After the heady enthusiasm generated by Tuesday’s win, we were still in a good mood about travelling to that London on a Friday. By the time we got there, that good mood had all but evaporated, thanks to the vagaries of Friday traffic on the A1, the M25, and all other London roads. Whichever misguided imbecile at Fixture Buggeration HQ decided that it was acceptable to move this game should have been atop the first available bonfire. Millwall at any time is bad enough, but to expect fans of any club to make a 500 mile round trip on a Friday, just so that Sky can have their match, is pure lunacy and greed.
The traffic problems meant that the back of the bus discussion group had time to dismantle and rebuild the welfare state, watch a film, an episode of Phoenix nights, play 5 games of cards, and the above-mentioned kick-off time. One of the national radio stations had a phone-in during the week, on the subject of “why is interest in football in decline?” Why are people unhappy with the way things are going? A Sunderland fan rang to say that the reason he was peed off with the direction of the game is because of nine away games so far, only two had kicked off at three on a Saturday, which seems a well-put argument. Not quite as well put as the next caller, who said that televised games had to be in on midweek evenings “because not everyone can get to the telly at three on a Saturday” – the absolute ignorance of some people in this country amazes me at times. We also discussed George’s trip to Madrid, which meant that he’d missed the Rotherham game – because the kick-off had been moved. At the Bernebau, he’d been on the tour, in the top row, which is about as high above sea level that you can get in a European stadium, when he spotted a youth in a mag shirt being photographed in the centre-circle. Speeding as only a man can when having spotted such an atrocity, he eventually cornered the offender in the club shop, only to find he was from Eire, barely new where Newcastle was, and was about to have “Raul” put on the back.
As we crawled through London, passing the Queen Victoria advertising “shit food served all day” Rob managed to squeeze his drink carton and shower himself with vitamin C as we had our customary tour around the Dome. Eventually parking up in Charlton at 5:30, we once again gave the landlord of the Antigallican a nice Friday surprise. An hour’s power drinking, and his holiday was probably paid for. As we trundled along the final few miles to Millwall, every other shop (apart form Elvis’s Chinese restaurant) was a barber’s, and everyone was getting their hair cut – at 7 on a Friday night.
 An unusually small convoy of two coaches and a minibus was testament to the effect of the day and time of the match, but those that did make the journey were impressively vocal. There was also some good news for Palestine, as we discovered their next leader was amongst us – Yasser Marrowfat, actively seeking “peas in our time”. The New Den is a nice ground – far to good for those that inhabit the home sections. I don’t know exactly they were up to, but it was bad enough for there to be a steady stream of ejectees from the part closest to us. On the field, and the victory a few weeks back was long gone, as they were back to their niggly, petulant selves. It took only a couple of minutes for Wise, the human equivalent of what comes out of the back end of a Yorkshire Terrier (a little shit) to have Bridges by the throat, and only a few more to work out that Arca was being targeted. Perhaps the only person in the ground not to see the elbow that flattened Arca was the ref. Basically, they bullied us out of the game, and our new-look defence was pulled all over the shop by Tessem, who is obviously only on loan, as he was their only player to actually try to play football. Wise should have been long gone by the time Lynch added a slightly raised arm to a standard tussle, and it was always going to be given by the ref who proved to be the milkman of human kindness to the Cock-a nees all night. In came the text message from our Ian “it was a pen, but Wise is a twatty fekker”, which sums him up perfectly. Up the field, our midfield couldn’t get a grip of the game, and what chances we did have either came back off the post (Robinson) or were too easily dealt with by the keeper (Bridges). Even after our defence fell asleep to concede an awful second, we still felt that if we could get a grip of the midfield, the game was there to be won.
Well, as you know, they didn’t, despite tireless effort from Whitley, which gave rise to the Jeff Whitley song being top of the pops for the last half hour. Bridges, after building up to the game so well, was disappointing, and Stewart just couldn’t get into things. The referee could have saved himself an afternoon’s work by just giving the whistle to Wise, because, make no mistake, he was the man in charge of the game, and when that the officials let that happen, the opponents have no chance.
 So the game fizzled out, or rather Sunderland fizzled out. Our wide men hadn’t delivered because the central men couldn’t win the battle in the middle (no lawn-mowing favours this weekend, Carl) and consequently the forwards got negligible service. At the back, Myrrhe couldn’t be lamed for either goal, the central two looked uncomfortable as a pairing, Collins (D) is not a bad player, but not as comfortable at left back as he was on Tuesday, while Lynch has yet to convince me that he can do any sort of job for us. A thoroughly downhearted homeward journey was filmless, as there were no Ingmar Bergman films black enough to match our mood. We moaned our way up the road, hoping that we can show some bouncebackability (copyright I. Dowie) at Leicester – after all, it is at three on a Saturday – rolled out Lilo Lil, and slept as best we could.
Man of the Match? Well, the only person who got the Sunderland crowd going was Whitley, and he did have a good effort tipped over, so he’s it.
Thoroughly hacked off with the world in general, as you are on these occasions, especially when arriving home at half three.
Keep the faith
Sobs |
