So another International weekend has passed, and for once I’ve not taken the easy option of saving my thoughts for a week and clagging them onto next week’s Fulham nonsense. Normally, I’d have got a bus sorted and taken the Bittermen on a silly trip to some pub of good reputation somewhere in the North East, but this week was a bit different. Bernard’s funeral on Friday had got a few of said Bittermen knocking our heads together, and the England game on Saturday was in consequence a bit more serious than is usually the case.

We’d managed to get a small team together to come second in the Station quiz on Thursday and sort out travel arrangements for Friday, where the turnout was impressively huge and the service impressively moving. Back at the Green in Wardley, Pop posed the ultimate question, how many lad shad made 100 or more appearances of a Sunday morning, and who were they? Two pints later, we’d sorted it out, (seven, in case you’re interested) and given Cammy the ultimate award, for playing two years in goal without ever using his hands.

I’d managed to get myself up to Frosterley on Saturday morning for a quality pint and a huge lump of game pie (only one piece of lead shot as well) at the Black Bull, where I discovered that I’m a (very distant) relative of the landlord via the Ratcliffs of Monkwearmouth, then a walk back down the dale, and consequently had worked up a decent thirst by kick-off. I’d spent a couple of hours prior to my travels at my other hobby, the family history nonsense. After six or so years of trying to find an uncle who’d worn the read and white without success, I thought I’d made a breakthrough. A third (or fourth, I’m not that clever at it) cousin of Judith’s was at last revealed to have signed for SAFC. Alas, he never pulled on the colours for the first team, and moved up the road, where he managed to win League and FA Cup medals. Bugger, I’ll have to keep looking.

The first half was, as you well know, back to the old England of staid predictability, but the second just about went well. As did the rest of the night. Bittermen? November 22 nd, the day before the West Ham game, is the date for our next jolly boys’ outing, so be there or be square. While England did the business, our very own Kenwyne Jones was training like a monster alongside Dwight Yorke with T&T, a bit of a surprise. Roy’s running battle with Jack Warner has been well documented, with our fella coming out way on top in the common decency stakes. There would have been no surprise had Roy withheld our players, but he let them go there and join in the fun, so that’s probably another point to our man against football’s answer to Robert Mugabe.

I’ll also reveal that I had a weird dream on Thursday night, concerning the mags game. Kenwyne was playing, of course, but with three minutes to go it was still without a goal. For some reason, a huge white police horse was on the pitch. A huge white police horse with disproportionally huge feet, one of which thumped the ball into our net for the only goal of the game. Shit like that can’t happen in real life, can it? Mebbe it’s just my naturally Sunderland pessimism kicking in, because I really feel that we can do the buggers this time around. Fulham should be a nice warm-up for that one, so I’ll see you in the Lamb or the White Horse before that one.

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