There can only be one candidate for this one – the Jimmy Hill game in ’77. We’ve all ranted on about this one for years, but how the hell could they hold up a game to wait for Bristol City’s travelling support to arrive when they famously never took more than a tractor- full beyond the City limits. Coincidence my arse that the exact same thing happened three years ago when Coventry went to Spurs on the last day of the season with their survival in the balance.

Having got that off my chest (again), if we’d got a result we’d have stayed up on both occasions, so back to the story. We parked up near Stanley Park, and were immediately offered to have the car protected by the local junior Scallies. 50 pence up front, 50 pence after the game.

I remember being distinctly worried for my safety during the game, as the terraces behind the goal bounced when we bounced, and I was convinced that they were about to collapse. Despite frantic and passionate backing from their travelling supporters, Sunderland didn’t maintain their recent form, and it was no surprise when big, bad, Bob Latchford scored, and scored again. Doomed – or were we? Radios crackled along the length of the terracing, messages were passed and misquoted, anger and frustration bubbled up amongst the visiting fans. As we trooped disconsolately away, a polis was heard to say that Coventry were winning. We got him to radio the station, but they would neither confirm nor deny the report. Doubtless, some typical Scouse joker was having a laugh at our expense. Hilarious, I don’t think. In reality, we knew that, despite the fact that the farce 100 miles down the M6 was still being played, we were sunk.

We found the car surprisingly intact, coughed up the remaining 50 pence with a growl, and got the hell away. To drown our sorrows, we called in to a pub on the outskirts of town for last orders. We were constantly asked what the score had been, and what it meant. The reply and subsequent explanation seemed to provoke the same response from the locals – “Dat’s cat dar is” (“How unfortunate and unjust”, apparently). They also referred to the barmaid as “Caddle”, which I though was a strange name, until I realised that anyone else would have said “Carole”. I think that Scouse must be the least understandable accent in Britain (apart from West Auckland) unless you’ve had a lot of practice.

Five amongst thousands of near suicidal fans decided that enough was enough, and pointed their Hillman Avenger first east and then north on a seemingly endless journey home. We cursed the big-chinned offspring of Beelzebub to hell and back, condemning him to wear the Black Stetson of the bad guy for all eternity, and wishing a plague of ridiculous bow-ties upon him. At least one of our wishes came true.