I was living in Burnt Oak, North London aged 8 when my 18 year old sister started seeing, and rapidly married this miserable get from some godforsaken place way up north, 8 hours away on the overnight United Bus from Victoria (apparently), whom she had met at work.
One Friday night he said to me "Hawaydoyouswannacomewimmetothematchtomorralike?" My London ears had no idea what this meant, but I could tell it was a question by the expectation in his face, so I just said yes, hoping that this would stop him speaking to me in that indecipherable accent. My sister later said something to our Mum about a game of football that I was going to see tomorrow on the other side of London, and I realised what it was I had said 'yes' to.
The next day was November 9th 1968, Millwall 2 Boro 0.
It was a baptism of fire. Cold Blow Lane was not a place for faint hearts, but I don't think I had ever been so excited in my life. I was hooked on the Boro, and every match I went to for the next 30 years was with my brother-in-law.
This year my sister and brother-in-law celebrate their 55th wedding anniversary and 73rd birthdays.
So, yes, I do have a Teesside family connection, but essentially, I am a Londoner who has never lived any further north than where I am now (near St Neots, Cambridgeshire) and I have only ever followed the Boro.