Sunderland 1 v 0 Everton                                            Sat. 22nd Dec 2001

Kick-off: 3.00 pm                                                                         Att : 48,013

Report from last years game                                                        

Everton : Simonsen, Watson, Xavier, Unsworth, Naysmith, Gravesen, Gascoigne, Gemmill, Tal , Moore, Radzinski.

Bench: Gerrard, Alexandersson, Blomqvist, Cleland, Chadwick.

Subs: Alexandersson for Gravesen(29m), Blomqvist for Tal (75m), Radzinski for Chadwick (89m).

The journey to the Stadium of Light lasted longer than Vicks Nasal Spray- 8 hours. It was a nightmare, we didn't even make it for a pint.

Sunderland is the coldest place on earth, even with me LJ's on I couldn't find me best friend when I went for a wee before kick off.

I was really made up with the team, but Lard wasn't too happy with Jesper on the bench. He wants to see if he can still play. But the good thing was Walter decided to play 4-2-2 with Joe Max and The Rad upfront.

Mad Dog got off to a terrible start when he was booked in the first couple of minutes for a stupid tackle.

Gazza had Everton's first chance when he blasted over from a free kick from the edge of the box.This was a really scrappy shite game. Mad Dog must have thought it was crap as well because he was determend to get sent off as early as poss. Walter made the right decision when he subbed him for Saint Niclas.

Everton finished the half the stronger, when Joe had a free kick saved and The Rad could have done better but shot straight at Sorensen.

HALF-TIME 0 - 0

Everton nearly opened the scoring when Stevie Wat sent in a brill cross from the right but it was cleared just as The Rad was about to pounce.

The second half got just like the weather, it just got worse and worse.I have never been so cold in all of my life. I wanted to pour me cup of tea over me head, but Lard stopped me.

The game was becoming a really dull affair and I wanted to go home. I wish I had, because Sunderland took the lead when Reyna had an easy tap in after Simo made a brilliant save from the same player.

We decided to stay for a bit longer because Jesper came on for Tally and the first thing he did was to boot someone and got booked. Young Chaddy came on for The Rad in the last couple of minutes but the game ended without us putting any pressure on to get the goal we needed.

It was hard to pick a star man, but my vote goes to Steve Watson who looked to be very glad he was back in his rightful position.

I never want to come to this place ever again, but I will be ok soon. Next up is the Champs on Boxing Day. COME ON YOU BLUES.

Quotes

Walter: It was a hard-fought match for both sides. There wasn't much in it at all and the goal that we lost was maybe the type of goal that was going to be scored under the circumstances.

But when you look at the two teams, we've both played the same number of games and have got the same number of points, so there's not much between us, and it showed in the match.

We only really had bits and pieces of pressure and half chances, but there wasn't much for either side.

Jogger: I'm fuckin freezin

Kipper: Stop your fuckin moaning. Call y'self an Evertonian?

Lard , Sausage and Jogger: Fuck off Kipper.

Arctic voyage
by
Mickey Blue Eyes.

The dirty saga continued on Thursday when Ridsdale and O'Leary were both interviewed at length on TV. Both of them continued to be obsessed with Leeds' "image" and "……how hard everyone worked to put this club where it is and now it's lost because of one boozy night." Thus, an unknowing statement of why the club and the pair of them are a disgrace to the game. No mention of the victim beaten to the edge of his mortality, no mention of anything except rotten-to-the-core self pity. This was modern football at its worst, the stinking canker of privileged individuals who think they are above decent standards. All of it, every last bit, nothing more than a PR damage-limitation exercise. I hope the whole grubby set-up rots in hell and Leeds win nothing.

Then came the revelation of a media question to Smiffy during the post match "interview" on Wednesday. Actually, these occasions are nothing but a charade of platitudes, a Disneyland of words to keep the media in their useless jobs. Apparently, someone asked Smiffy if he would sign Bowyer if he had the money . Really sensitive huh? Imagine how the Najeib family must have felt if they heard THAT. Of course it was designed as a trap. Which Smiffy promptly sidestepped with, "Where have YOU been? On the moon?" Which could be interpreted anyway you want. But as usual the question told us more about the prick who posed it than Smiffy's intentions.

Michael Duberry too revealed he received death threats after providing evidence which showed what really happened that night and how the two accused attempted to pervert justice. He also received crowd taunts of "grass" from some Leeds fans, all of which confirmed this fan's impression on match night that a sizeable chunk of Leeds has quite the wrong idea of how to deal with adversity and ignorance. Even their players couldn't resist collective "support" for Bowyer. But what were they supporting? The ability of a group of disgusting thugs to get blind drunk and kick a man almost to death? Oh well DONE, Leeds players. You tell us more about yourselves than you know.

