Heavens knows, I’m not miserable now…

A miserable week, and make no mistake. Losing a game’s bad enough at the best of times, but we need the points as much as we do it’s even worse. Then there’s the business of the defeat being at the hands of our pastriotic neighbours and in a manner that left a bad taste in your mouth….well, it stinks. A week of having the urine extracted by the monochromes, a week looking at the league table and trying to convince ourselves that it didn’t really matter because of the combination of results necessary to send us down. I know that betting against us staying up would be a bit of a silly bet, but if any club has ever done the unexpected - be it going down with the highest points total, staying down with the highest points total (not to mention the two lowest ever points totals) then it would be us. Good old SAFC, always waiting to heap some other unlikely misery on us.

Having said that, the situation still really in our favour. Derby are already doomed, Fulham can’t do any better than catch us up if they win three and we lose three, and Wigan play Reading today. Tottenham, as they showed against the mags, have won their bit of silverware this season and couldn’t give a toss what happens for the rest of the season. Bolton, their opponents at the Lane, showed that they can win games at Boro last week, while Birmingham face a Liverpool side with both eyes firmly on the Champions League semi final second leg at Stamford Bridge in midweek. Boro, on the other hand, should be a doddle for us, bearing in mind that they’re a team who can beat Man Utd and Arsenal, but lose to Bolton and Cardiff. Even the fact that they’ve allegedly sold their entire allocation at the SoL for some reason – benefit investigation day on Teesside, perhaps? – shouldn’t be able to rouse their team if they couldn’t do it when at their place.

I’d just about dragged myself back from the slough of despond by Wednesday night, as TallPaul had suggested that after the heap of crap we’d endured in Sunday, it might be an idea to watch a decent game. I fancied the reserves at home to Blackburn to be honest, but I was away down the country and didn’t get back until seven, so the Champs League it was. Thankfully, Brian the mag landlord refrained from any sort of sarcasm, perhaps because I gave his new barrel of Black Sheep a great big thumbs-up, and the Bittermen had a good slurp as Man Utd slipped up early on, and played a packs-to-the-wall game thereafter. Steve McLaren, in his new role as a pundit, made the incisive comment that the tie wouldn’t be decided until after the second leg. No shit, Sherlock. Interestingly, the media who’d lambasted Riise as being unworthy of his wages because of his own-goal mistake the previous evening refrained from similar criticism of Ronaldo for failing to hit the target from the spot. Never mind, the Bittermen won the St George’s Day quiz and therefore a bottle of wine – destined for Pat’s birthday present by popular vote.

Twenty miles away, the reserves did the business, scoring seven, including a hat-trick for Ross Wallace which may well earn him the chance to contribute this afternoon. Maybe his trademark trickery could be just the trick. Maybe (please, Roy) we’ll play 4-4-2 and attack the smogs to death before Ross is needed. Perhaps the two captains will pass each other a sly wink, play out the draw that should see both teams safe, and shake hands afterwards. God, I hope not. Let’s go for the buggers.

Just as an aside, Tim Rice was on the telly when the One Show ran a piece on the Blaydon Races song, and Mr Chiles asked what he thought of it as a Sunderland fan. Timbo explained that he got hooked on Sunderland at the age of eight as a protest to his mates choosing the top teams of the day, because he liked the name and imagined it as an exotic place with miles of golden sands (correct) and palm trees (hmm….). Still, he’s stayed with us and remains on the board of the charitable trust, which is nice of him.

So, for the penultimate time this season, the weary troops gathered in the Station, fingers crossed and worry-beads being ground to dust. A swift pint in the King’s (neat to Jeff Brown, and that Clem bloke, who – like me – wears brown shoes when they don’t really match) followed by a couple in the Salty, with free extra-large roast chetties, and it was match-time. The police chopper had been up since one (oo-err missus) and I arrived at the SoL just as the smogs were opening their bus windows and taking great big gulps of God’s clean air.

Despite Ror’s public defending of McShane, he picked Deano at right back, No & Higgi in the centre, and Collins at left back. In midfield it was Edwards on the right, Rich and Miller in the middle, and Reid on the left, with Chops and Jones up front.

4-4-2. Thanks Roy, that’ll do nicely.

