One eye open, one eye closed,
And my whole body trembling beneath the bedclothes,
What a Sunday this is gonna be,
I think I’ll let the world watch it with me.

You know those days when you feel you should really do something but would rather do something else, like drink a gallon of beer or jump in the Wear? Welcome to today in my world.

To be perfectly honest, I was beginning to wish the season was over and we were mathematically safe. I know the chances of going down were slim before today’s game, but they were still there. Derby may be gone, but nobody else is there with them yet. As I’ve said before, you can’t trust the cockneys (only a draw at Wigan for Spurs) and you certainly can’t trust the smogs. If I’d followed my instincts I’ve have put money behind my conviction that they’d lose at home to Bolton (cheers, Gavin) and be considerably better off in the beer-money department as a result. Useless bloody Teesside sweary-words that they are.

Being an intellectual sort, and because somebody had tipped me off, I had a look at the Guardian’s sport section on Friday. There was a piece about which team the supporters of the various premier clubs would most like to go down. Nine, including the mags, chose Bolton, mainly because they’re awful and don’t bring any fans to their away games. Three chose Wigan, two Reading and Fulham, and three chose us. The bastards. I won’t forget.

Boro “because of the local rivalry, and because we’ve played Sheff Utd and Cardiff and they’re better”. That’ll be the Sheff Utd who you beat by the jammiest of goals and the Cardiff who beat you easily, would it?

Portsmouth, because they don’t like Roy Keane and because “it’s too far to go and they play in that God-awful red and white striped kit. There are too many teams in the Premier who play in that kit.”

And Wigan, because we “tried to nick Stephen Hunt and Roy Keane had a bit of a moan after their visit in December, and it’s a long way to go.”

Our representative chose Wigan, for beating us in the cup and because Steve Bruce is a smug Geordie, which sounds fair enough.

More interestingly, nobody actually thought that we would go down.

To pass the time, and take my mind off the upcoming game, I went to a sportsmans’ dinner at the Roker Hotel on Thursday, billed as a Question of Sport evening. Sunderland Captain for the night, Peter Reid, decided to commentate on the Everton Chelsea game instead, so we got Jason McAteer, to be fair. Also in attendance was Lee Howey (amongst the diners, and we had the surreal moment of his missus asking for Jason’s autograph), Billy Whitehurst – as scary now as he ever was on the field of play – Mickey Horswill, without whom no Sunderland-related evening is complete, and a couple of random ex-mags in bald Billy Askew and Mick Martin (who is basically a shorter version of TallPaul), all hosted by Bob Cass. I survived nearly taking Billy Whitehirst’s place in the bog queue, and restrained myself from snide comments at the table of terken mags next to us, especially when one of them won the red card yellow card game. The cheat.

The actual quiz ended up with SAFC guests on both teams, probably because the mags couldn’t write their names on the lucky pieces of paper that went into the draw. Anyhow, it ended in a draw, as these things do, and we had the chat from Jason and Mick Martin. The ex-mag seemed quite honest in his assessment of his team’s future, and Jason spoke with what seemed like genuine affection for the area, indicating that he understood what went on and why what happened against Millwall, and his part in it, was so important.

Dinner done and dusted, it was off to the Glass Spider, as you do of a Thursday. No sign of Stokesy, but there was a surprise in the shape of Steve the Tyres from Bishop. Two of us from Bish in Sunderland on a Thursday. What a treat.

A nice kip later and I was ready for home, but having closed the hall door behind me on the way out of my six-star accommodation in Ashbrook, I found the front door locked. And the hall door locked. Trapped. In a Sunderland front lobby. For half an hour, before I plucked up the courage to ring the still-sleeping man of the house to let me out.

Further efforts to keep the match out of my mind included watching the Blackburn v Man U game from the comfort of what we call in Bish a “mixed table.” Sunderland, a couple of mags, and the inevitable glory-hunting Man U “fan”, a couple of pints of shandy, and a whole load of shite talked about football. Tales abounded of which pubs were opening at the crack of craa-shite to slake the thirst of those who need that sort of thing before breakfast on a match day. Come kick-off, I think I’ll be safer in Sid James Park. So it was a bright and early start at the Spoons with a pint of plum beer (it’s like beer, but with plums in) before Ron picked me up for the 9:50 shuttle to the SoL, and a couple in the Colliery. Then the A1 broke, apparently, so we at like daft gets until 11:45 and it was off on the jolly trip to Sid James. Apparently, Greggs had been open since six.

Bad news? No Evans, no Bardsley. In came Higginbottom, in came McShame. Sorry, that should have read McShane, but the lad wasn’t the only one to completely lose the plot in the first ten minutes and gift them a goal. Our formation let us down, not for the first time since August. Keane, give over man. One up front has won nothing in this country since ……………….well mebbe Spurs, if they managed to win something in the early eighties. Jones reminded me of Dave Watson in his early days at Roker – win the header, chase the pass. Away from Kenwyne, we lost the ball far too easily and far to early, and we hadn’t really been in the game when the first half ended. All we’d managed to do was to make a decidedly average side look decent, and that’s not entirely sour grapes. Even Denty the mag agreed by text that it wasn’t a penalty, but it went in, sol it counted. Come the second half, and on came Richardson for the ineffective Edwards, allowing Murphy to try his luck up front. Jones got in a terrific header which Harper did very well to keep out, and we got hold of the second half.

Got hold of, did sweet bugger all with it as a team. We showed no conviction in the last 30 yards, and Jones could well be forgiven for thinking “sod this, I’m off” if he gets no more support than this. Michael Owen was probably thinking “I wish he was on my side instead if this lazy Ozzie get.” Take the money and not run, the epitome of what’s wrong with English football. We tried Chops on for Murphy, then, at the death, Hart for McShane (ooh, let’s pray for a free kick).

Summary? We got what we deserved. Keane played the wrong formation. Sorry Roy, but one up front just says “happy not to get beat” and it’s simply not good enough. Collins didn’t find a Sunderland shirt for thirty minutes, Whitehead ran his pips off chasing shadows, and the rest of the midfield never found the front man to pass to – because there was only the one, who won every header and through ball, but had nobody to give it to.

What we did succeed in doing was making a very average (and that’s a compliment) set of skunks look moderate. Our own fault, and thank the Lord that Villa stuffed Birmingham.

Man of the Match? Jones ran his socks off up front, but with less support than the Conservatives in Pennywell. How long he’ll put up with the lack of service and back-up is a matter for conjecture, but let’s hope we sort ourselves out and make the lad happy as soon as possible. Miller wasted his chance to impress. Noz showed the kind of character that most of his team-mates were lacking, and Collins, despite poor distribution early on, managed to get in some telling tackles. I’d probably give it to Reid, as he tried to make something of the possession we had and looked the most likely to succeed.

After a few hours kip on the bus, getting stoned (no, not the happy kind of stoned) on the Redheugh Bridge by a ten-year-old, just before being mooned by a particularly fat-arsed mag, we were back in bonny Bishop, where nobody wanted to argue with me. Loads of barcode shirts, not a word, as the ones who spoke to me sounded very much of the same opinion. – they were not that good, we made them look OK.

And even Denty the mag said it wasn’t a penalty. It was a bad tactical decision from the start. They were there for the beating, but we handed them initiative right from the off. One up front – pack it in now Roy, otherwise we’ll be shagged/turn into Bolton.

Life’s a bitch, but keep the faith.

I wish it was all over.

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