I couldn’t wait for the 1980/1 season start. For one of the few times as a Town fan, albeit a recent one, I was ahead in that I’d seen more wins than losses. I haven’t bothered counting my tally in the years to date. This is basically, believe it or not, because I can’t remember some of the games I’ve been to. I was looking at a programme from 1985/6 and it was news to me that we’d ever beaten Blackburn 5-2. I know I was there, as I didn’t miss a home game from August 1983 to February 1986 but zero recall.

The only thing that detracted from the start of the season was that it made my departure date for University loom closer, something I had mixed feelings about, not least of which was that I would start to miss home games as a result of a decision I had made.

We had a two legged game against Notts County to negotiate to repeat the previous year’s league cup run but failed convincingly, 3-1 on aggregate, before the eagerly awaited opener at…Shrewsbury. This team had gone up the season before us and were strong at home but we got a 1-1 draw out of it and then faced Preston North End at home in a midweek encounter. I hadn’t seen that many Tuesday night league games so was impressed with the atmosphere from a 10,000 plus crowd. Unfortunately, as would prove to be the case for much of the season and especially early on, Town struggled to break through and the game ended 0-0 and plenty for us to whinge about on the way to the police station club.

The following Saturday, we had a home game against Wrexham and we managed a 1-0 win. I can remember it for the fact that we scored from a corner. I’m one of the t**ts who sings “we never score from a corner”, although we changed it after Rotherham away in late 2007 to “we rarely score from a corner”. The game was actually featured on Match of the Day and the corner routine was analysed. It was similar to today’s routine when everyone runs around like a headless chicken but on this occasion it was effective. Anyway, thanks to our cunning plan being publicised this way that was the last time I recall us getting away with it at this level. Thanks guys.

Bristol Rovers away followed and it was back to the routine of watching the wrestling and listening to Humberside. A 2-2 draw meant that we stretched our unbeaten league run to 19 games before the unthinkable happened and we lost 2-0 to an unremarkable Orient side. Sad statto that I was, I had looked at the early league tables and would divide our position into 92 to work out what tier we were in as a whole. Tenth place would mean we were 32^nd and just outside the top third, eighth and we would be in it - you get the drift. My only defence was that this geekishness hadn’t actually turned me into a train spotter and I hadn’t found it necessary to wear an anorak. I don’t think I had one anyway, and if I did, I’m not admitting to it now. I’ve done a lot of soul searching into my past one way or another but some things are best left buried. A bit like those Scunny fans who infest our message boards.

Anyway, next up was Derby County and we were beaten by a single goal in front of 15,000 or so. It was clear that goals were going to be a struggle and this was reinforced in the next home game, a goalless draw against Luton. I thought this might be the last game I saw for a bit as I was due to start at Essex University and, as I’d not lived away before, my mind was preoccupied with the fear of going somewhere different.

What surprised me when I looked back at this period of my life was the venom that came out as I got in touch with the feelings from that time, a lot of them caused by perceived social inadequacy as a rare northern accent with little life experience as a result of a relatively sheltered upbringing.

Years later at an NA meeting, as I launched into a tirade against upper class, middle class, Tory voting, two car owning rich b******* , everyone else was banging the table with laughter or going outside for air. One lad told me he was laughing that much he was afraid he would stop breathing. If this sounds unkind, I realised they were laughing with rather than at me and I started doing so myself. However, up until then, I hadn’t realised how much resentment I had held from two decades earlier.

I’m sure tied up in all this, was the fact that I supported a very unfashionable club amongst primarily First Division fans. I have to add that a few years ago, a good friend of mine (someone who helped me immensely early on in recovery) who was at that meeting said it was still the best and funniest share he had heard. I think he knew that he wouldn’t be seeing me again and committed suicide not long after, something which affected me very deeply and put this football obsession into context.

Back to Uni, and I was slowly making friends because I felt out of my depth. Academically I didn’t have any real problems but was still socially awkward. I have wondered in later years whether it is a prerequisite of being a Town fan. Some of our chavvier element seems to have fewer social skills than I did at their age.

