So the mire that we all thought we’d be well clear of when things started so brightly at Spurs way back when the sun shone, chocolate tasted better, and beer was free, is sucking at our boots. After the capitulation at West Ham last week, when we had loads of the ball in the first half only to let them score from one of our corners (nobody turns attack in to defence quite like SAFC), there seem few games we can expect to get any points from.

The former “hotbed of soccer” that now makes up 75% of the bottom four – and even the very bottom club has a North East manager – is fast becoming a bit of a joke in football circles. Not that anyone up here is laughing. Well, that’s not strictly true, as I have a good giggle at the fact that Boro and the mags are worse off than us. Then I remember that they’re playing each other soon, and therefore at least one of them will get at east one more point this season. That game has been moved for the TV, which brings me nicely to the reason behind my extra-evil demeanour over the last few days.

Bloody Setanta. Shifting us to a Monday night, with all the travel impossibilities it brings, is a fixture change too far. Just how much do we need their money? Let’s see what happens if Pompey have to play up here next season (he said, optimistically expecting both teams to be in the same division)? Who, other than Portsmouth and Sunderland fans, will bother to watch this game on the TV? Three lunatics in Gwent is my guess. Enough is enough, and both clubs should make a joint approach to Setanta and ask them to televise it on the original date. What difference will it make to either the match attendance or the viewing figures? OK, there might be more Sunderland fans available to watch on the Monday, simply because they can’t get to the match, but they’ll have probably cancelled their subscriptions by then.

Just to add insult to injury, I’d only just booked the extra holidays necessary to visit the delights of Fratton Park when none other than Setanta Sports rang me to ask if I’d like to take part in their Sunday evening phone-in. It took a minute or so for the caller to realise I was being deadly serious when I’d said “only if you change our game back to Saturday.”

Needless to say, I’ll not be helping them out with any bloody phone-ins in the foreseeable future.

While the Big Boys struggle, the ressies stand on the brink of a league and cup double, and could have won the former on Wednesday at Hetton against Everton. Unfortunately, the visitors, managed by the ever popular Alan Stubbs, the only man who makes Captain Beaky look like he’s had a nose-job, had too many big lads at the back, and there were no goals. Mind, none of their big lads was anywhere near the size of Jean-Yves M’Voto, who was a monster before his injury layoff, but now looks like one of the parents in a dads v lads junior school match. Still three games in which to get the points necessary, though, so let’s hope that bright spot gets brighter.

Big boys? They don’t come any bigger than today’s visitors, but with management coming out with stuff like “go down fighting”, you have to wonder just how much belief there is in out club. On the up side, Evans (remember him?) picked up an injury, Vidic is always only one challenge away from a sending off, the facially-challenged Ferdinand’s back is dodgier than mine, and, according to the experts, United have a defensive frailty that sees them let in late goals amongst the relatively high number they’ve conceded recently. Oh, and Fulham deservedly beat them recently. On the down side, Rooney’s playing like a man possessed, and Tevez is playing like whatever it is that’s possessing Rooney, and Berbatov has returned from wherever he’s been skiving of late. Oh, and there’s that Portuguese ponce who scores now and then.

Realistically, they might be Man Utd, but there will only be eleven of them same as us, so have a go Lads, it’s a chance to make a name for yourselves and to get us at least a point. Nothing’s impossible, it’s a funny old game, on the day anything can happen…..enough clichés for now. My day brightened when I received an email entitled FANS CHANCE TO MEET CATS STARS. Imagine my disappointment when I discovered that Elaine Paige and Andrew Lloyd Webber would not be at Sainsburys, Washington, but instead Quinny, Ricky, Danny, and Carlos. Well, that’s life.

Well, that was the story on Good Friday, so we took off for the day. “Surprise me”, she said, so Blackhall rocks it was, bringing back memories of childhood holidays at Crimdon Dene with Granddad and Grandma – we even won the world cup while I was there – and bike rides from Bish with Rob and others to the same spot. Sadly, the Seagull is deservedly shut, but there were birds aplenty at Saltholme. Shame it has to be on Teesside, but the day turned out to be made up of many of my favourite things – zooming about with the roof off the car (aye, I’m a middle-aged git), full English brekky, spot of bird watching, quiet pint at the Sportsman on the way home, out for scran at the Pollards (where I ate fower taties more than a giss, naturally), a pint of Wychwood Stout and a pint of Ringwood Fortyniner – as a day, it couldn’t have been much better. Then there was Carole King (OK, but she’s still cracking on after forty-odd years) and the Specials on TV when I got in, so there you go. The question was/is – can today match yesterday?