So the inevitable happened on Friday when Bowyer agreed to pay the fine of four weeks wages. O'Leary promptly selected him and Woodgate for Saturday's game against Newcastle. How sick, how appropriate for a club with no conscience and no trace of an attempt to set good standards. Now they can set about correcting their "image." Only there are some of us who will never believe their PR crap and media lies. Ironically enough, only the Mirror comes out of this with any credit at all. For once, Piers Moron managed a determined assault on the situation.

Four weeks wages for Bowyer is equal to maybe four YEARS pay for a worker at the brand new Jaguar factory at Halewood, where five hundred are now threatened with rendundancy precisely as I forecast some time ago. The men have willingly embraced new works practices to gain the factory in the first place. But, as usual, the management have screwed up and it is the families of the men who will pay the price for shite administration and sales. The comparison between Yank-owned Jaguar and Leeds United Football Club is unavoidable. Any of the men who stand up for themselves will probably get called "communist" (read: anyone who pisses off the establishment and their paid infoclerks) and have their names stuck on a computer somewhere, in much the same way Duberry was called a "grass." There's always a price to pay for standing up for yourself in an apathetic right-wing society. Check out McCarthyism in fifties USA, and its successors. There's nothing new about Ragged Trousered Philanthropists.

For us, nothing new either about the way to Sunderland. We retraced the road to Leeds en route to the Mackems but at least this time we were in broad daylight and I in the company of gentlemen cactus jack. It was a gorgeous day, bright, clear and sunny and the road mercifully half empty.

Paul boarded The Bus, sat in front of me and grumbled about being labeled one of our resident loonies in my last report. Well, you shouldn't join up if you can't take a joke, haha. What d'you expect with a name like Paul Gerrard? By the end of the trip he was talking about bringing his young nippers on a trip or two. Which is great because Texyla rightly wants to get more families into it. Ever since we inevitably expanded from a minibus to a coach the numbers have got slightly more difficult to usher around and new faces mean there has to be a common understanding of the arrangements. And there's always at least one maverick, one king-of-the-kids, one Very Loud Demanding Voice who interjects him/herself unwanted into any nearby conversation or messes up a travelling arrangement. On Saturday, it was Ray-o, our version of Magwich on bail. This meant occasionally I had to resort to my own version of insistent salty language to get him to, well, to fuck off, actually. It was also necessary to explain too in sentences of one syllable that racism is essentially an act of cowardice. I think this went home like a torpedo. By comparison, Paul is a paragon. Actually I like Ray but occasionally he pisses me off and this was one such. You deal as you find.

As The Bus sped on I clung to conversation with cj like a drowning man in a shipwreck. You couldn't help thinking of the culture shock involved in a midweek air trip from the land of Half Moon Bay to a coach en route to a match between two mediocre footy teams. I don't know who's maddest, cj or me. Like him, I have traveled half way around the planet to watch me beloved Blue Bellies and I still haven't a clue why I did it so often. All true footy fans will empathise.

Flat Lancashire and Cheshire eventually gave way to the erratic Pennines and the first dusting of white powdered frost. At this time of year the terrain looks distinctly dun and scrubby against an ice-blue clear sky. Gawd knows what the moors are like at night. I received a moby call from Keith up ahead in Wearside. Thick snow, he said, match probably won't get played, pitch inspection at eleven a.m., will keep you posted. Texyla made the announcement and this immediately sparked the sound of multi-mobys going off all over The Bus. You couldn't square the panorama with deep snow. Surely even England couldn't manufacture such a narrow weather zone?

Wrong.

When we arrived in the north east it was like driving into a wall of thick grey skies and driving sleet and snow. It was amazing. It changed in the space of a few hundred metres. Then the A1 ground to a halt in the wake of an accident. You began to feel like a latter day Shackleton. Then the nazi north east bizzies game plan kicked in and we had to pull into a service station to be formed into a convoy with bizzy escort. This was the bit I hated most. Cj murmured that their appeared to be more escort than for a prison van. Too true, too true.

The police delayed us long enough to be unable to visit a pub and we had to go straight to the ground. By this time the snow was really driving and clinging at a hundred millimetres deep. Then the skies opened up slightly around the Stadium of Light and the sun came out. Lowryesque figures scurried against the snow toward the stadium. Some kids hit our bus with a couple of snowballs and Kyle blurted, " 'Ey! There's no fuckn need fer THAT!" But it was only because he couldn't make snowballs of his own to chuck back. Frustration is a terrible thing.

