A brief exchange of messages with Steve1888 via Facebook firms up our plans to meet in the Skyrack later in the afternoon and we get on with packing an overnight bag and getting the show on the road.

First up, petrol. 106.9p per litre at Guisborough. Jaysus. I’m becoming increasingly glad that I got rid of my petrol-guzzling Mondeo.

It’s just started to snow in East Cleveland, but only lightly. The sky looks gloomy and (given the result later in the evening) we should have seen this as a portent of things to come.

Heavy traffic near Wetherby, the closing of the A58 sliproad and some stupid satnav directions through various Leeds slums means plenty of time sitting in traffic and getting increasingly frustrated with the labyrinthine route we weave through Harehills, Gipton and Headingley.

We arrive at Headingley Lodge, our hotel for the night and are immediately told that we can’t use the hotel car park due to the game. This day just gets better and better. We check in, admire the panoramic views of the cricket pitch from our bedroom window then I have to go and put my car in the Gate F car park. As I’m leaving the hotel, Mally and Pod are arriving to check in to their room(s).

Negotiating several vicious speedbumps on St Michael’s Lane, I find Gate F and am told that the hotel receptionist should have given me “a piece of paper” saying that I can park here. Jesus Christ. However, the security fella is a decent chap and accepts my room keycard as proof that I’m a guest at the hotel. The car park looks like the kind of place you wouldn’t leave a burnt out wreck, never mind my precious car but other options are limited and the beer is calling.

I park up and text Steve as I walk back to the hotel to collect Mrs Doc. We arrange to meet up in the Skyrack.

Steve’s already there when we arrive and the first pint of Guinness goes down a treat.  Steve’s mate from the World Cup also turns up (he’s also called Steve) and we engage in mindless chitchat whilst watching the weather turn from bright and sunny to dark and snowy.

Mally and Pod turn up then promptly disappear to gorge themselves on food. Steve, firmly of the opinion that eating’s cheating, snorts his disapproval and glowers into his pint of Strongbow. Once Mally and Pod have feasted, they join us for beer and chat.

I get a phonecall from Leipy: he’s arrived at the ground with Ruck. I give him muddled directions to the Skyrack and, to his credit, the big fella manages to find the place. More Falcons fans turn up and the ale really starts flowing.

Game time is almost upon us: we form a motley straggling bunch as we wander back down St Michael’s Lane, singing and chanting as we go. It’s getting really bloody cold now and the prospect of standing in the South Stand slowly becoming hypothermic isn’t one that fills me with delight. Especially given the performance we put in against Bristol only the week before.

We lose Steve briefly at this point and nip into the Carnegie Cafe for more ale. Mrs Doc and Ruck tuck into some fairly decent fish and chips (note that the food was both edible AND reasonably priced – South Stand at KP take heed) then we stagger into the South Stand and grab more beer.

We spot Geoff and Audrey Parling in the crowd and have a natter for a while. It’s at this point where I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around and am confronted with a very familiar face: it’s a kid I taught two years ago and who was a member of my tag rugby club. It’s a weird feeling talking to someone you’ve taught (and his dad) when you’re on the wrong end of eight pints of Guinness. He’s now firmly bitten by the rugby bug and is now playing prop for Malton & Norton U12s (after I advised him to consider playing blindside .... durrrrr).

The wind is howling around the terracing as we take our places in the stand and warm up with a few songs and chants. There’s a good showing of Falcons in the stadium and we make our presence felt over the atmospheric drums and the guttural chanting of the Cardigans fans. As ever, Leipy has provided the match report for you all to read and there was little of note to talk about so I won’t bother. I suffered a particularly violent attack of hiccups through most of the middle section of the match which was possibly the only thing worthy of discussion. I will mention the South Stand toilets though; spacious and well-accommodated with troughs. Another pointer that the KP management could do with taking on board.

After the final whistle, we stand heads bowed and despair at the inept display we’ve just witnessed. Ruck is vehement in his castigation of the coaching that allows a fine squad of players to serve up our particular brand of tepid dross. The only thing that can help us through this dark period is more alcohol, so it’s back off to the Skyrack.

Things get increasingly blurry from this point onwards. We get back to the pub and drown our sorrows. This being Leeds, it’s filling up with dirty workshy tax-dodgers, also known as students. Two take up perches at our table and become the target of Steve’s ribbing, particularly the one with the phenomenal mop of curly hair who looks like Mika. They’re a good-natured pair and don’t rise to the baiting they endure from Steve. Ruck is convinced one of them is Polish and becomes quite obsessed with this fact, trying to get Mrs Doc and Pod to bring the matter up in conversation.

Steve’s mate, Steve, takes an amorous interest in one of our party and his attempts at flirting provide no small amount of humour. Mrs Doc and ‘proper’ Steve are on the Baileys by this point and I end up being faced with a small orange shot glass filled with something immensely volatile and lachrymatory. It’s Aftershock, recipe for many a hangover. This is the stuff I was force fed on my stag do in York; the same stuff that, when mixed in correct quantities, can colour your vomit a startling shade of dark purple.