We three kings of Roker Park -
Barry Siddle, Joe Bolton, Jeff Clarke.
Barry’s elastic Joe’s fantastic………

Oh for three players like that today. A keeper who doesn’t whine to the press if he doesn’t get a game, a specialist left-back who doesn’t injure himself breathing in, and a consistent centre-half to partner Danny Collins. If only... so to get the luck in, I picked up a penny and got shat on by a pigeon.

Gordon
Bardsley (captain) Davenport Ferdy Collins
Carlos Teemu Leadbitter Reid
Cisse Jones

No Richardson or Deano, injured in training and at West Ham respectively. They started with Tevez up front, just ahead of Berbatov with Rooney out left. It only took Rooney 17 seconds to curl a shot wide of the far post, and we feared the worst, but we steadied ourselves and Reid broke away to find Jones who was stopped on the edge of the box. Rooney was always their preferred target, and Bardsley had his hands full for most of the first half as the United man looked to cut inside at every opportunity.

We managed to break down the right and win a throw which Edwards took, but Jones could only head it up in the air and Foster took it comfortably. Evans then fouled Jones and Carlos knocked in the free, but again Foster was there first under pressure.

Dav then got in the first of several good blocks on Rooney, and then on Scholes at the expense of a corner. Gary Neville, who after fifteen years of trying still hasn’t realised that he simply can’t grow a tache, was booked for a scandalous dive in the 10 th minute, which preceded a decent bit of play by us. Djib got away and found Edwards on the right (where else?) and his cross was met by Jones but all we got was a corner. When it came back in from Reid, there was Foster again with another comfortable take. From a corner at our end, we produced a mad scramble, with Teemu clearing off the line, and eventually got it away, but soon after in came a cross from Rooney and there was the shortest man on the pitch, Scholes, to head in from ten yards or so. Do we deliberately let the shortest man on the pitch score with his head, ‘cos it seems that way at times? Up went the “hoorays” from the glory hunters in the boxes behind us as their prawn sandwiches were forgotten for a moment.

Teemu got away in the box, Jones and Cisse swapped passes, and we won a free on the left. The cross from Edwards was met again by Jones, but also Davenport, and the ball went for a goal kick. We then strung together a dozen passes which baffled the visitors so much that they gave away a daft corner, but Dav, up there again, had his header blocked and it was a throw in on the left. He was there again on the half hour to knock an effort just wide, then Jones met Bardsley’s cross to fire just in front of the post. Chances were coming our way, but there was always the feeling that United could step it up if they wanted to, especially as our midfield seemed to lack any pace or will to tackle in the centre. Another Jones header was saved, then Cisse played some lovely keepy-uppy but passed to the invisible winger. Rooney was booked for handling an Edwards shot after a few more good efforts from our Lads, but Reid put it wide of the near post. Cisse then found Edwards again, and his cross was hit against the post. Naturally, it came out instead of going in, but this is SAFC we’re talking about. Nice things rarely happen.

No changes for the second half, and a quick booking for Ferdy, then a handball by Neville out wide was missed by the officials as we got into the visitors’ faces a bit more than in the first half. Reid produced the pass of the game to find Cisse on the right, and his cross-shot was wide of the post and ahead of Jones. On Teemu got into the box on the left and scooped a cross over the keeper to Jones, who bundled it in at the far post. No more than we deserved, really, despite the visitors looking like they had something in reserve.

Having been sort of moderate so far, the ref (Mr Stiles, probably son of Nobby) decided that a perfect tackle on the edge of the box was a foul, and watched in dismay at Tevez put it over the top then screamed for a corner. The little beast then burst through, looking offside, and Bardsley was hurt as we cleared our lines. On came Ronaldo for Park, but Cisse showed first, putting an overhead kick into the side netting before the injured Dav made way for McShane. They brought on that Italian kid with the very, very greasy hair, and his first contribution was to be hit by a shot that was going wide and deflect the ball into the net. That’s our luck, that’s Man Utd’s luck.

Murphy replaced Reid, and Yorke replaced Teemu, giving them five minutes to stroll themselves into the ground. We pressed without really troubling the keeper, Murphy robbed the defender to set up Cisse, but the shot was deflected wide. Our luck, Man Utd’s luck.

Four added minutes brought more of the same, and in the end we lost because they were better than us, despite Neville drawing the campest ever mime of a foul throw from the ref. Other results sort of went our way, but the permutations are still virtually endless, so save your brain and just concentrate on our results.

Man of the Match? Well, Carlos was shit scared of Rooney despite chasing him back all afternoon, so it ain’t him. Davenport got in some good blocks, but Scholes scored, so it ain’t him. Cisse and Jones played a decent shift together, but it ain’t them. Bardsley worked hard, but left Rooney get in the telling cross, so it ain’t him. OK, Teem, it’s you for looking calm and setting up our goal. With someone to do his running, he’d have been even more effective.

Keep the Faith

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