Inside, the pitch was completely clear and looked in good nick except for a few diagonal marks, probably formed as drainage channels in the grass. A freezing cold wind swept over the stands roof and whipped back under until it hit the back rows where we were. I was well wrapped as usual but even I could feel it. All around us, kids wore skimpy variants of wretchedly designed "leisure wear." I said to cj, "Bet the California coast seems a zillion miles away now. Bet you won't forget THIS when you get back home." A frozen grin looked back at me, icicles already formed on eyebrows and eye lashes. The sky finally closed up and snow flurries whipped everywhere in fluctuating strength. Everyone connected with footy is certifiably insane. Why do we DO this to ourselves?

At kick off time the stadium was only three quarters full and didn't seem to fill up much more. The final gate was announced at 48,000 odd but it seemed far short of that figure to me.

Smiffy finally selected the team most fans have been asking for. That is, Joe Max, Idan and Gazza in from the off. Davey was suspended so our centre backs pairing was Abel-Unsy…………up against Quinn-Phillips. Hmmmmm. I felt a migraine coming on. The Gravedigger was back complete with large plaster over the trench in his forehead. Once again I hardly knew most of the opposition. I still fancied a draw though.

Territorially, the first half was ninety percent Mackem. We still had a few shots and made the occasional break, probably just to certify that we were still on the pitch. Sunderland made little of it despite the odd scare. Abel stuck to Quinn like a second shirt and gave him hardly any opportunities till he went off. Simmo spilled a couple though none of them had the neurosis of Paul in them, more to do with the conditions.

Our midfield was non-existent and could hardly string two or three passes together. And it really did have more to do with our ineptitude than with anything the Mackems had to offer. It was a thoroughly debilitating display more than matched by the opposition. Of course the conditions were absolutely awful, the wonder being that anyone could control and move the ball at all. But you still felt they were two poor teams who would have struggled even in better weather. There wasn't a spark there, nothing you could see to encourage you.

After a few minutes, The Gravedigger badly decked one of theirs and rightly got booked. After getting into a few more fracas Smiffy wisely took him off after half an hour……… before he got sent off. Let's be charitable and say he was still dazed from the bang on his head. It must have misconnected some of his neurons. However, there are some fans, and I am one, who maintain that he was born that way. Nic came on in his place and continued his poor form despite seeing a lot of the ball wide right. Few people can kill a ball as effectively as he. How unfortunate that he also kills off too many moves in his present form. Wake up, Nic.

In the second half the game pattern reversed and it was us who had ninety percent of the play. It didn't matter much though despite a few low crosses which whizzed in from left and right and almost got touched in. All too often high crosses came in toward The Rad and Joe Max. I am not going to repeat that. Believe it if you can. At least Joe Max got into the box more and made a nuisance of himself, which is his best ability and which leads to him scoring.

By this time we were dealing with them competently and at least a point looked assured. Maybe this is why Smiffy replaced Idan with (who whe?) Blomquist with fifteen minutes left. Is Smiffy unlucky or wha? Two minutes later the Mackems scored (yet another) ludicrous goal when Beloved Lard Arse allowed a harmless cross to bounce off his shins slap in front centre of goal about eight metres out. The nearest startled Mackem didn't hit it right, but Simmo still had to make a magnificent save before it bounced out to their acute right and it got lashed in from close range. You felt immediately the game was lost since we don't have an extra gear and this kind of weather demands that you have if you go behind. We are a one paced team whose playing success depends very much on how our opponents play.

Still, we kept coming forward and superficially you hoped (you must ALWAYS hope) we would get something out of it. There was no conviction in it though. You could sense it among our fans, present again in tremendous numbers and vocal support. The snow swirled in in flurries and the game ground toward its inevitable end. Smiffy sent Nick Chadwick on for four minutes experience in place of a war damaged Rad. And then the badly inconsistent ref blew his whistle and put everyone out of their freezing cold misery.

Stevie Watson did a SuperKev and came over to the away section applauding, and got reciprocated. Virtually everyone else hurried off to a hot bath.

As we came away, news filtered through that The Skunks had won 4-3 at Leeds. I felt a quiet satisfaction, as well as little surprise that Leeds had leaked yet again. Smiffy may be unlucky and we may still be in dire straits but at least we don't have Ridsdale and O'Leary at the helm. For such things we may be truly thankful. They are welcome to their phony annual accounts and their even phonier PR image. There is a footy god after all.

The Bus got back on the road. Driving snow butted the windshield as we headed home. Cj said, "That was like visiting the Klondike." Too true, la, too true. Without the gold.

Next up, the Mancs and a heavy home defeat. No point being silly about this. We can always hope but there's no point losing your reason, not even with the best of seasonal spirit and usual mad optimism.

Merry Christmas, all you Blue Bellies. Keep taking the anaesthetic.