Evening Telegraph journalist Andy Turner reflects on the last two decades as a Preston North End fan

IT was a night match, a Tuesday I think. Some of the details haven't stuck in my mind but what I do remember is that I was 13, it was Derby County away, at the Baseball Ground, Preston won 2-1 -- and were relegated from the old Second Division.

This was 19-years ago, before Teletext became the 20-times-a-night quick fix of information that feeds every soccer nut's craving for up-to-the-minute news.

My attempt to find out the result from the Nine O'Clock News proved fruitless and although the sound of my dad mumbling as he returned from the pub an hour after I had gone to bed made me fear the worst, I had to endure a troubled night before a smiling Blackburn Rovers fan confirmed the worst at school the next day.

Relegated -- on goal difference.

The feeling of incomprehension left me numb. This was Preston North End, first double winners, a team managed by World Cup winner Nobby Stiles and a team that I had cheered out of the Third Division after being taken to support them by my dad five years earlier.

I didn't realise they could let me down -- and leave me feeling so low. If I had known then what I know now I would have tried to cut the umbilical cord there and then.

But I didn't. And my fascination, which at times has bordered on obsession, has been repaid by disappointment after disappointment, mixed in with a light sprinkling of light relief which I am loath to call success because it was so fleeting. I've had more kicks in the teeth than a careless farrier. The sacking of Nobby Stiles, which was my first taste of knee-jerk football panic.

The disaster that was Tommy Docherty -- taking the club from promotion favourites to the brink of relegation to Division Four in three months.

Brian Kidd -- a premonition of what was to come at Ewood Park. I will never forgive him for saying he would consider a playing comeback and sweat blood for the cause one week, and resigning to go to Old Trafford the next.

Walsall away -- 3-1 up with 20 minutes to go, and losing 7-4 with only nine men on the pitch. The exact date escapes me but the ridicule never will.

Wigan at home at around the same time -- We lost 5-2, with my first real hero Alex Bruce, freed by Preston for being too old, scoring for the Latics. I travelled home on the old Fishwick's Football Special and drivers coming in the opposite direction were waving their white hankies at us!

Last season's Devon Loch-style fall at the final hurdle.

And, of course, John Beck -- a Wembley play-off final defeat and the perplexed look on a ginger-haired, Scottish centre-half's face when he was bellowed at to kick the ball out of play instead of passing to a team mate. But more of him later.

I could spend a thousand words trying to describe to non-football people the mind-set which afflicts a fan and leads to the highs and lows on which you peg your life. My O-levels and A-levels were fraught with relegation and re-election fears.

My time at Preston Polytechnic allowed me to nick off lectures for a game played on a Tuesday afternoon after the club had sunk so low that its floodlights were condemned and had to be pulled down. They lost 1-0 to Scunthorpe in the pouring rain, but more of them later.

My first girlfriend crying in the old West Stand Paddock after George Oghani helped Burnley win 3-1 on the plastic pitch an deny us a Wembley place in the Freight Rover, Auto Windscreens (or whatever it was called) Cup.

My wedding day coincided with an away game at Cardiff in the Division Three championship season and one of my best friends ignored all attempts at good wishes in our wedding guest book, preferring instead to write the line Cardiff O Preston 1, Saville 67 mins. It's the only message in there that I can remember.

Four weeks before that, my stag weekend was in York, not because of the historic city's obvious attractions but because it was within an hour's drive of Scunthrope -- allowing us to see a 2-1 Preston victory on the Saturday.

Putting up with a room full of Blackburn Rovers fans after the 6-0 drubbing at Ewood couple of seasons ago. Even Neil Moore's winner for Burnley in the fifth minute of extra time in a 3-2 win at Deepdale the same season -- prompting all the office's Burnley fans to visit my desk.

As I said, I could try to explain, although it is pointless, as my wife will testify.

But a ginger-haired Scottish centre half has managed to guide my team to exactly where it was 19 years ago. I have spent two thirds of my life on an emotional rollercoaster and achieved nothing other than to return to where I started.

And if you are a true football fan you will know just how wonderful that feels.