Countdown….
86 hours to go. Got out of bed, did the shower thing, had a shave, went out.
87 hours to go. Bus arrived. Hoyed cases aboard, found back seat, fell asleep.
85 hours to go. Huge back seat argument broke out concerning the relative merits of Greg Halford, Reira, Calvin Palmer, and Wincey Willlis. Argument won by phone by my Aunty Eva, who is 91 and loves young men in Red and White shirts.
82 bait stop! Tom’s world beating buffet is unleashed, and fettles us for the next two hours. Willa convinces us that 4-5-1 is the way to go, as it means there will only be one lazy bugger up front.
78 hours to go. Arrive at top-notch hotel in Southampton, sleep off effects of chocolate cake.
77 hours to go – nip out for a quick pint. Find several other decent pubs in the “Polygon”, then munch our way through hotel dinner at Jury’s Inn. Jury’s very much out on the quality of the food.
72 hours to go – walk down main thoroughfare of Southampton, being bitterly disappointed that the two places inhabited by great great granddad still showing on the map are now a shopping mall and a micey council estate respectively.
71 hours to go – met two random Sunderland Lads using up their already-booked holidays and sharing a couple of beers in the oldest pub in the land before lowsing back to the Polygon for one last pint while Lee gets a kebab. Hotel staff a bit surprised when Tom brings remnants of buffet into the bar. You can’t waste scran that good.
60 hours to go. Make use of the world’s shallowest bath, smile at availability of black pudding with breakfast, threaten last night’s stag party that any repeat of last night’s racket will result in bent noses.
58 hours to go. Taxi to Isle of Wight ferry, colours on show. Decide to watch Man Utd Arsenal despite Snoopy claiming the game was on Sunday. Brief encounter with Jon Snow, of swingometer fame, on the ferry. Stroll along Cowes High Street, all yachty Henry Lloyd stuff, then …
57 hours to go…nice couple of pints in Union, with a special quiz from the Little Black Book of Music. Hal David, of Bacharach and David fame, looks just like Reg Varney. Remember that, it might be useful one day. Then on to the Fountain for the Man Utd Arsenal game, nice bit of craic with some Arsenal lads. No goals, so nothing for Utd to play for against Hull next weekend. Bugger.
55 hours to go….back room of the Anchor for a spot of pool and erupt as Fulham do the business. Ignore local chav who tries to spark a bit of conflict by shouting “come on Hull” and the various locals who though my stripes belonged to either Southampton (fair mistake) or Exeter (?). Tension far too much for Snoopy, who moved from lager to green monsters. Agent Sixer reported that Kelso, in the shameful barcode stripes, were being outplayed by Ormiston. Carew did the business, thankfully, against Boro, and for once the results generally went our way.
50 hours and 15 minutes to go, back on the high speed Solent crossing with Snoopy’s sick bag at the ready. Thankfully all stomach contents stayed where they were intended.
49 hours to go. Off into town for a curry in anticipation of the Willo karaoke sing-off.
47 hours to go karaoke sing-off cancelled. Watched Eurovision for the first time since Doncaster Trades and Labour Club in 1974 when a little-known beat combo called Abba won. The London Tavern was camper than a row of pink tenets, but it was a laugh. Back to hotel for nice lie down.
36 hours to go. Sunday morning lie-in, then train to Portsmouth. Nice Sunday roast as Liverpool put the Baggies to bed, followed by £3.50 for a pint of Maxim.
26 hours to go, last-gasp train back to Southampton and slightly better food than Friday. Maximo Park in the hotel foyer, then off to see Buddy Whittington at the Brook, one of those gigs were the musicianship was so good that it brought a tear to your eye. Well, mine at least.
21 hours to go, taxi back to the Polygon where all the pubs were shut, so back to the hotel, ordered in a huge pizza and drank all of the Guinness.
10 hours to go. Wandered around Southampton while Lee applied some decidedly dodgy cream to his knee (bitten by a snake, so they say) and drank raspberry and haddock J2O, then sat in the park with the Special Brew drinkers as they exercised their bull terriers. He parrot in the Red Lion still wouldn’t say anything nasty about the mags.
3 hours and 30 minutes to go, here’s the bus with the seven stragglers from Durham. Off to Portsmouth yet again, with plans of sabotage in mind for the Setanta lorry. Today’s papers report that Boro, the mags, and Hull are all doomed, which would be clever
Two hours to go, into the Pickwick to wind down, lean against the menu board, and get covered in chalk. Best wishes from locals, who also want to see the demise of the Mags.
As expected,
Fulop
Bardsley Ferdy Davenport Collins
Steed Leadbitter Deano Richo Tiny
Jones
An open start with the travelling fans in fine voice, and Setanta getting a fair bit of stick. Jones flicked on to Richardson, but the shot went where all of his shots seem to go at the moment – over the top. Real goal-line scramble at our end, then something similar at the other end when Jones saw his header come off the post and roll along the line as it somehow stayed 0-0. We were creating any amount of chances, but couldn’t finish. While Crouch was a pain in the arse at one end, Davenport generally did well against him, and Jones was a pain in the arse at the other. We had the lion’s share of central midfield but at times lacked the width to break through more. With no score at the break, we were sort of satisfied and justifiably confident of getting something in the second half. That half was only ten minutes old when Steed made way for Edwards, then Pompey forced a series of corners. From the fifth of these, Davenport broke down the right and put in a tremendous cross for Jones to poke home at the back post. Joy unbounded, but we were still hugging each other when a clearance hit Leadbitter and fell straight to Utaka and it was 1-1.
As you’d expect, we tried to get back into it, with Tiny volleying over from a corner, then Richardson taking another pass from Jones to fire wide. On 68 we allowed Pompey through and Bardsley could only put the ball into the net as he made a tackle. Cisse and Murphy replaced Tiny and Leadbitter as we attempted to out even more life into our attack, but it was Pompey who scored through Traore. Game over, miserable as owt and the length of the country away from my bed. Sunderland AFC – we don’t do simple, we have to make it hard. Too many chances and not enough goals. As I’ve said for a few weeks, our fate will not be sealed by what we do, but what other teams do. And I don’t mean Chelsea.
Man of the Match? Great shift by Leadbitter, but I’ll give it to Jones for his ast game of the year, and hope for a repeat, with better finishing, next Sunday.
Keep the faith
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