I neck the Aftershock, wincing at the taste of what appears to be raw rubbing alcohol, and quench the burn with a few swallows of the black stuff. Somewhere in this melee of drinking, Ruck and Leipy head off for their train back to Newcastle – apparently there’s a story to tell about Leipy’s frantic search for an off-licence near the train station so that the journey wouldn’t have to be a dry one ...

Fatigue is gradually hitting me with bigger and bigger hammers until I can take no more; Mrs Doc and I retreat to the Lodge, plans for a nourishing kabli gosth at Tariq’s shelved.

I collapse on the bed and am just starting to drift off when I get a text from Sam/Minxy expressing her displeasure at the performance of our inept Falcons.

As Mrs Doc is drifting off, she gets a text from Mrs Ruck asking whether Ruck managed to get his train on time as he hasn’t returned home yet.

.........

We’ve arranged to drop Steve off at Darlington station on our way home this morning so I set a leisurely alarm time of 8.30am.

I’m wide awake at 7.00, wondering why it is that every hotel room I’ve ever stayed in always feels so damn hot when you wake up with a hangover.

I fire off a quick text to Steve to confirm times for him to make his way over to the Lodge. I get no reply.

Showered and dressed, Mrs Doc and I check out and head for Gate F to retrieve my car. Relieved to find it intact, unspoiled and exactly where I left it, we pack our gear away and then try to contact Steve.

I only get voicemail.

Arse. This doesn’t bode well.

I have a very rough idea of where Steve’s staying: a B&B whose name definitely begins with a B and is located somewhere left of the traffic lights leading to the Skyrack.

We head off to try and find Steve’s hotel. I try his phone again – nothing, just voicemail.  Images of Steve stumbling under a bus, racked on Strongbow and Baileys, fill my mind. Thoughts of not being able to track him down and having to leave Leeds without him begin to flicker in the back of my brain.

There are two B&B places on the street, both begin with a B. One name stands out and I’m fairly sure that’s where Steve was meant to be staying. Mrs Doc ventures off inside to see if anyone in there has seen or heard from a shaven-headed Geordie with a penchant for cider.

Minutes tick by. Mrs Doc reappears with a wry grin on her face. Steve is indeed in the B&B: comatose in his room. He apparently looks like death and ‘needs ten minutes’ to sort himself out.

The bright side of this is that the owner of the B&B is still serving breakfast. Mrs Doc and I, having not eaten yet this morning, need no second telling and demolish a monstrous plateful of sausage, bacon, hash browns, mushrooms, beans and assorted other delights.

There’s still no sign of Steve. Mrs Doc heads upstairs once more and the message comes back that Steve doesn’t want breakfast.

We chat to a couple of Falcons fans who were staying in the B&B and who we were drinking with in the Skyrack the previous evening – they’re an amiable bunch and seem amused by the prospect of us driving up the A1 with a catatonic Steve in the back seat.

Eventually, Steve surfaces with no recollection of where he went after the Skyrack last night and no idea of how or when he got back to the B&B. It must have been a good night.

His room apparently sprung a leak in the night though, showering his laptop in meltwater. At the time of writing, it isn’t known whether the laptop is still functioning or not.

We get into the car and head off for Darlington. Conversation is limited and I bury my head in the programme from last night’s game. It’s a cracking read, full of interesting stuff and statistics – according to the programme, Stuart Grimes is our top try scorer against the Cardigans with three tries. Steve disputes this and reckons Anthony Elliott also scored three tries against the Carwash.

Conversation turns to ice lollies and hangover-parched mouths start to salivate at the thought of Fruit Pastille lollies, Twister lollies, Freaky Feet lollies et al. It gets too much for Mrs Doc who pulls in at the next service station so Steve and I can sate our lolly fetish.

Steve goes for the Twister/Fruit Pastille combination and I plump for the Twister/Feast duo. Yum.

An unremarkable trip to Darlington station sees Steve head off over the footbridge to get a train back to Tyneside – Mrs Doc and I drive off into increasingly snowy weather back to our little slice of East Cleveland.

Another good away trip, result notwithstanding, and the prospect of doing it all again (albeit on the Suppy Club coach) next weekend for a potential drubbing from the Hairy Queens. Beer festival anyone?

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after much swearing at Leeds city council and the AA (one for moving roads from their place on the map and the other for providing @#$%& directions), I finally spotted the road my mate used to live on and found a pub I recognised so eventually we arrived at Headingley Lodge - got checked in - twin room (just in case Steve was having those dodgy ideas again). And trundled off in search of food and alcohol. Being sensible bairns we ate first! (Ham, egg and chips - lovely).