What was it I said after the Leeds game about reaping what we sow and our midfield squad being versatile and effective? It all went out of the window last night.

A pox on the fixture computer operators –may the fleas of a thousand camels infest their collective crotch, and may their arms be too short to scratch it (Old Bishop Curse #46b). Yet another midweek away game meant yet more time off work, and a flying pick up at Aycliffe meant that the living sculpture being (fruit remains and Sunderland favours, involving a ‘nana skin, peach stone, gowk, and George’s cap) would remain unfinished atop the wall to the rear of Thinford Saddlery. Viewings are free (naturally), and the development of this symbiotic representation of post-industrial county Durham and its interface with its football club of choice reflects the hopes and fears of a generation. Or not.

The outward journey was a tale of folks getting their names down for Rotherham, having secured the last half-day holiday available to them, or, in one case, admitting defeat and missing their first game in nearly five years. They should think about this sort of thing when Sky comes a-knocking, because it does really upset us when we can’t get to the game. The second half of the journey was largely taken up with trying to stem the flow of blood from a shaving cut (some folks like to look smart at the game, heaven knows why), and leaving the poor lad smelling of “Angel” and with half a newspaper on his face – which, when removed, left the word “sex” backwards on his face. Every day is market day in Doncaster, apparently, so it was to a busy Wetherspoons that we retired - rather an apt word, as our busload represented the only customers, amongst over a hundred, in gainful employment. We were the only ones who’d had a shave or bought any clothes in the last five years as well, but we’ll leave that. Our discussion on men’s health centred on the normal state of tumescence of a morning, but we (well, all but one of us) decided that it was perfectly normal. Lee “Maverick” was up to his usual card trick, prompting one of us to quote Omar Sharif from Channel 4 poker - “yee’ve been looking at my effing cards”

So to Sheffield, where the polis outside the Cricketers would not believe we were from Donny (wrong accents) or Scunny (not wearing slippers) and denied us entry “for our own safety”. Mr Winks (or “the gardener” as Carl Robinson calls him) had snuck in, probably because Carl had left word during his loan spell that any friend of his should be allowed a pint. Inside Brammal Lane, and it was obvious that our end had yet to benefit from any redevelopment, remaining smoky, smelly, steep, and largely made of red-painted wood. At least the Clock-Stand style seats were big and comfy enough, and, unlike their plastic descendants, retain body heat and so prevent haemorrhoids. Well done the Sheffield Health Authority.

On the field, we sank to the level of team with as much football in them as a broken window. Even Thirlwell, captain for the night, seemed bemused by their tactics of “kick it as hard and as far as you can in any direction”, but not as bemused as us. Add to that the baffling double dismissal (for violent conduct – by Gary Breen? Give over!) for what was no more than a bit of parallel jogging, and the game as a spectacle fell to pieces.

We crated sod-all of any quality, and were crying out for someone to put their foot on the ball, look up, and play a decent pass. Joolio could well have made all the difference. As it was, it looked like 0-0 with one up front each, until Whitley’s header evaded Caldwell, and then it looked 0-1.

Let’s hope this was one of those minor blips that is suffered by every team (Arsenal apart) from time to time, and that we can get back on track at the weekend.

Man of the match?: Probably Pooom, as he produced a couple of good stops, but, him apart, only Elliott looked bright on the night.

Forget it, move on.

Keep the Faith,

Sobs