Many a tear has to fall
‘cos it’s all
In the game

So I forgot to save the change to the alarm clock, as did Ron, making the dash to Durham station a little bit fraught (but only a little bit). First class travel has a lot to attract the itinerant football fan, but only if you can nab a freebie. As Lee distributed the entire pie output of Jackie White’s market, a passing mag expressed his wish for chosen team to get beaten so that Fat Sam would get the sack. Our spare ticket having been sold to nephew Mat, we sent the lay-folk shopping (aye, right) and we hit the Lamb bang on the allocated time of two minutes past eleven, ‘cos it’s not big and its not clever to be there first. Mat’s quick tube ride from the posh part of London (Bethnal Green) was more than matched by John M’s overnight bus trip (and tube ticket timed at 06:30) and kip on a mate of a mate’s dodgy couch, but we managed to settle ourselves down. John told the tale of the scallies after the Everton game who were charging £2 to get on the free bus back to Liverpool town centre. Free enterprise and all that. The scary weather forecast from Friday night seemed to be a million miles from the truth, until the miracle of photo messaging kicked in Simultaneously, Mat and I received pictures of the snow outside my sister’s house, and the rain hoyed itself down on the capital.

Apparently there are 175 steps at Russell Square tube station, but, being soft as clarts, we used the lift and deposited the compulsory fart. It has to be done.

So to the Bridge, and a mag in the Sunderland end. I didn’t point him out, as he’d expressed his genuine wish for us to win. They must be human after all.

Ward
Halford McShane Higginbotham Collins
Etuhu Leadbitter Whitehead Wallace Miller
Lonely Jones

We started off as we obviously expected the game to go on, on the back foot, but we were actually quite good at it. Halford out in a series of good tackles, Chelsea forced a series of corners, and despite our best intentions, the home side always looked like they had another gear. On the positive side, they didn’t look like they were bother about going the extra mile to achieve their target – scared stiff of getting their shirts dirty. Money talks, passion walks. The problem for Sunderland was that Chelsea had spent so much money that even those who were scared of a battle (Shevchenko, Malouda) were clever enough to achieve their end result. Terry headed over the top, another header hit the bar, and Ward stopped a few. A rare free-kick to us ended with a cross form McShane that was headed back by Jones and cleared.

That was only ten minutes in. It was going to be a long afternoon. Deano got in a good tackle in our box, then Dicka looked to have forced a corner but the ref thought otherwise. As we sort of sat back to take what they could hoy at us, the England players on show took a lot of abuse, and every loose ball seemed to go their way. You know what they say about luck going with the good team, and it’s true.

Halford was plying well, but would have played even better had he had an outlet down the right, as far too often he looked up with the ball at his feet to see no target on the wing. Malouda decided that it would be a good idea to pretend his leg/face/arm was broken and spend ten minutes not getting off the pitch for cosmetic attention. Suddenly he was fit enough to whip in a cross for Shevchenko to head home on 23, and the wall to which our backs had been pressed became decidedly uncomfortable.

We did press forward and won a corner, but Wallace’s delivery was poor – like most of our set pieces on the day, the quality was poor. Chelsea were full of stopovers and drag-backs, we were restricted to the odd break that we didn’t quite take to completion. Jones got in a left-foot shot that was well saved, then Dicka and Halford managed to break down the right, and we won a free on 34 for a push on the latter. Wallace wasted it by putting in a cross that went to nobody at the back post, then SWP (as we like to call the huge-headed cheat) dived over a challenge in an attempt to con the ref before McShane got in a vital challenge in the box.

Just a thought – how cold is it in the Ukraine? Can it be colder at the Bridge? I don’t think so, so why was Sheva wearing gloves?

We tried to make a game of it, with Miler finding Jones, who in turn found Leadbitter, but the cross was cut out. Jones took a knock just before half-time, and Lead bitter got in a shot which trundled weakly wide.

Half time at 0-1 was in reality a relief in that we could take a deep breath and wonder what we could possibly do next to get something out of the game. With one up front, you’re not going to win a game unless you’re the Spurs of the early eighties Clive Allen class, or the Chelsea of the last few seasons, when they had what we haven’t got – a few goal-scoring midfielders. One up front for Sunderland equals damage limitation to me. If you’re going to the Bridge you know fine well that you can’t defend successfully for 90 minutes, so you might as well go for it. If you don’t try, you don’t get. I’d have had Stokes up front picking up the bits around Kenwyne’s feet, but then I’m not the manager. I’m just the bloke trying to eat a pie that had been dragged all around London for four hours and then attractively presented in a carrier bag for my half-time delectation.

The longer it went on, the more it looked like they’d get another, but we put a bit of pressure on them. Dicka put in a tackle of orgasmic proportions, but we couldn’t fashion a chance from it. Most of the second half was a story of us closing Chelsea own a lot more effectively than we had in the first, and our fans responded well with some sustained noise that bettered anything the home lot had managed all afternoon. Murphy , allegedly on his way to QPR, came on for the battered Jones, and in all fairness did quite well, the Roy went for it as he sent on Stokes for the tired Leadbitter. We produced a little spell of decent football that ended with Halford’s shot being saved. Down to the far end the ball went, out it went, and nobody appealed for or protested against the penalty that was awarded. We couldn’t see what it was for, so it was up to our Ian back in TV land to test in that it was a shirt-pull by Higgi that was the problem. Lampard duly tucked it away, but we didn’t lie down and play dead as Murphy found Stokes, who shot over.

A minute later, Murphy himself got in a shot and won a corner, then we broke well down the left, and Wallace took his turn to shoot over. As the game entered added time, Miller was chased away from a foul and foolishly reacted to earn just what we didn’t need – another red card and a few games away. I accept that he was stupid, but I’d put a week’s beer money on a reversed situation resulting in no card for a Chelsea player. He was an easy target and a soft decision for a cowardly ref. Chelsea could afford to lose a player for three games, we can’t, but the officials don’t think that way – not that it should enter their minds when making a decision.

Time ticked down, the rain came down in bucketfuls, and we gamefully tried our pluck out. Against Derby t might work but against Chelsea, Man Utd et al, effort alone aint gonna get you anything. There had been an air of inevitability about the whole affair, as, unfortunately, is that case in most games against the top four. As we left our seats, a steward turned off the (small screen – cheapskates) TV, and a Sunderland fan turned it back on behind his back. Another steward, of limited English speaking ability, steadfastly refused to see the funny side, or our protestations that at £48 a seat, we should have Television X available for the entire 90 minutes. Do they have any lessons in how to interact with human beings? It doesn’t seem so. Sort it out Chelsea, it’s about more than wearing a high-visibility jacket and acting like a jobsworth.

The lady Chelsea fan who tried (unsuccessfully, of course) to chat me up on the way to Earls Court, paid great tribute to our noisy fans, and said that we were the best they’d seen at the Bridge. Nice but I’d take silence and a point, so we were onto the tube with the Bradford branch of the Chelsea Supporters’ Club, then the Lamb. A couple of beers later and we were onto the last ever GNER train from Kings Cross to Durham (or wherever it ended up) and the staff were duly obliging, doling out commemorative coffee and choccy medallions all the way home.

Man of the Match? Probably Dicka, but it’s a shame that his work was generally restricted to the destructive rather than the productive. Another shuffle of the pack against Villa next week as the three pints have become even more vital, I think. Is Whitehead, so missed until recently, the answer to our problems or part of the problem itself? Argue that one amongst yourselves.

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