Those of you with good memories may remember “plan C” from the Bristol City tale, way back in Issue 10 – well, here’s how it changed to plans D, E, & F in August ‘75. Having been half frozen during my alfresco kip in the Bristol park shelter, I decided that a duffel coat over my “lucky” Levi jacket (laid to rest after one appearance at the new ground – you can’t argue with a pedigree that included five relegations and three goal-free Wembley visits), and a plastic mac in the pocket. Thus prepared, I got out my trusty thumb, and set off south, allowing a good 26 hours for the trip.

I managed the first 100 miles without a hitch (pun) before spending the obligatory 3 hours near Doncaster. Around 9pm, a Reliant Scimitar pulled up, and the driver replied “Oxford? Drop you off near there” – sorted! I happily climbed aboard, then noticed two other hitch-hikers, crammed into the back with their man-size rucksacks (ever seen the recent Volkswagen Bora advert?). Within a few minutes, I came to understand the reason for their worried expressions, as we hurtled south with one wheel on the central reservation, honking and flashing at anyone travelling at less than 120 mph. I stared up through the open sun-roof, watching the night sky flash past, and contemplating my chances of surviving the journey.

I was eventually dropped of “near Oxford” – I don’t know what my driver did for a living, but he was no geography teacher. If you check your maps for Shefford, you’ll find it happily nestling next to Baldock. My next lift was with ten West Indians in a Cortina, who listened with interest to my story, and were still laughing when they dropped me in Watford at midnight. I decided I had travelled far enough, and spent the night in a cricket pavilion there, emerging, Compo-like, at dawn, scaring the pants off the milkman delivering the wherewithal for the afternoon’s tea and sandwiches.

A series of poor lifts got me as far as High Wycombe, where I gave up the thumb after sprinting to an Alfa Romeo with the roof down, only to be beaten into the passionate arms of the driver by his gorgeous girlfriend, who skipped from a nearby house. Looking at myself, I couldn’t fault his choice of travelling companion. The service bus was a welcome, if over-budget, luxury, and I felt a sense of relief as the dreaming spires of Oxford came into view as we dropped down the northern edge of the Chiltern Hills.

Despite the team’s pathetic antics a few days previously, a few pints in the White Swan soon got us back in the hopelessly optimistic mood that usually precedes away games – Tricky Dicky was in for Whacky Jacky, and we had three up front in Holden, Robson, and Halom – how could we lose? As it turned out we didn’t, although the pre-match pints combined with lack of food to make me forget Bobby Moncur’s goal, and leave the ground convinced that we had lost 1-0. I was eventually convinced of the correct score by Col from school, who I had met in the pub, and who was also travelling by the rule of thumb. We agreed to join forces, but, unfortunately, there is an unwritten law which states that doubling the number of hikers halves the chances of a lift. This meant that we walked for miles around the ring-road, with no sign of a pick-up. We took turns to put our arms out, and, as I extended mine for about the fourteenth time, my fist came into sharp contact with the head of a passing moped-rider. Fortunately, there is an unwritten law which states that doubling the number of hikers halves the chances of a good thumping form irate motor-cyclists.

By 10 pm, we were still liftless, somewhere on the A43, so we pooled our finances and found we could afford a couple of pints apiece in a pretty village pub. We asked if they had any pies, and were told they only had quiche. We asked what that was, decided that egg custard with onions in wouldn’t kill us, and duly spent the last of our pennies. Suitably refreshed, we set off again, and met up with a serious hitch-hiker – waterproofs, big rucksack, map, and (most importantly) an endless supply of salted nuts, which he happily shared. We slept, surprisingly well, under a tree on a military camp near Bicester, and I awoke around six to find that Col had set off a couple of hours earlier, so that he could be back in Bishop for his Sunday dinner.

I left my new friend, and walked another ten miles or so before hunger forced a pint of milk from someone’s doorstep and down my throat - sorry, middle England, but my need was greater than yours. By this time my blisters were getting the better of me, and it was with great relief that I accepted a lift to the M1. I’d only been waiting at the junction for a couple of minutes when my next lift arrived. “Hold tight” said the driver, handing me a helmet, and I climbed aboard a Triumph 650 for 180 miles of sheer terror. As my experience of motorcycles was limited to wheelies on Stubber’s moped outside school, I spent most of the ride north hanging tightly onto the strap, with my arse bumped a foot above the seat at every tiny bump. I dismounted at the A68 three hours later, my right leg soaked in hot oil, and wobbled the four miles to Shildon, where I met another school friend who lent me 20p for the bus home.

I arrived in Bishop around 2pm, about two hours ahead of Col, and in time to cook my own Sunday dinner – no quiche involved.