Julio got a good reception, which is only right, and the game got off with a bit of to and fro ending with an awful shot wide by Tuncay following a pretend tackle by Miller. But, just like last week, we went to pieces and left the opposing forward with loads of space and it was 0-1 after 3 or 4 minutes. Unlike last week, we went straight back at them, Jones nearly got through but we won a corner when Chops saw his shot deflected wide, and when Reid knocked it back in, there was Higgi to do what he did against the mags and score. Only six minutes gone, and it was a proper derby, a proper game of football.

Or it would have been, had it not been for the appalling day on the field that Bennett had. As we continued to give away possession, he continued to ignore Wheater’s tactics. He may well be one of you, boro boys, but should he ever play for England he’ll be found out by a decent ref for his ploy of leaping fro every ball with both arms around his opponents neck. Oh, and whacking them in the face now and then, which Bennett chose to ignore. Still, we tried to play football even if Edwards is still very obviously way off the pace that is his strength and our midfield consequently struggled to settle into any sort of pattern. Deano, matching downing for pace, found the time and space to play the sort of ball Chops has been craving all season – over his shoulder into the inside channel, and he knocked it just wide of the far post on 12 minutes. There was some good last-ditch midfield work that allowed Reid to cross, but it just evaded everybody and the sun came out, sending the smogs to the shadows like a horde of vampires in a cheap fillum. Edwards, Richo, Chopra, moved well together but the volleyed cross won us only a corner, then Wheater whacked Chops with no comeback from the ref. I wonder where all that blood came from, then?

Richo earned a booking for a clatter on Julio, then he combined well with Reid, Miller, Deano, Collins, and Reid again before the ball found Jones and was cleared. A lot of belting up and down the field ensued, then, as half time approached Deano kicked the ball away after seeing a throw awarded to the smogs, and was booked. Nothing for Dowining when he put the ball in the net after being called offside, then? No I thought not. We were expecting the whistle to blow for time when Reid playedanother Chopra ball through, our man rode a challenge as he turned inside from the right, and hit a left-footer in off the bar.

Har Har, take that, smoggies.

Half time, and the other results weren’t really going our way, neither was there the fourth official telling Bennett “no son, you’re inept, you can’t go back out there.” No changes for the second half, and more blood and thunder than football – just like the first half. Jones got the better of Wheater but lost out in the (wholly acceptable) tussle that followed, then Edwards found Chops, who shot over when he should have done better. Noz found himself exposed and gave away a free, but one of those smogs put it higher over the bar than any other free kick in the history of the SoL. Carlos was replaced by Grant on 60, then Wheater managed to bang Jones on the head, and it was a good five minutes before our man rejoined the play, resplendent in a nice shiny white head bandage. Almost immediately, Pogatez whacked him on the head to earn a booking which should have been a red card for a deliberate attempt to injure a player, but Jones was up and at them. A bit of panic football, then Gordon pulled of a wonder save to keep them out, but it didn’t get far enough away from our goal and a weak shot trundled along the line and bobbled in off the far post. Shit, Shite, and Buggerahell. 18 minutes to go, and we tried out best to get amongst them but this was a proper derby game and neither side really settled into any decent period of possession. Murphy replaced Chops with five to go, five were added, the crowd lifted as they sensed something was still there for the taking, and there were a series of corners to us, interspersed by the odd one to them. Leadbitter flung in a corner from the left, Murphy’s head met it, and the ball was in off the underside of the bar for the second time, and no more than we deserved. The home crowd exploded, the visiting fans fell silent, and Gordon took a free-kick really well just before the ref did the only decent thing he’d managed all day, and blew for time.

A proper derby, as I’ve said, and it’s just a sham that we didn’t play Pigbag at the end of it to really take the mick out of the smogs, Still, that’s us safe for the season as Reading and Brum only got a point each, and Boro are now in the squeaky-bum seat.

Man of the Match? Deano did well, as did Collins, but for me, just for his derby-day battling and bravery when wounded, it goes to Big Kenwyne.

Now, let’s away back to Bish and see how many of the four-lunged beasts are out for a pint tonight. My money’s on Norman and Norman alone. Nice, but he is eighty four and owes me a pint.

Keep the faith

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