As we all know, every single Wolves fan born before 1986, as well as quite a few born afterwards, was present at the F.A. Cup First Round replay versus Chorley, in 1986. Yet whenever you meet a Wolves fan who claims to have been at the game, you automatically assumes that man to be a liar and a fraud. The truth, I suspect, lies somewhere in the middle, and I also suspect the cognitive dissonance that this occasions within the Wolves psyche has had a greater impact than any trauma resulting from the defeat itself. Legions of fans who were simultaneously there and not there, distraught and unconcerned, bricked by Bolton Wanderers supporters and curled up on the G-Plan sofa watching Brookside; a Railway End full of Schrödinger’s Cats cowered into submission by Mickey Mouse in black and white: it can’t be good for the soul.

There was a time, however, when it was possible to have a quasi-infinite away following without the metaphysics. In 1884, thanks to a 0-0 draw in Blakenhall, we were scheduled for our longest trip yet for a competitive fixture: Derbyshire, and our former namesakes, St Lukes. What trailblazers we felt!

There had been excitement the previous year, of course, when competing in the English Cup for the first time, but the draw (which was regional in the early stages) had only taken us as far as Wednesbury. Now we were heading out as far as any of us had ever gone, to cross the county’s mysterious eastern border. The thrill of anticipation the previous year was nothing in comparison; physicians were actually diagnosing “Cup fever”, confining people to their beds when they babbled too fondly of reaching the Oval or “knocking over all the skittles.” Jack Dudley’s wife called Dr. Slaughter out three times in a week, and was forced to pawn the mangle to pay for the sugar-coated pills he administered with gloomy indifference.

Men shouted, drank, smoked tobacco…

There was no question of anybody in the town whatsoever missing the fixture, and the efforts and meticulous planning made by the Corporation and by private individuals to get people to the game would not be seen again in Britain until the evacuation of Dunkirk. By canal, road, rail and air (this being the inaugural mission of the Flying Squadron), hundreds of thousands of people would be crossing Staffordshire to follow the boys in red and white. The Seisdon Rural District made similar arrangements, as did a number of parish councils and church groups. The scouts pushed a number of invalids all the way there in bathchairs donated by various sanatoria and workhouses. Many fans, became hysterical during the journey; some left their carriages altogether and were never seen again. Inside the Peel Street ground early arrivals kissed the rope around the edge of the pitch. Later arrivals glided over heads onto the roofs of nearby houses. The Flying Squadron, made a landing on top of people’s heads. Women fainted. Children cried in fear and awe. Men shouted, drank, smoked tobacco.

Wolves lost 4-2. The fever subsided.

But everyone was there. Woman and children, young and old, living and dead (people swore they’d seen lost loved ones, religious icons, the ghost of Lady Wulfrun herself…). It was a reference for the town forever. Nobody was ever doubted when they said they’d been at Peel Street. Anyway it was just assumed that you were. Perhaps for the last time all Wolves fans were as one, although Amos Graves began a foul-mouthed tirade about George Worrall’s “lack of ideas” on the way home, and by the time we reached High Level station many were convinced the club was slipping into terminal decline.