I don’t think I saw a game until December but was still following the scores every Saturday. We played West Ham and Chelsea away but I didn’t have anyone to go with so missed them. I did begin however, my long career in watching games as a neutral. As football fans do everywhere, I made friends with fans of other clubs and went to see West Ham against Wednesday with a Hammers supporter in a 2-1 win for the home side. West Ham ran away with the Second Division title that year, more of which later, and were getting 28,000 or so at home.

They had a very small format programme which I really took to. However, the highlight of the game was thousands of Wednesday fans singing “We hate Grimsby and we hate Grimsby” to confirm to my mates that my stated rivalry really existed. The Hammers on the North Bank were asking what on earth (or something similar) that was all abaht. I wanted to tell them but had been on the receiving end of a good kicking at Portman Road a month earlier after wearing Town colours in my naivety, and thought I might get an encore. I had already received a few glances for cheering at the Cardiff 0 Grimsby 1 scoreline at half time. It finished one each for the record.

I had found that I could get to Ipswich Town in fairly short order from Colchester and had been to quite a few games in my first term. It cost £1.50 to stand in the Churchmans, which was 30p more than at Town and I still say today that Bobby Robson’s team were the best in the country that season.  My first game there was against Manchester United, who had three players marking Paul Mariner (what a great second name) at any given time. It finished one all as Man Ure played quite defensively to avoid the six nil gubbing they’d had the previous season when Gary Bailey had saved two penalties (one retaken as well).

Then the UEFA cup campaign began. This was a bigger competition than it is now and I saw them turn over Lodz, Sparta Prague (I think) and St Etienne. The football was absolutely sublime and it would not be decrying Town to say that this was a class apart. Ipswich deservedly won the UEFA cup this year.

First home game back in Grimsby was Chelsea, early pre-season favourites to go straight back up. Town had suddenly found some form. We had beaten Shrewsbury at home 1-0 and then, to my astonishment, won 4-2 away at Preston in a midweek game, before following up with a 3-1 win over Cambridge. I had also impressed a friend’s dad with my reaction to a 1-1 draw at Bolton with the comment “wow, that’s one consecutive away point”.

It was a complete turnaround. George Kerr, in the next programme notes, commented on how he was getting abuse off the Town fans only for them to cartwheel on the terraces after we had scored. There would certainly have been room, as I think our crowds had dropped to all of 9,000!

I had a pal from Uni come up for this and he had to go and lie down in a darkened room after this game in utter disbelief after we avenged our 3-0 defeat away with a 2-0 dismantling, courtesy of goals from Tony Ford (to give their large racist element something to think about) and Trevor Whymark on his home debut.

The game was remarkable for the level of violence and, in football parlance, Chelsea fans asked some questions that Town fans answered. Not that I got involved, or at least I tried not to. Unfortunately, as Chelsea fans got into the front of the Pontoon, hundreds of Town skinheads surged forward pushing us into the melee. My pal, who daren’t open his mouth, found his arms caught in those of two Town Neanderthals who grinned at him and said “Let’s kill the cockney b*******”, to which he smiled rather sickly.

After this, it was almost Christmas and my first go at a festive drinking session. I had discovered the delights of Sainsbury’s vodka and me and Ged, a Sunderland fan, would do a litre bottle of this before going out for a drink, pouring it into a pint glass each and topping the little space left off with orange juice. I can’t drink diluted orange juice to this day without imagining the taste of vodka.

The next big game was Newcastle at home on Boxing Day and a crowd of about 18,000 saw another goalless draw to add to those earlier in the season. We won at Oldham the following day and there was then a trip to West Brom in the FA Cup, which I didn’t see having gone back to Uni early, still nursing the bruises from being hit by a car early on New Years Day on Westward Ho following overindulgence on both mine and the driver’s part. I’ve only just remembered that but I was lucky to get away with it bearing in mind that I clipped someone’s garden gate with my legs on my journey half way up their path.

