As young apprentices in October ‘73, we took the Red Lion bus and watched in glee as the mobile bar opened at Barney. After terrifying the residents and shopkeepers of Kirkby Stephen (they really should have been used to us by then), we parked up in Preston. We entered our first –and only, as it turned out- pub with the usual teenager’s sense of wonder. Wonder if we’ll get served. Not this time. This time it was different, as my gaze fixed on the game of dominos in progress in the corner. A sight completely new to my young eyes – nine spot doms. How could you hold enough to play a game? How could you remember more than 28 combinations of spots? I immediately decided that this strange Lancastrian phenomenon should be shared with he rest of the civilised world. Sensing a business opportunity not to be missed, I reckoned that, with the right marketing, I could revolutionise the world of dominos. I could see so much more potential here than I could with those funny little dartboards with no doubles or trebles that they have in Oldham. Straight away, I formed a business plan – I could nick a set, and return to the North East victorious, bearing treasure from strange, faraway lands, like some latter-day Walter Raleigh.

A half of beer later, and with the future of British sport carefully secreted up my jumper, we left the pub. I decided to nip back to the bus and leave the booty there, for fear of in-ground piracy. We hadn’t got fifty yards when I was invited by the poliss to accompany them to the station. Maybe they lump in my canary-yellow jumper had given the game away, or perhaps some vindictive representative of BBC sport tipped them off. Either way, it was an easy collar for them – none of this “Yeah sure I did it and I tell ya I’m glad I did it” Jimmy Cagney routine. I went for the pathetic Frank Spencer approach, sang like a canary, and with the obligatory clout round the lug for being a daft kid, was sent on my way. The copper who lifted me even gave me a lift back to Deepdale, chatting about the merits of Dave Watson, with me eagerly agreeing with his every word. Mind you, I was that relieved to be going to the match that I would have agreed that Malcolm McDonald was a decent turn and not the cockney gobshite that he was (and still is).

So, with my aspirations of being the nine-spot domino impresario of North East clubland cruelly thwarted by the long arm of the law, I thanked my new uniformed friend and turned my attention to the match. Into the ground long before kick-off, I located my mates quite easily, as they were the group hysterical with laughter, pointing at me and shouting “jailbird.” As there was not much in the way of organized pre-match entertainment (no sign of the Dagenham girl pipers here), Shildon’s answer to Frank Zappa decided that the home end looked much more appealing than our end, and walked across the pitch to have a look. A brigade of young red and white foot-soldiers followed, but I decided to stay put, now that I was a recognised felon. This was no charge across the field, so typical of the era, but more of a leisurely stroll. Five minutes later, after a bloodless coup, the moustachioed one decided that our end wasn’t so bad after all, and led his flock, clutching a few blue and white souvenirs, back to the promised land.

As it turned out, Dave Watson was injured and didn’t play. Neither did Richie Pitt, whose career had ended in a heap in front of the Fulwell during the home defeat by Luton three weeks earlier. So it was Dave Young and Wacky Jacky in central defence, with the rest of the cup-winning team. Easy win, we thought. Wrong, said Preston, managed by Bobby Charlton, and with the still vicious Nobby Stiles patrolling midfield. The blue half of the near 22,000 crowd left happy with a 1-0, the red half grumbled their way back onto the buses.

Post- match Blackpool was obviously next on our itinerary, but the place was absolute chaos. October, full of the usual Blackpool tourists, and fans from every fixture north of the M62, including Scotland. So it was colours away, and the Bierkeller, the Foxhall, the Manchester, and the Pleasure Beach, in that order. We were ambushed by some Liverpool Scallies outside the shows, and I received a belt in the mouth from one of those walking stick full of Blackpool rock. We took refuge in the New Brunswick club, watching the “turns” in the deep end. Perhaps tame by Blackpool standards, but at least no-one tried to thump us.

Back to the bus, and we fought off (ineffectively) a very persistent pair of Liver birds in “kiss me quick” hats as we waited for everyone to turn up. We eventually departed only one man down, a good score for a Blackpool trip. Somewhere out on the Pennies we stopped for a run-off, next to some roadworks, as the flashing orange lights provided a bit of visibility for the bladder-emptiers. Fresh turnips were plucked from the field for sustenance, and as the bus pulled way, several orange flashing lights appeared from beneath jackets. As this was years before “let’s all have a disco”, no blame can be retrospectively attached to Terry Butcher. Shame. So it was a darkened coach, except for our mobile light show, that rattled over the moors, with “Ballroom Blitz” crackling from the speakers.

At our first drop-off, in West Auckland, we found the missing passenger standing by the road, hitching a lift. He had no idea how he’d got there, or even that “there” was only three miles from home. A fitting end to an eventful day, and all we had to show for it was a fat lip, courtesy of too much Blackpool rock, and a 9-6 domino, courtesy of the secret pocket in Sobs’s scarf.