Half past six in the morning & I'm the last person on this train
Still awake
Y'know I can almost smell the coffee washing against the cup
Of this land that can't forget it's past
Oh the rail that carries this train, is the rail of change
Heaven sent and hell bent!
Over the River Wear we go, just like all the other Sund’land Joes

Ee-ay-ee-ay, adios!

This is Niall Quinn calling--with an urgent warning
We're above the gulf of the Championship--our position’s not falling
& we can keep us up--there's no time for thinking
All hands on deck--this club’s not sinking

Well, that’s a thought, anyway. After last week’s histrionics (all completely justified, mind), it took a while to get ourselves back down to earth. Personally, I’ll admit to not seeing much of the game after Reid’s winner – not surprising, really, as once I’d done the usual hugging thing with every carbon-based life-form within reach, I simply collapsed over the back of my seat and lay there with my feet in the air, staring at the roof and the sky, laughing. God bless yer, Andy Reid.

Another jolly night out (the first time I’d manage two in a row after Premiership games since 2001, apparently), we had a quiet wander around Durham on the Sunday. While waiting to set off, who should turn up but Joe, who asked me if I’d stopped smiling yet. He was right – I hadn’t, and didn’t stop until I got home and our Ian told me the score at Spurs. Like I said previously, you can’t trust the mags or the cockneys in times of need.

Despite this, my jaw hurt by the end of the week because of all the smiling, which is something I’d love to get used to, which is perhaps strange, given that we’re still down the bottom half and looking down rather than up. This, I think, sets us apart from most clubs – probably all clubs – in that we’re still in the clarts but have got a huge wave of optimism going through the club.

Cheers, Roy, Niall, and the quiet Irishmen behind them. Oh, and Mr Hays, of course.

Back to the top of the story, and it was the red-eye out of Durham at daft o’clock, all worthwhile for the first-class train down to the smoke in anticipation of what to do from nine o’clock on a matchday. The only injury I was carrying, apart from the aching jaw, was the bruised right knee – another reminder of the late, late goal, as I’d stotted it off the back of the seat on from when I took off. A busy football weekend in the capital, with Cardiff, Barnsley, Leeds, Liverpool, and several other teams in town added a certain frisson to the day. Fulham away should be a chance of at least a point, we debated as we passed Doncaster, but they had beaten Everton at their place recently, and they’re fighting for their Premiership lives, so no rollover. Having said that, we’re well overdue something from the Cottage. Thirty one years since a win is far too long.

Watching the Man Utd game on Tuesday, I was one of many SAFC people who winced when Vidic was carried off – recall for Mr Evans? Thankfully not, and with no real injuries carrying over from the win over Walford Town last week, Roy should have a full squad to pick from, which gives us loads of options and loads of formations to choose from. Fulham might have some class players in Murphy, and McBride (though short on pace), and somebody else whose name escapes me, but surely we’ve got more, plus the impetus of our last two results (three performances) and a club still on the up rather than one resigned to hard times ahead. (all of which was written with fingers crossed, touching wood, and generally appealing to all the lucky things that were to hand at the time). On Friday dinner time, I’d wangled a couple of minutes on radio Durham FM, courtesy of being in the right place at the right time (the Ship for a pint on the way home after an early finish) and the presenter/DJ feller reckoned that whoever wins our game at Bolton will stay up. I agreed, but suggested that it could and should be sorted a few weeks before that. He’s a Sheff Wed man, so take his opinion with less salt than most, as they’ve been through the mill good and proper, and he reckons that Kav is their main man.

This report is dedicated to the mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, wives, husbands, girlfriends, boyfriends, mates, and acquaintances who got up at daft o’clock to take the expeditionary force to their respective buses, trains, and planes for this match. Thank you one and all. There is something inherently wrong with getting out of bed at that time of day. Even my grandma Ellis didn’t get up that early, and she was on a lifelong mission to have the fire cleaned and set before the first spuggie squeaked. What sort of effect does Dance of the Knights have on the unsuspecting ears of someone who is expecting to sleep for at least another three hours? Who can tell but the one thing that is certain is that however early the train, there will be at least one person on the platform at Durham with a slab of Stella.

Anyhow, armed only with two litres of ginger beer and a banana, I was away down the market place, through the chips and pizza of only a few hours earlier, to meet up with a rather tired Ron, fresh (or not) from his son’s stag day in York. Sensibly, I was elected driver for the morning, and we were at Durham in plenty of time to see the drizzle turn to rain and the rain turn to snow. Onto the train, and bacon sarnies were provided. Let me tell you that there is no better food item than an unexpected bacon sarnie, and it kept us off the bucks fizz until gone eight. The fizz in question was a cheeky number, with notes of pork scratchings and socks. Nice though.

