Shit, shite and buggerahell. It all started so well, Things were bright, things were sunny. I’m off for my hols after the match, City are no great shakes, here we go...

Well, that was a canny week. Two away wins, including Roy’s first cup game victory, the arrival of yet another Premier quality player in Ferdinand and Birmingham being found guilty of ripping us off. City might have won last week, but behind the scenes, they’re up there in the Mag category of disarray, with an “international fugitive” at the helm. As ever, there’s been an air of anticipation around SAFC, as we can’t wait for the next game to come along.

By the time I’d got my sleep out after the late arrival back from Forest (what happened to them at Wolves yesterday? They looked a canny side against us), it was Friday night and time to give Durham Beer Festival a go. At the end of the cider bar (great stuff for taking the enamel off your teeth) I was just settling in to a tramp-spotting session when the lad opposite said “is your name Sobs, my mate recognises you” and there was the Jarra Arra (no, not Steve Cram or Craig Russell). Our last meeting had been in a flurry of Boddington’s and crisps in the downstairs bar at the Barbican Hotel after the Championship-winning victory at Upton Park, Mick McCarthy’s finest Sunderland hour. About fifty of us had watched the game “as live”, sang our little hearts out in celebration, scared the bar staff, and had the American residents staring in open-mouthed disbelief and amusement.

The beer festival was tame by comparison, but the beer was far better. Dodgy weather on the way through turned to nasty weather on Houghton Cut, as it always does, but as we were an hour earlier than normal (don’t ask) I managed to persuade the Bish crew that a walk down to the new Irish bar was a good idea. Problem was that they couldn’t resist the King’s. TJ O’Doyles was spot on, as was their local beer (Maxim, Sauce of the Niall, etc) and the Salty was also on top form. So we stopped off at the King’s on the way back, just to keep us right.

Gordon
Chimbo (hey, Chimbo, leave those gloves at home) Noz Collins Bardsley
Richardson Leadbitter Malbranque Reid
Diouf Cisse

The first few minutes were busy, as we moved the ball around quite nicely and spent most of the time in their half. We managed to get the better of Steve Agnew, playing number 7 for them, and Steed saw his shot deflected over. There was a corner, and we managed to get in another shot that went wide, then Chimbo and Cisse combined to produce another effort, but this one flashed across the face of goal. Basically, we played some quite pretty stuff in the first half, but with no end product. Richardson in particular showed that he’s got the brains to match his energy, and a decent outcome looked very much on the cards.

Then came the last minute of the half. With just about their first shot on target (or first shot at all) City ended a break down their right by planting the ball in the net. Bugger, we thought, but there’s a whole 45 minutes it he second half to make amends. After all, we had held the ball for the majority of the first half, and therefore could be rightly assumed to get something back in the second 45.

Why didn’t they tell City that? They came out like demons, ripped into us, and we always on the back foot. Five minutes in, they set up SWP (as he’s known, apparently. I just call him Melon Head) and it was 2-0. For whatever reason, we allowed them to dominate the game, and it got more than a bit fractious. I know it’s an easy escape, but the ref’s fell into farce as he repeatedly blew when we challenged but didn’t bother when City did the same. We did manage a decent break after a Richo tackle, but it came to nothing, then we allowed City an unbelievable amount of time and space to set up the third. Our response was to replace Diouf, Cisse, and Leadbitter with Healy, Murphy, and Stokes.

Bardsley lost his rag and lifted one of theirs (Hamaan, I think), and we began to lose our cool a little bit. Well, I lost mine big style on the terraces/seats, but on the field we were so far off making a game of it that Keane won’t be sleeping well tonight. I know that referees are an easy target, but today, in the second half, the lad was an embarrassment. We mad a tackle, we got booked. City made a tackle, nothing happened. No excuse, but something to whine on about.

City did a fair bit of lying down and pretending to be hurt, but to be honest, I’d have been cheering Sunderland players doing the same if we were 3-0 up away from home (it has happened, it might happen again). We managed a couple of shots from Healy and Richardson, but in truth Joe Hart didn’t have a save to make all day. Steed, after a decent first 45, vanished from the action in the second period, and several others followed suit.

It wasn’t gutless, it wasn’t heartless, it was clueless. Lots of money, lots of effort, but today the magic carpe got seriously snagged on a carpet tack. As if to rub it in, the heavens opened to remind us of the non-Shamrock game, the City fans were wet and happy, and we were wet and pissed off.

Man of the Match? Tough one, but I’ll give it to Richardson, as he just about outshone Reid in the midfield “keep it going” stakes. Sorry boys, not good enough.

Now I’m off on my holidays. Should be fun. Grrrrrrrrrr

Keep the faith

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