There are a number of ways to get to the match, and over the years, we’ve tried them all. Hitch-hike, supporters bus, train, car, boat (Isle of Man), plane (Watford 1999), walk, cycle, and service bus. The last one is fine for home games, but, based on experience (this one), it is to away games what Seamus McDonagh was to the art of goalkeeping.

Christmas ’74 came & went with only four defeats suffered, and 32 points in the bag already. Things were looking decidedly canny for the lads, and, fuelled by the prospect of a promotion campaign and seasonal alcohol intake, a trip to east London on December 28th seemed a good idea. Myself, Tubby, (six feet tall, 9 stone), and Sicker (doesn’t like the nickname now, but he let’s his kids wear N****stle gear, so we can call him what we like) found an overnight bus that picked up at Bishop at midnight, and duly booked up.

We met in the Cumberland around eight, as we were wont to do on a Friday, and took plenty of goodies on board, in the form of Ex and crisps, then headed for the Market Place. We boarded the bus, carry-outs in hand, as our pals entered the Queen’s for someone’s 18th/engagement/ any excuse for a late drink. Coaches in those days weren’t nearly as comfy as those of today, but, had it been light, and had we not had a drink, I doubt if we would have got on – it looked like a refugee from Beamish Museum. This was the equivalent of the slow train – it stopped everywhere. Darlington, Northallerton, Thirsk, Leeds, Doncaster, Sheffield. At first, we were glad, as there were no on-board lavvies, and we looked forward to each bus station toilet like George Michael on holiday. Eventually, somewhere on the M1 after another bog-break in Leicester, the bus stopped stopping. In fact, it stopped altogether, knackered, and we had to push it across the car park and wait an hour until a replacement arrived.

It was well light, and way past breakfast time when we arrived in the capital, so we fed our faces and decided that it was too cold to spend all morning sightseeing/waiting for the pubs to open. We duly checked out Leicester Square, and were delighted to find a cinema “open 24 hours”. Being 18, we were doubly delighted to find that the bill was “Maid for pleasure” and “Erotic diaries” – two masterpieces of mid-‘70s “art-house” film making. We thought at first that we’d get hoyed out for laughing, until we noticed what was going on beneath the bowler hat in the lap of the bloke next to us. We’d have been shot for doing that in the Odeon in Bishop. We shifted seats and watched the remainder of the performance (the bit on the gravestone) with one eye on the audience.

Our lust for culture satisfied, we headed for the delights of Trafalgar Square, where we treated the Lions to a slurp from our bottles of Brown, then took the Orient Express to Leyton, where we surprised the locals by having a pie and Brown picnic in the park. Into the traditional freezing-cold open away end, where we were amused by one of our lads constantly expressing his pathological hatred for all things Cockney, including the West Ham fan who’d come to watch us because we were his second team. This London hater sits near me at Wearmouth, and he’s a little more mellow now – at least, he is at home games.

The game was barely kicked off when Billy Hughes nipped in form the right, and scored. 11 seconds – the fastest ever Sunderland goal? I would think so. Far from being a foundation to build on, the lads decided it was a lead worth hanging on to. Me, I prefer single goals to come as late as possible, so that we don’t have to hang on too long. We were still in the first half when ex-Smoggie Derrick Downing, he of the ridiculous sideburns (to narrow it down a bit), lofted in a centre from the left. Consternation on the terraces. The winter wind caught the ball as it flew below us, and carried it over Monty’s despairing hands. Panic on the terraces. It then hit the post. Relief on the terraces. Then things got silly – it hit Monty on the back of the head, and flew into the net. Disbelief on the terraces. “Arse,” we thought.

The second half was more of a solid defensive performance, with Joe Bolton beginning a run in the defence, and Jackie Ashurst replacing Tony the tiger in midfield. The Orient fans cried “bring on Cunningham”, and out came their bright prospect for the future – Lawrie Cunningham, soon to be of West Brom, England, and Real Madrid. He certainly livened things up a bit, and, by full time, we were happy with a point. Back to the warmth of the tube, then the slightly more reliable, but no less circuitous, bus back north. When we disembarked at Bishop, we discovered that the equaliser at Brisbane Road wasn’t the only thing the wind had got hold of. The remains of the day’s market was strewn about, and several roofs had been removed in one piece. The streets were littered with slates, and we were pleased to find our homes in one piece in the small hours as we snuck in without waking the folks.

Service buses to away games? Forget it!