Twenty past nine is a pretty useless time to arrive in London, so we went to the British library in the (very) vain hope of having a look at my book, just to make sure it was real, like. Shame it takes a minimum of seventy minutes to locate any given book, and up to two days if it’s kept off-site (which will the case for me, no doubt) so we gave up and went for the usual.

Café, Breakfast of the huge fried variety
Met Nephew Mat
Lamb as doors opened
Met John’s nephew Nick

Pint pint pint. Tube to Parson’s Green, with Mat at six foot four and more stones than his mam will be pleased with, managing to get the spot right by the doors and getting a haircut at every stop, despite Al Fayed’s attempts to keep us on the tube by pressing the “passenger alarm” on a preceding train, and the White Horse. How the hell we’ve failed to get to this boozer before today I’ll never know. It was brilliant, and a great place to meet Sunderland fans from all over the world. There were a dozen or more beers to choose from, but John went way over the top and had oysters rather than a pie. As Sixer said, that is the bourgeouisation of the game of football summed up. And John aint getting married until November, so the oysters had better last. Marcus from Hartlepool managed to find us as well, which was nice, but even he questioned the eating of oysters before a football match.

A quick mile to the Cottage, and we were in the scarily bouncy temporary stand. The back end of the team picked itself, which is nice, so it went……

Gordon, Bardsley, Collins, Noz, Evans
Edwards, Whitehead, Reid, Richardson
Murphy, Jones

A good, solid looking starting eleven, and they started just like that. Not too anxious, not too patient, allowing Fulham plenty of possession but not much in areas that might cause danger to use. One point would have been much more use to us that them, and we really sat back said “go on, give us your best shot.” Nyron in particular allowed Kamara to come at him them knocked him away with disdain. Murphy had the life of their defence, drifting from the middle to the left as he did. Amid chants of “if your chairman’s got a passport clap your hands” we toyed with the home side, but toying is one thing and scoring is another. A disallowed goal on fifteen, a few near things, much abuse for the rotten cheat that is Keller (“Goodman’s gonna get yer” – ask yer dad) The longer it went one, the more we in the crowd got a wee bit nervous and began to wonder if it would ever happen. As the half ticked away, it did. In came a corner from the left, out it went, and in it came from Murphy to find the head of Danny Collins and thus to the back of the net. If any one deserved a goal more than Danny, I don’t know who it is.

This all made half time very enjoyable, as for once it didn’t really matter what the other results were, it’s all in our own hands. Which is the way it should be. The second half was more of the same, and if anything, it went according to plan as we continued to tease the home side, and Jones got his head onto Gordon’s clearance to find Chops (on for the tiring Carlos) and the man produced what is becoming a trademark finish when he neatly knocked the ball over Keller for the second. I think it was soon after this that I sat down for the first time – have a think, football clubs, a lot of us don’t want to stand. Our policy of allowing Fulham possession went against us as they scored a really good goal from distance through Healy, but we quickly reverted to type and put the pressure back on. Only a couple of minutes later, Deano stole the ball from Haageland (surely the division’s slowest player) and crossed for Jones to flick it up and volley home in showbiz style. This stand aint strong enough for the lot of us. Bounce bounce happy happy.

O’Donovan came on for Murphy, and we just kept in their face for the last ten minutes, then it was all over, and all very nice. Who are these jolly gentlemen in their red and white favours? It’s us, man, and we Spitfired it through the park to the station. After all our pre-match nerves about getting back to King’s Cross in time for our train, we had nearly an hour to spare. We fell into conversation with some Leeds fans who were such good craic that I bought them a pint, then we were back through the police cameras and onto the train. A nice relaxed trip home around a few cans of Guinness (cheers, Gillian) and a pint in Durham then Bishop, and it was time to catch up on all that sleep I missed on Friday night. And it still felt good when I woke up, despite the big hole in my right shin, thanks to the seat in front.

He plays on the left
He plays on the right
Andy Reid
Makes Ronaldo look shite

Three goals in a game, as well, as Judith pointed out when I eventual surfaced, still smiling, just before dinnertime. Even better.

Man of the Match? Crikey, ask me an easier one. Collins and Noz were tremendous at the back despite the home side’s obvious weaknesses, and in the middle Reid showed the enthusiastic Bullard how it should be done. Jones was brilliant up front, but for me Murphy was the man with a performance that varied from partner to Jones to wide man, but always causing Fulham problems.

Keep the faith

Sobs' Book click here...