Long, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away, someone wrote a report on a sporting event without once using the word “rollercoaster.” And there was a conspiracy theory. JFK was shot by Ronald Regan, under the instructions of Lee Harvey Oswald and Mr Ruby.

Damn. Nearly managed.

I hope you all asked for the usual Christmas present – three points the Saturday before after surviving Black Eye Friday in one piece. The night before, the winner of the Town Quiz last week was a miserable (in terms of points, happy as a daft get in terms of a night out) 10th or so in the Station Quiz, and would have been happily a-kip by midnight had TallPaul not missed his last bus, necessitating an extra hour or so of Christmas bevvying, during which we discovered that Cammy had managed to be part of a Christmas night out that ran up a £600 bar bill at Wetherspoons – between twenty folks. Medal, I believe, is in order. Especially when, the next morning, he found an envelope containing tickets for the Man Utd game on his doorstep that he hadn’t ordered. Luckily, he recognised Mr S. Nevin as the rightful recipient – correct number, wrong street - (‘cos his dad used to sell us beer) and the tickets were duly put in the right hands. Lucky man, Shaun.

In Bish, it’s much the same as any other Friday, expect much busier and with a higher percentage of folk in their work clothes. Not for me. I went prepared – to work in my going out gear – scoffed my work's Christmas dinner, hit the Loco for a few, then on the runaway train back to the Station. It is Christmas after all, it has to be done. Well, that was the plan. Post work, I was the only person in the Loco without a high-vis jacket, but the safety shoes came in handy back in town as the whole world decided to have pint with me in the Station. The Tut was a wee bit quieter, making our Ian’s first shift more comfortable, until the witching hour, when several busloads arrived. All with high-vis jackets, which is mebbe why they call it Builders’ Friday in certain parts of the country. Anyway, the expected crowds eventually turned up, presumably to sample the delights of my sloe gin, then it was back hyem dead early like, as some of us had to get up at the crack of craashite for the bus.

Which was late, due to “losing air” but had thankfully got pumped back up by 6:45 or so. By the time we’d got to Abingdon (birthplace of Deano and Aelfric of Abingdon) and toured the place twice, we got back into the Punchbowl. The beer was canny but the Mag scarf behind the bar smelt a bit, especially when he came out of the woodwork and shouted for Reading as we left.

So to Reading itself, which is not quite as bad as you’d imagine – but not a million miles off. For the first time in almost thirty years I was at the match with Big Harrier, this time with his bairn Neil – wearing at least three Sunderland layers, and the top Sunderland fan in Twickenham.

Ostensibly, which is a good word, we had more strikers on the field than you could shake a stick at. Murphy on the left, Chopra on the right, Jones in the middle, Leadbitter backing up. I was baffled as to who was where. For the first forty-five minutes, it looked very much like a Sunday morning game. Nobody could or would put their foot on the ball, deciding instead to play the contest with the ball just that little bit away from their toe-end. Never under control, never a pattern. Conspiracy theory number two – there never was a moon landing in 1969. It was all filmed in a field near Cockfield .

Gordon, back in the side, produced a couple of memorable saves, then Murphy slung a ball down the wing for Cole. If you could bottle the look that Cole gave Murph (fek off, I’m thirty six, I’ll never catch that in a month of Sundays) you’d make a fortune.

So the first half continued as probably the scrappiest Premier Game of all time, they dashed about with the ball, we dashed about without it. Until, that is, Cole was presented with the whole penalty area and just a ‘keeper to shoot at.

Goal? Why no.

We did manage to work hard all afternoon, but we know what hard work gets you without the bit of class. Absolutely bugger-all. To old, too slow, to distant, too much and much too young. We could be staying home and we could be having fun. With me

Penalty? Well, I’ll take it, but looked a wee bit soft to me. Chops stepped to the mark and did the business, and for a wee while it looked like we’d got a point. Game running down, a draw looked like a good result for all concerned. Jones had a repeat of Cole’s first-half chance, but hit the keeper (USA USA) on the legs and the chance was gone.

Just when it looked like we had a point in the bag, for the second time in a week, the Gods that are referees decided against. Everyone I’ve spoken to says it wasn’t over, and this is where conspiracy theory number three comes into play – let’s get Sunderland out of the Prem as fast as possible. Are there still anti-Keane grudges out there? Seems thast way. We did have a spell of ten minutes or so when we went radged and passed the ball all over the field but failed to get a shot on target. It almost worked, but it didn’t. If the world of football was down to hard work and application, we’d be top of the league, but it doesn’t work like that. I’m getting tired of this weekly defeat.

We tried every combination of forwards, we tried every combination of attacking midfielders at our disposal, but it didn’t work. Sound familiar? It should

Man of the Match: at the risk of sounding repetitive, Danny Collins played his socks off for the umpteenth week in a row and looked like the only man who managed ninety minutes of doing what he was told to do.

Whatever, this one was for Dave Raine, who lost his fight against the dreaded big C, as they so glibly call it, the other day. Etherley boy, lifelong Sunderland fan, original Bitterman, Fulwell Ender, always at the away games from his Herefordshire base, and all-round good bloke. What is it they say about the good?

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