That train trip to Sydney a few weeks ago brought to mind another journey which nearly landed me in the cells at Her (late) Majesty’s pleasure.

It must have been about 1995, a lovely summer, and I was off to the Edinburgh Festival. My sister and her husband lived in Auld Reekie, in a tiny flat just off the Royal Mile, and we had big plans to soak up the culture.

The way to get to Edinburgh from London in comfort, city centre to city centre, was by train up the East Coast Main Line. It was Saturday afternoon. I boarded at King’s Cross. Somewhat dog-in-the manger-ish, I occupied one of those little tables for four, hoping that my surly presence would discourage others and I’d have it all to myself.

But it was not to be. Just after departure, we stopped at Finsbury Park station, close to Arsenal’s old Highbury stadium, and a group of young men in jeans, white trainers and football jerseys boarded, singing lustily. Three, in the black and white of Newcastle United, plonked themselves down at my table. Two of their mates occupied seats across the aisle.

“Hello mate! Mind if we sit here?” They boomed in what I now know to be Geordie tones. They plonked down what Aussies would call an eskie on the table – a styrofoam cooler packed with cans of beer.
“No problem — be my guest,” I said, indicating with every resource of body language that it was a problem. I buried myself in my book.

There followed some boisterous badinage across the aisle. Peeping furtively over the top of my slim volume, I realised that the whole coach was filling up with people in football strips until there was a heavy sprinkling among the usual families and pensioners.

As the train glided through North London and picked up speed toward Peterborough, my tablemates reached into their eskie and hauled out the beers. Loudly rejoicing, they cracked them open and drank deeply. It was pretty clear that this was far from the first time they’d whet their whistles that day.

“Oi, mate – wanna beer?” Shouted one of the three at my table. With resignation, I realised they were addressing me.
“No, thanks,” I responded primly.
“Aw, go on!”
“Yeah, go on – don’t insult us!”
“C’mon – have a beer! It’s just a beer!”

Eventually, I conceded, took a can and opened it. I toasted them feebly and took a sip. It was the last thing I wanted — enforced drinking never tastes good. We then introduced ourselves. They were Tom, Ron and Andy. Across the aisle were Ian and Pete.

After singing a few football songs whose lyrics were difficult to make out but which seemed likely to be bawdy, my companions focused on me again.

“Where you going man?” asked Tom, the lord of their misrule.
“Edinburgh Festival,” I said reluctantly.
“Oooh fancy!”

“Who do you support man?”
“You an Arsenal supporter?”
“You follow football mate?”
“Er, not really — but I do like cricket.”
“Ahhh cricket . . .?”

But they were nothing if not inclusive. They roared lecherous comments at any woman who came past in the aisle. They insulted all of the many fans who wore colours that differed from their own. And then they singled out a young lad — maybe 14 or 15 years old — wearing the away shirt of Darlington FC. I know it was a Darlington shirt because of the loud and obscene abuse my companions directed at its wearer and his team as he made his way down the aisle.

He was skinny, he was shy, he wore specs. I felt his mortification keenly. And it didn’t stop there. Somewhere around Doncaster, the Newcastle mob started blocking the aisle and forcing people to interact with them if they wanted to get past. Women were groped and subjected to salacious commentary; men and boys were abused according to the team they supported.

And I sat, running through that impotent mental dialogue that goes, “That’s really inappropriate — someone should do something.”
“I should do something.”
“But what can I, one man, do?”
“I should say something.”
“But what can I say that would have any effect?”

The chaos reached its zenith as Darlington Shirt made his tentative way toward the bathroom and the Newcastle mob roaringly grabbed him, subjecting him to what I can only describe as vigorous simulated copulation. Shortly afterwards, an announcement came over the PA system: we would be making a stop at York where representatives of the local constabulary would attend the train.

Things calmed down after that. I had my table to myself — but the cost had been great.

We pulled smoothly into York station and, indeed, four burly constables boarded. They stood at the carriage entrance and one said in fluent cop, “We have been alerted to a breach of the peace in this carriage. Who are the perpetrators?”
A large and righteous-looking matron pointed a quivering finger. “It’s those four at that table there!” she shouted.
The entire assemblage swivelled their heads and directed accusatory stares.

I was about to be arrested.

“I’ve had nothing to do with it!” I quavered. “I don’t know these people at all!”
“Oh, thanks mate! Thank you very much,” said Tom indignantly. “Happy to drink our beer, weren’t you?”

The policemen evidently thought I couldn’t be any kind of hooligan and rounded up the Newcastle crew. As they were frogmarched off the train, Tom bawled resentfully at the assembled witnesses, “We didn’t do nothin’.”
“Oh yes you did!” chorused the remaining passengers in pantomime unison.

And on we went. I had my table to myself — but the cost had been high.

The Festival was great: that same night we went to a Zimbabwean choir recital; we took in a lunchtime concert by Canadian comedy band Corky and the Juice Pigs; we watched buskers in the Royal Mile and ate delicious street food. But somehow nothing could match the sheer drama of that train ride. Nor the sense of great relief I shared with approximately 70 people as we sailed serenely from York to Edinburgh in blessed silence.