They call it a derby, we don’t, simply because there’s nothing in the football world like us against them up the road. Basically, the Boro are desperate for someone to hate them but no-one does.
Not for the reasons they wish, anyway – they’re an irritant, nothing more. They have funny accents, sounding like wannabe scousers, with their perple sherts and their (sadly no more) steelwerks, and they can’t say “nerh”. One of the things they did manage to do when they shifted homes amid their unfortunate bankruptcy was to take the hostility with them to their new ground. It’s still one of only two places (you guess the other) where I’d not go for a pre-match pint. Trips top Boro remain fraught with danger for fans of any club (I read the social media, me) and you have to watch your back even between the visitors coach park and the turnstiles – something the local constabulary seem happy to accept as part of the matchday experience. I’ve been doing Boro for over half a century, and it remains iffy. On the pitch, we’ve won 22of our 77 encounters there, drawing 18 and losing the other 36, but off it the journey from town to ground remains a bit of a lottery. Despite popular belief, my home town in south west Durham isn’t home to that many Smoggies – I could take you to a dozen mags in few minutes, a hundred of our folks in less, but Boro – apart from the lad down the street, it’d take me a week to fill a minibus.
My first visit was a learning experience. Knowing from the Big Lads that Boro station was a Very Dodgy Place, where there would undoubtedly be Bovver with a capital B, we took the number 1 to Darlo, changed at High Row, and rattled into the Smog an hour later. If you think Teesside is an oxygen-free zone now, you should have seen it then – well, you couldn’t, actually. Pre-pollution control, the shy was somewhere above a pall of funny-coloured smoke, and the houses in the streets we walked through between the town and the ground were coated in all sorts of strange dusts. OK, you might say, how about the coal dust further up the county, and I say fair enough, but at least we knew what it was. Getting to the ground without mishap wasn’t too difficult, as the voices weren’t too different, and the scarves the same colour – despite me forgetting that my red and white effort had “KERR”, “PITT”, “PARK, etc. stitched onto it, a fact which necessitated rapid removal after the first sideways glance, and tying around my waist inside my jacket. By the time we did get to Ayresome at one o’clock, we’d realised that there was to be no attempt at segregation. That, of course, is utter nonsense, as we’d known fine well that there wouldn’t be any – the prospect of having to use our wits to stay in one piece was half the thrill. Somehow, the Sunderland lads managed to congregate in the same place, in the street on the corner of the Holgate end and the Main Stand, a solid mass of bodies unable to move through the closed turnstiles, and unwilling to move away from the ground. At half one, the groundstaff pulled of a masterstroke and opened the turnstiles at the other side of the Holgate and let in the Boro lads. They immediately set about collecting the loose hardcore from the back of the terraces and hoying over the wall at us, along with anything else that could be picked up. It was a frightening experience, but we had a good laugh as a large padlock went through the windscreen of a Morris Minor parked outside the first house – must have belonged to a Boro fan, we thought, so well done, you clever Boro Bootboys.. When our gates did open, my little band was among the first few in, and we had to shelter in the turnstiles as missiles rained down around us. A friendly Policeman urged us to “take up our positions”, so we waited until there were some more of ours inside, and followed their charge across the terrace. By the time the dust had settled, we had “taken” over half of the home end, and took in our surroundings. The source of the missiles quickly became evident, as the entire pie-shop area out the back was made up of loose rocks, and the toilets were no more than a series of railway sleepers laid a foot or so from the wall. No wonder we thought Roker was the absolute pinnacle of arena design – we’d been spoilt.
The next season, no sooner had we seen the turnstiles than a similarly sized group, bedecked in red and white, hove into view. Up went a cry of “Come on Sunderland” from the other group, and they charged towards us. Realising we were in the wrong group, we stepped behind a handy car and allowed the Fulwell End hardcore to pass us, then bravely tagged on the back. Fifty yards down the road, the Boro lot ran into the rest of their nutters, stopped, turned, and charged back towards us. We stopped, most of us turned, then some idiot at the front shouted “Stay, Sunderland”. A surprising number did, the Boro clattered to a halt, and a Mexican standoff ensued for a few seconds as the majority, ourselves included, decided whether or not actually trading blows was a good idea. This majority jumped around and did a lot of shouting at the back as the few at the front knocked lumps off each other for half a minute, the Polis appeared, and the gangs stotted off in opposite directions. When we got home, our fears about the railway station were confirmed when it was reported that one of the lads using the train had been asked who he supported. Being quick, he replied “Boro”, but then answered “Willie Whigham”. One broken jaw later, he remembered that Jim Platt had taken over. RIP, Joe.
Since those first couple of visits, there have been scenes similar to the Alamo at Ayresome when we’ve spent 90 minutes repelling hostiles. We’ve seen Joe Bolton rearrange Terry Cochrane’s face with a Birtley handshake, we’ve seen numerous red cards for our Lads. I’ve sat in in the home seats, and somehow escaped unscathed, and outside the Riverside I’ve run the gauntlet where fathers seem to think it’s acceptable to hockle at you while holding their child’s hand. We’ve won the odd one there, but the favourite would have to be Darren Williams’s finest hour in April ‘97, nodding home Waddle’s cross to condemn the Smogs to relegation. Well, not dead accurate – Brian Robson’s failure to fulfil a fixture at Blackburn, while putting out a team in a charity match, cost them points. We’ve witnessed the gutless Paul Ince round on one of ours until he saw it was Quinny, much bigger, and slink off like the coward he is. We’ve seen Ince get a red for actually being brave enough to raise his hands to Quinny. We’ve seen Quinny lose it with Phil Stamp and kick him up the backside, with the ref laughing so much he didn’t bother to wave a card. We’ve seen Catts and Leadbitter squaring up to each other – and subsequently swapping teams.
In short, it can be “fun” in the old school sense, but it’s never a family-friendly trip. They’ve not started well, we have, and we’ve got one of their all-time greats in charge of our side. Like Millwall, no one likes them, but unlike Millwall they care very much.
It will be interesting.