I was coaxed back for the Bolton game which we won 4-0, in one of those games where all four seasons visit Blundell Park during 90 minutes. Town then continued their new found form in my absence back in Colchester. I went along with some friends later in the month to watch Enfield Town play Barnsley in an FA Cup replay at White Hart Lane. Enfield made a plea for any Spurs fans to come and support them and they did with 35,000 there to watch the Yorkies sadly win. In fact, fans were still trying to get in at half time. It was quite impressive although I changed my view of Spurs “fans” later in the season.

Even some non football friends were quite enjoying the odd day out and one offered to drive to Bristol City for our game there. This was before the days of the M25 and a trip from Colchester meant queuing behind all the Essex based Spurs and Hammers fans going down the A12 before a crawl along the North Circular and over to Watford, finally hitting Slough and the M4.

If you set off on Thursday lunchtime, you might make kick off on Saturday. You were happy to see a tractor on the road because at least you had made the countryside. This journey was all to no avail and the bloody game was called off at half past two. I’m reliably informed that KK, not Keegan, laughed at the fact that a Town fan with one of the coaches, had come all that way for nothing. He had something in common with the other KK anyway, ******* Sc*nny reject.

My first away game of this campaign came at Derby in February with Joe, who had absolutely no interest in football at all (lucky b*******) but liked driving, offering to do the honours. Ged and Dave, an Evertonian who did a brilliant impression of an Evertonian commentator describing an Imre Varadi winner against Liverpool, swear words and all, made up the numbers.

Considering that we were in 8^th or so place, it was a proud Town fan that looked at his friends’ awestruck faces as we filled the Popside corner and stand above. Then, with thousands of Town in the ground, you could hear the fans on the football trains outside. There were no arrests either, although our fans were a bit lively. I was particularly impressed with the Town fan who was told he couldn’t have alcohol in the ground so emptied each can to the roars of “Down in one, down in one” before handing the empties to a bemused copper. It is also the first and last time I have seen Grimsby fans in KKK headwear, presumably to emulate Millwall’s finest. The atmosphere deteriorated sufficiently for my pals to want to escape a bit early so we missed Town’s consolation in a 2-1 defeat.

Of course, I couldn’t miss the next away game, which was Luton. We went by car from Colchester and arranged to meet others in the railway station car park. Oddly enough, there was another Town fan at Essex, although his primary allegiance was to Man City. Anyway, we had barely parked up before iron bars and bricks were being thrown our way.

One of these Luton cretins was wearing a leather mask adorned with “Rapist” in a mockery of the infamous Cambridge rapist. I’m sorry, but I think the word twat was invented for such individuals. We would have ended up battered but the other car turned up and in the recurrent lack of class among Luton’s hooligans, they didn’t like the odds and ran off. Just as well they didn’t know we were students, who aren’t exactly renowned for their ability to mix it in a scrap, otherwise I wouldn’t be typing this now. Discretion being the better part of valour, we went to Dunstable for a couple of drinks before the game.

During the game, the locals were fighting the police and eyeballing the away fans, our attempts to look inconspicuous derailed by a Town fan wearing a Santa outfit. (Another one who twat fits neatly). Don, who took me to my first game, was at nearby Hatfield Polytechnic and had come over on the bus. He was aware of the notoriety of the locals and kept muttering “We’re dead” as Town scored two without reply just to make things worse.

It was with some trepidation that we left the ground and Don kept up the doom by pointing out the Hatfield Hilltop Mob, West Side Skins, and Men In Silly Hats etc. We parted company as he went for the bus, only for me to then realise that I was being followed. After my attempt to get into the Arndale was blocked by unsympathetic security guards, I ended up cornered in town and challenged with “You Grimsby bastard”, only for a larger group of locals to tell them to pick on someone their own size.

You might think that over twenty years is a long time to carry a resentment, but the next generation still go about picking off lone fans, as I witnessed whilst watching Brentford at Kenilworth Road. So, the no class lads and idiots I have mentioned here personally deserve everything they’ve had thrown at them and I must confess that I cheered watching Millwall wreck the place in 1985. I was wrong to do so, but watching football in the eighties could be dangerous and I still regard Luton as the lowlifes of them all from that era.

