Only I wasn’t fanned into beautiful sleep; I wasn’t cosseted by duvets and it certainly wasn’t a dream world. I was full of cold, it was fast approaching midnight, I’d been up since half five that morning and I needed to get up for work in six hours.

5:30 is a frankly barbaric time to be awake, unless the prospect of a fabulous bike ride over the moors beckons. Not today: I was heading off to Stockton to pick up some Parlings (if you’re feeling a little p-peckish .......) then we were set for Scotch Corner to meet the first away coach of the season proper.

I stop off for Mr and Mrs Parling, we make their customary newspaper stop then head off for Scotch Corner, lamenting the performance against Sale and hoping against hope that we’re in for a game more in line with the second half against Saints. We discuss Geoff Jnr’s cheekbone injury and the fact that he apparently was to be found in a well-known supermarket on Tuesday, the day after surgery, wolfing down soft curry and anything else that wouldn’t hurt his face when he ate it.

Scotch Corner is always the same on these away trips: bl00dy cold. We shoot the breeze with other Teesside-based Falconites and await the arrival of the charabanc; it duly arrives and we clamber aboard the first fun bus of the season. Steve’s already on the Becks Vier, the Winos are knocking back the bucks fizz and there’s a convivial atmosphere in which to spend a few hours of mindless banter on the way down the M1.

It’s Lynne’s birthday (a significant one but I’m sworn to secrecy) and presents are doing the rounds. I feel like cr@p; I’ve got some stupid cold or something and my sinuses are doing their very best impression of a massively-swollen water-filled balloon that is slowly pulsating to the rhythm of tyres on tarmac.

I’m sober today; I’m on Radio Newcastle Fanzone duty and therefore am not encouraged to drink alcohol before broadcast. Steve’s going for glory with the Becks and pressing freezing cold cans of lager against unsuspecting faces, generating yelps of discontent and inducing facial hypothermia in seconds.

We make a stop and I buy cans of energy drink, bags of Jelly Babies and chocolate. Much chocolate. I need sugar and I need it in the most readily-accessible form available.

The journey south to Watford is relatively free from incident, bar the ridiculous amount of time stuck in roadworks. Whoever makes the decisions to dig up most of Southern England needs a damn good shoeing at the boots of a crazed Joe McDonnell.

Navigation goes astray once we reach Watford and we spend a futile twenty minutes backtracking through congested streets. I content myself with staring out of the window and watching a robin bobbing back and forth on a nearby wall. It’s all I can do not to curl up in the foetal position, rock back and forth and wish I was back in bed, full of Beecham’s and Night Nurse.

We alight at Vicarage Road, possibly the ugliest rugby stadium in existence and I trot off to find Kev and Smithy – the Sarries players are getting off THEIR bus as I waddle down the side of the stadium, the not-unimpressive frame of Andy Farrell casting a shadow over me as they head for the players’ entrance.

The press arrangements work like a dream; an initially-doubtful steward checks his list, finds my name and gives me a lovely laminated press pass and very good directions to the press room. Kev and Smithy are lounging pitch-side, enjoying the sun. My right arm is hurting and beginning to itch like crazy: I tore much of the skin off it whilst cycling at high speed through a particularly vicious bramble bush on the moors yesterday. The cuts and the heat permeating through my Armourfit top are combining to create an irritation matched only by Austin Healey’s face whenever it appears on TV.

Kev ushers me into the press room: I’m impressed – drinks are complimentary, programmes too and there’s a free copy of the new rugby paper that will be published weekly. I chuck some coffee down my neck then we head off for the press gantry. Mic levels are checked then I go off on an odyssey to find toilets in the East Stand. I almost blunder my way into the home dressing room before finding the conveniences then head back for the gantry.

I’m always amazed at the professionalism of Kev and Smithy – they suddenly switch into rugby mode and they’re off. I feel seriously amateurish and hope that I’m not about to make a total @rse of myself. Brent Russell sits down a few seats along and looks relaxed and happy. Jammy bar steward.

The game itself was a fairly abysmal and dour game from a Falcons perspective, but from the press gantry, I get a superb view of a very professional and slick Saracens machine. Two late tries from Jonny and Tom can’t come close to repairing the damage inflicted by the Sorries earlier in the game and we’ve been totally outclassed in every facet of the game, bar the scrum. Phil Dowson and Ed Williamson need their heads read for infringing within spitting distance of the tryline. I must make mention of the committed band of Falcons in the seats of Lower Rous who were clearly audible from time to time and didn’t let themselves get too downhearted, even when it looked like we’d be on the wrong end of a nilling.

After the game, I again get lost trying to get OUT of the stadium and end up weaving a circuitous route around various stand and harassing several stewards before finding myself on the way to Oddfellows, where Steve and the Parlings are already lubricating themselves with the good alcohol of Watford.

I buy a Guinness, mostly for the sweet balm it will offer to my parched throat and partly for the mild anaesthetic it will offer to my increasingly-befuddled head and sinuses. We discuss the game, if it can be called a game and we rue what might have been. Ollie Phillips come in with some mates – he looks much bigger up close and is slurping on a recovery drink.

It’s time to go; there’s nothing more to be done here. We head back for the coach with Ed Williamson’s mum. The Falcons squad are gathering by their coach and a startled Jonny Wilkinson receives some truly cringe-inducing attention from a marauding pack of female chav-chubbers, who seem to have taken style lessons from Tarzan, lord of the jungle. Ed Williamson hugs his mum then comes back for a hug with Steve after loud protestations that Steve was feeling left out.

As our coach pulls out, we spot other Falcons on their way back from the shops. Jamie Noon and Tom May are sucking on ice lollies, Micky appears to have bought a small fortune’s worth of goodies and there are still several players still hellbent on emptying the shelves of stock.

The road back is a long one after a defeat. We’re treated to Geoff Parling Snr’s amazingly-animated impression of Muffin the Mule (a startling vision for those who are used to seeing a sedate ex-Science teacher exhibiting imperious detachment) and Steve’s attempts to remove hair from Wino 2’s head and the shoes from Mally’s feet.

Darkness falls and the motorway stretches out interminably. I lose the will to live as my cold bites deeper and I snuffle, sneeze and generally feel very sorry for myself all the way home, numerous Beecham’s capsules doing nothing to detract from the carnage going on behind my nose and forehead.

Eventually, it’s off at Scotch Corner and home after dropping the Parlings back at Stockton. I finally crawl into bed on the stroke of midnight and immediately am sat on by seven kilos of purring monstrosity – Holly is evidently pleased to see me and disgruntled that Mrs Doc is asleep and therefore incapable of bowing to her every stroking whim.

Away trips. Why? What do we gain? Nothing but experiences. Nothing but the sheer fun and camaraderie of supporting your team through thick and thin. Nothing but meeting up with some mates, enjoying a drink or two and some deprecatory banter. The rugby is almost secondary on an away trip.

It has to be. If it was the be-all and end-all, you’d go mad. Sometimes I think I must be anyway. Ten hours sleep in forty eight is not a ratio that sits comfortably with me. But I know I’ll be doing it all again several times over this season. And the next. And the next. Thumper willing.

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