Ten days off “proper” football, and back with yet another date in the long-distance love affair between the fans and team of SAFC – an affair which, of late, has degenerated into one of dull, stale, familiarity that is more like a marriage that has run its course than anything that continues to be passionate. Despite trouble with the law during the week – Sunderland young guns going for it with a pellet gun, and my narrow escape from arrest in B&Q last night (there I was, minding my own business in the gardening section, when this bloke in an orange pinny walked up and asked if I wanted decking, so, naturally enough, I made sure I got the first punch in) – and a leaky lavvy ruining my bathroom floor and kitchen ceiling, we made the early morning rendezvous. From a 6 AM start, you can only while away so many motorway miles discussing the news of the week - even the surreal but definitely true (allegedly) news, such as:

• Crop circles on the Toon Moor finally being explained when it was discovered that their circumference exactly matched the turning circle of Titus Bumble
• Toon chiefs rocked by yet another sex scandal when Dyer was found taking part in a one-in-a-bed romp
• Bellamy expected to be out for a few weeks after being bothered by a troublesome calf – it wouldn’t leave his hotel room until after breakfast.

- until you remember where you’re going, and what time you’re likely to get home afterwards.

The sort of rubbish mentioned earlier can keep you going for a while, along with the obligatory quiz, crossword, horoscope (‘today, Virgo – “there’s a 1 in 30 chance that it’s your birthday” says Gypsy Rose Tracy-Lee Molpurgusio’) or arguments about the manager’s tactical awareness, Sven’s sex-life, and the weather, but then the sad reality dawns on you that it’s Gillingham you’re bound for, one of England’s truly crap towns - but it gets even better – oh yes it does- the town authorities won’t let you in until after 1:30, so you have to stop off in Gravesend (a bit like Wallsend with the good bits removed) where there’s no coach park, so it’s a running drop-off and a wandering pick-up. This generally takes place near the railway station, so there’s the obvious option of a 20 minute train ride into Gillingham to get one over on the authorities, but we thought “why not make like a tourist and find the best bits of Gravesend, however aptly it’s named?”

Having thought this thought a few days before the event, being of the “planning” kind (and having been dumped in Gravesend last year without a clue as to the location of any decent hostelries), and not trusting my usual innate ability to find a good pub, I’d scoured the internet sites that needed scouring and found that the 2003 CAMRA (that’s “Campaign for Real Ale” to those who prefer your drink ice-cold and fizzy) Pub of the Year was the Crown & Thistle in Gravesend, not that far from the station, and boasting views over the Thames to Tilbury, if that’s anything to boast about. While I’m quite good at finding these places by using my patented home-made maps, they tend to leave the other lads with the facial expression you see on a dog trying to work a computer, but finding the best bits of anywhere looked unlikely when we passed Gravesend and Northfleet’s ground for the second time. Eventually parked up in a handy lay-by, we took on fuel at the first available bar, where the “smooth” drinkers were treated to a pint of vinegar, before the day’s short trek to the above-mentioned pub, and. For once, “Pub of the year” lived up to its reputation. The rain on the way back to the bus dampened our spirits, as 90 minutes in the Scaffolding Stand in the wet did not seem a very attractive proposition.

Luckily, the weather turned fair, the sun put his hat on, the promised new stand was still at Ikea, and it was £24 to sit in a builder’s yard. Carrying on the nice theme, the lads went crazy. Against form and habit, we scored in the first few minutes thanks to good work by Arca and McCartney down the left. They repeated the act ten minutes later for the goal of the game, with Elliott flying in to head home, and we’d barely clamed down when Stewart popped in the third. Game over, and from then on the only thing that could have prevented a Sunderland win was the pitch disappearing. I don’t know who laid the pitch, but they should either nail it down, or buy some grass with roots. By the time Stewart stole a rotten back-pass and rolled it the fourth, it really did look like someone had randomly dropped pieces of turf onto a pitch-sized patch of bare earth.

What a difference a game makes, and for the first time this season, the homeward journey was amongst generally exited and happy people, and not the usual suicidal squad. Even Lilo Lil mk 3, the self-inflating deluxe sleep-aid, made her maiden appearance to cheers rather than jeers, and the driver made up for the unsolicited pre-match tour of Kent by getting us back home before closing, despite an unplanned cross-country A1 to M1 switch.

Were we that good or were Gillingham that bad? Yes on both counts. They only had two players up for the game (Goofy Roberts and Hessenthaler), despite having Banks in goal. Their midfield provided no service whatsoever, which Roberts chose to counter by running ran his socks. Byfield, on the other hand, chose to counter it by doing precisely bugger-all, confirming what Rotherham fans warned us of – if he doesn’t fancy it, he doesn’t do it. They were pretty crap, but what can you expect from a town with a pub called “The Call Boy”?

Man of the Match: Breen & Caldwell were rock-solid, McCartney ran their right side ragged along with Hooolio, whose touch and control was breathtaking, Wright actually came back form injury looking match-fit, and Whitehead impressed. However, and despite what I said about him a few weeks ago, you have to give it to Stewart, who clearly relished playing alongside the willing and speedy Elliott – and he scored two with his wrong foot.

Weird Moment of the Day? Apart form the lost smoggie in the main stand, it was the Gills fans who asked who the number 11 was (number 11? Johnson – haven’t we been here before?), as he “looks a real class act” they said. Note to self – must find out what drugs they’re on – but to be fair to the lad, he’d only just met the other players, and he did look quite quick.

Also There: Spotted outside the pub near the ground, Look North’s Geoff Brown, making a very bad attempt at being impartial, and who deserves an Oscar, an Emmy, a Golden Globe, and probably a MOBO (Mackem of British Origin) award for keeping such a straight face when he does reports from outside Sid James.