I never thought I was going to die at a Newcastle United away game – Well, apart from this one maybe | OneFootball

This weekend, the latest Newcastle United away game will see a few thousand fans head to Molineux to support NUFC.

I don’t travel these days but I still get that envious feeling every time I see our supporters welcoming the team into the park. It makes me want to do it again.

It’s a long time since I have set foot in Molineux.

The last time being way back in 1990. On that day, Newcastle United won a second division game thanks to a Kevin Scott goal, which was scored in front of me and my brother.

Trouble was, we were the wrong side of the segregation fence, in amongst the home fans. As you well know, watching a game from the wrong end is not the cleverest thing to do, but sometimes needs must.

Back then, Molineux was half full, so we were able to partially segregate ourselves from the Wolves fans. If anyone got too close to us, we reverted to our best Barry from Auf Wiedersehen voices, so it wasn’t too bad.

However, the same can’t be said for the walk back to the car. A very bad choice of parking made the walk a very uncomfortable experience. It’s fair to say that Wolverhampton was not one of my favourite days out.

It got me thinking about which other games were not that pleasurable during my many decades of travelling.

Let’s start in Stoke.

I never liked this place, either at their old ground or the new.

The game that lives in the memory was the 4-0 battering of them in the League Cup in 1995. The game was truly wonderful, Ginola was sublime, but as for the aftermath… well that was something else.

Issue 94 – November 1996

A very upset and humiliated home end, seemed to be on every street corner or bridge in order to wave us Geordies goodbye. Everyone I spoke to afterwards said they had experienced the same problems getting out of town. It was madness as our cars and busses were pelted with rocks

What a quaint little town Stoke was.

Then there is Middlesbrough.

I have never had the pleasure of the Riverside, probably because my three trips to Ayresome Park were more than enough for me.

My worst time came when I found myself sitting with the team’s families in the corner of the main stand. We spent 70 minutes having to be protected by the police while the charming locals screamed abuse at women and children, while chucking the odd pukka pie at us. This was despite Boro leading 2-0 at the time.

However, when we pull one back, it gets really nasty and the coppers decide to evacuate us all from the stand. I find myself being ushered into the players lounge with the families, before some mutant jobsworth clocks that we don’t have a pass. We are told to go back to our seats.

We tell him that there is not a bloody chance that we are going back out there, so they decide to open up a exit and let us out. It felt like Judge Dredd being banished to the cursed earth, as I headed out of the ground.

There are a few words I could use to describe this lot, but they aren’t going to get past the edit, so I will simply just say… Middlesbrough, then leave it there .

When it comes to bad trips, there have been plenty, half of them in London, because it seemed that we never won in the capital for decades, plus you knew that Kings Cross would be carnage.

Getting destroyed 6-0 by Chelsea and then being chased out of Kensington was one of the “highlights”. To think we did this voluntarily every other week.

However, for all the grief I never felt that I was going to die… well, that’s not true. There was one time.

Manchester City, Maine Road, 1984.

I’m 24, an irritating little Jack the lad and have just got myself a black escort XR3. I decide to drive to the match, to show off my motor.

No phones and no sat navigation means we get lost and arrive at Maine Road twenty minutes before kick off. There is absolutely nowhere to park.

Now it’s five minutes before kick-off and suddenly we turn into an estate where there are loads and loads of spaces.

We dump the car and charge to the ground.

Within 20 minutes Beardsley and Keegan have put us two up, with Pedro’s goal being brilliant.

We win the game and head back to the car in joyful mood.

I now notice that the area has a real feeling of menace.

As I turn into the street, I can see a couple of lads standing next to the car. And they look pretty dodgy. Oh dear.

As we walk up to the car, six others come out of the shadows.

Oh dear, oh dear.

It turns out that I have parked up in Moss Side, somewhere this clueless kid had never heard of at the time.

However, I was about to find out, because this huge Rastafarian leader of the gang, wants to have a chat. He wants to know what I’m doing on his patch.

I’m a dead man.

I’m surrounded and I’m being jostled by his mates, when I burble, “I’m very sorry sir, I must have got lost.”

He looks down at this 5ft nowt skinny kid in front of him, then bursts into laughter. He is belly laughing.

“Yes boy, you are.”

“On your way little man.”

I’m not ashamed to say that my kecks changed colour that day.

The XR3 may be long gone, along with the wedge haircut, the tash and the stone washed jeans, but if I ever get to an away day again, I may just feel like I’m 24 again.