I’d popped home between these games to see Town beat Orient 2-0 and a third consecutive promotion was realistically on the cards. I returned again for Easter and saw Town beat Swansea with a goal from John Steeples, now the assistant manager at Armthorpe Welfare, a Donny non league team. We had already gone into third, beating Notts County the week before, but eventually, Swansea and Notts County would join West Ham in the top flight. Swansea went from the Fourth Division to First in four seasons so three consecutive promotions weren’t out of the question for us.

I had also managed to go to a game at Wednesday before Easter which had been earmarked for Match of the Day but was rained off. That had been a long journey from Colchester and a waste of student grant. My pals were sufficiently moved to write to GTFC who sent a really nice letter back stating that I was a typical stupid (spelt f-a-n-t-a-s-t-i-c) Grimsby fan. We were all well impressed. We would have taken about 10,000 fans to that Hillsborough game.

The goalless draw against Blackburn was featured on Match of the Day and much had been made of the way the team applauded the Town fans at the end of each game, something that we took form granted but amazed all of my friends.

Town lost at QPR and then had West Ham at home. We had conceded four at home all season by April but the Hammers put five past us, with David Cross getting all five. We were 2-0 down but pulled a goal back and then hit the woodwork. However the game changed when, to our amazement, Ray Stewart took out Bob Cumming and the hard man was taken off. We were down to ten men and West Ham took full advantage scoring three in the last ten minutes.

I had an ex friend (a friend up to that point), up from Uni and the selfish **** wanted us to finish off our session in the police station social club so he could go back and watch MOTD despite the fact he could watch it on telly at the club. Despite my mum not being a Town fan (something she has reiterated hundreds of times over the years but thankfully she could quote the back pages of the Telegraph from memory to a news hungry homesick student in Essex), it was only her innate good manners that stopped her from giving him a good belting. It was only that I hadn’t had a real skinful that I didn’t give him a good kicking at the same time, the smug ****.

The following week we missed a penalty at home to Oldham and the season was really over. However, I did go up to Newcastle straight after having taken up supplies of Brown Ale to the thirsty brewery strike hit family with whom I was staying to guarantee a warm welcome for evermore. (I’ve already written elsewhere about my experiences at one of my favourite away games).

That turned out to be my last game. I missed the 5-1 defeat at Cambridge on the last day of the season due to a platform change I didn’t hear, so I missed as many away games as I saw and wonder now why I bothered to carry on. We finished a respectable seventh, only five points off automatic promotion. We also finished above Wednesday and my main regret was missing our first and only ever win there in a midweek game I couldn’t possibly go to.

The season did end on a dark note however. I didn’t see a Spurs scarf for the entire season until they got to Wembley and what seemed like half the students ended up wearing them. I have not dealt with the resentment to this day and a lifelong hatred of bandwagon jumpers was started. The many Man City fans there that had stood up and been counted throughout their even then disappointing league season were to lose in what was admittedly a brilliant final and replay. Not for the last time would I rail at the injustice of it all.

I haven’t made much mention of the drinking at away games. To be quite honest, I wasn’t confident at the time that I could get away with it without a shoeing. Fortunately, the incidents I have mentioned here proved to be as bad as it got, although I wasn’t to know it. Saturday lunchtimes were a bit of a no no as it would be Saturday night before the Friday hangover went.

One thing I have just remembered is that it was mandatory to watch Tiswas on Saturday mornings to take your mind off the quaking nausea and not just for the sight of Sally James wearing the top of a naval uniform and very little else. (I swear that programme wasn’t for kids). Anyway, compost corner became replicated in the afternoon as the term for the away section and “In the mush” got a bit of an airing if things got a little feisty on the terraces. Flan flinging didn’t lend itself to football chants but the “one man went to kill...” did get Spit the Dog added in, as in “one man and his dog, Spit, baseball bat and a hockey stick...” The really artistic used to put the hawking in as well.

It’s no wonder I find the current chants a bit dull...