, bitterness over, back to the story…).

Part one of our convoy left the North Briton at 4:30 prompt, the three-car line led, surprisingly, by Mr Sixsmith’s fully laden 2CV - that’s an inverted pram to our younger readers. The Posmobile (1100 Escort) struggled to keep pace with two-pots Pete, but at least we had an hour start on the second part of the convoy, a mark two MG Midget, held up in Darlo because of work commitments.

Despite our early(ish) start, our early pace was not maintained, and we consequently arrived in Moss Side with no time for a pre-match nerve-settler. In hindsight, this was probably a good thing. A frantic search for a parking-space ensued, with the kick-off fast approaching. The terraces around Maine Road offered nothing but one gap at the end of a line of cars, which I used to form a neat right-angle with the vehicles in the adjoining street. (while still maintaining sufficient space for access by emergency vehicles, your worship).

We dashed into the ground, just in time to rendezvous with Sobs, who’d had less trouble parking his (much smaller) car, and watch our attacking midfield of Elliott, Chisholm, and Buckley supply the bullets for Stan Cummins to top up John Hawley’s hat-trick in a memorable 4-0 start to our away campaign.

We returned buoyant to our parking-place, only to find a 12’ by 3’ space where the car had been. A nearby copper thought it likely to have been nicked, as his patrol car had been at the last home game, when he momentarily left it unattended while he directed traffic. I asked him if there was a remote chance that my carefully parked vehicle could have been towed away by an over-enthusiastic, brownie- point-seeking officer of the law. He smiled, and directed us to the nearest police station.

Scarves away, we headed nervously for Fort Apache, the Bronx, passing a curious assortment of houses – one boarded up, the next with a garden full of gnomes, and the next with a brand spanking silver Mercedes out front (nothing to do with the illicit supply of pharmaceutical products, we hoped). The night was illuminated only by piercing white eyes watching our progress from the dark recesses of doorways. The sanctuary of the police station became visible across the wilderness, and, sure enough, there was the Escort, securely anchored in the adjoining compound. When I asked why it had been towed away, I was told that some tit had parked it in a daft place. The aforementioned tit was charged, released, and subsequently fined £24.

Relieved to have regained possession of a way home, we even managed to catch last orders near the city limits. Sobs didn’t show up for the arranged pint – the exhaust had fallen of the Midget while still in sight of the ground, making the car sound like a Battle of Britain flypast for the whole 120 miles home. His navigator(half-mag, half-biscuit) held the map upside down, and they ended up having their post-match pint somewhere near Bury.

We were £24 lighter but what the hell – we stuffed them 4-0!