The Diary

19 April 2003: Sunderland 1 - Albion 2: Down But Not Out!

"Oh, we'll keep on trying
Tread that fine line?
Yeah, we'll keep on trying,
And whatever will be, will be?"

Lyrics by Queen, 'Innuendo', 1991.

As relegations go, today's was the least painful I've experienced by far; for pure unmitigated misery in its entirety, courtesy of the drop, I have to cast my mind back to the year Queen had a hit with the song whose lyrics preface this piece - and, yes, there was also a Gulf War fought and won about three months previous to that fateful day. The venue was Twerton Park, Bath, the opponents Bristol Rovers, our manager a certain Mr.Gould, our (old) Division Two position was tenuous, and the crazy thing about the whole affair was that by rights, we should never have let ourselves get into that state at all. During the run-up to that fateful day, we lost about one in the last eight; trouble was, most, if not all of the remainder, were drawn games, which does you no favours at all. Add to that a strikeforce comprising Colin West and Paul Williams, (who had never before played together competitively), with Adrian Foster transplanted to midfield for reasons that still mystify me today, and 'proper' striker Gary Bannister on the bench, and you begin to get the message pretty rapidly. Oh - and as Rovers hated Gould also, they weren't prepared to be magnanimous either. To cut a long - and painful - story short, we drew, fellow-strugglers Leicester won, consequently we hurtled straight through the trapdoor to the (old) Third. If you want to know the truth, I came away from that ground really wishing the floor would open up and swallow me, and I wasn't alone, by a long chalk. That really had to be the pits, the nadir of my supporting career; should you ever feel tired of living, grab me for a meaningful discussion outside The Shrine one day?

Returning to the present once more, today's plunge is the fourth I've experienced thus far in my supporting lifetime; astonishing, then, that I emerged from The Stadium Of Light feeling quite so chipper, thank you very much, but then again, today's little tryst with The Wearsiders wasn't quite your normal Prem fixture. Sunderland knew their fate was sealed well before the off, and we knew that if Bolton triumphed over The Hammers, the game was well and truly up for us as well, so that little mix gave the encounter an added extra you don't normally see in those sort of games. Not so much a wake, more a curious hybrid of Cup-tie and end-of-term carnival atmosphere, which really began to manifest itself in the Colliers' Arms pub a couple of hours before the game. But that comes later?

This trip being a long one for us, we'd set sail from our place at around 8.30 am. I must say, I certainly couldn't argue with the previous day's weather forecast which had announced variations on a theme of "brass-monkey weather"; as we headed for The Dickmobile, was it cold, or was it cold? Fortunately, our jam-jar is pretty good at turning on the hot stuff in quantity, and our chilly little important bits had pretty-much thawed out by the time we hit (how can anyone be so cruel as to hit a road?) the A38 near Lichfield. Northward, ever Northward, and a brief pit-stop on the outskirts of Derby to pick up Stoke's answer to Patrick Moore, who wasted little time in telling us he was now forty and had tried to keep it secret, but someone had - erm - let it slip to his workmates, therefore it was the worst-kept secret in The Potteries! Time, then, for The Fart to introduce his secret weapon; a couple of tapes of Tom Ross holding forth with his adoring public on that weekly phone-in show of his. There was also another, secondary, reason why The Fart was giving this stuff a belated airing, but in the interests of diplomacy, I reckon I'd be better off not discussing this aspect of the journey too deeply. This occupied us until around the point we reached the Sheffield area; once the tapes finished, the main topics among the Dick Eds revolved around what a relegation back to The Nationwide would hold in store for us, and whether the club would sell, then buy to strengthen during the break. And, dare I say it, the question of whether our leader would call it different next time round. All pretty involved stuff, and, before we knew it, we were in the County Palatine once more, with a sharp right-turn for the river-mouth and the venue for today's game. We would have made use of the 'Park And Ride' scheme advertised prominently, but being made somewhat confused by signs that seemed to lead unwary drivers into a series of ever-decreasing circles, with the terminus located, seemingly, up one's own exhaust pipe, we gave it up as a bad job, and headed for the side-streets instead.

The next problem to be solved? Find a decent boozer, of course! As this was Terra Incognito to us, we sought advice from a friendly steward outside the ground. A pre-match drink? Try the Collier's Arms, over the road, and no problems at all with admitting away supporters. Great - licenced premises that loved us! It was a two-minute job to shift ourselves over the road, and into the bar of that hostelry; rather welcome, as well, as the wind blowing in from the North Sea was a bit tasty. Mind you, as I said last night, that area has a microclimate all of its own, so I shouldn't have been too surprised by this unwelcome turn in the weather. In to the bar, then - sparsely populated at that early hour - and some liquid refreshment. Coke and orangeade. Sorry. Mind you, when I looked at the cans containing that famous product, I had quite a shock, as the writing on them was not in the Queen's English, as one would expect, but pure Deutsch! I have my own thoughts on that one; perhaps it's better to keep them to myself?

We weren't alone for long. Not long after, in drifted some Norwegian Baggies who'd come over for the weekend to take in the game. A good omen as well; one of them had never seen us lose when visiting for these trips. Sez I: "He 'll do for me.." As The Noise moved into second vocal gear with our Scandinavian visitors, The Fart and I turned our attention to some Mackems that had drifted in also. As expected, these home supporters were only too willing do discuss their season, and what had gone wrong; unsurprisingly, the consensus felt that their fate had been sealed the moment Peter Reid was given the bullet. "How about Howard Wilkinson's appointment, then?" I somewhat mischievously asked. The reply? Sorry, I'm in enough lumber already, without adding to it by printing words that wouldn't look at all good in a feature read by all ages.. As the minutes sped by, the conversation then turned to shared supporting experiences; the Fart being of a venerable age, within an instant, he was trotting out details of games that were played when I was but a twinkle in me Mum's eye. You certainly can't fault these guys and gals when it comes to showing passion for their side, even now; in adversity, there was a warmth and passion about them which contrasted starkly with the demeanour of the moneyed theatre audiences found in more opulent regions of the country. One bloke's partner had an incredible supporting record; since 1974, she had attended every single Sunderland game, home and away, with nary a break. Hell to arrange time off for, but she was a Civil Servant, and therefore able to use flexi-time, but even so, it takes a certain degree of dedication (and ackers!) to do that, week in, week out. Loyal supporters? We're just amateurs by comparison..

Off to the ground, then, to flog some Dicks, and a chance for me to take some pics of the ground bathed in the watery sunshine that briefly penetrated the cold. After all, we'd need 'em for the same fixture next season! Our photographic tour of the exterior also gave me the chance to natter to various Baggie folkies who read this column on a regular basis; that means you, Dave Baxendale, Julian Rowe, and Dave Hewitt, to name just a few. Thanks for the nice things you said, one and all - much appreciated. A chance, also to chat to Laraine Astle, who'd made the journey up from the East Midlands to watch the game in the company of her daughters; always good to see any of The Royal Family at away venues. I wonder, was that result today all our own work, or did we have assistance from an Unexpected Source? Much appreciated, also, were the many good wishes from the home fans, who seemed to have struck up a really good rapport with our followers. A mutual understanding born of adversity, 'tis true, but none the less genuine for all that. Some news of our team, also; much as expected, with Jason Roberts on the bench, very unexpected, that one. Still, apparently, the decision was left up to him; from his appearance today, I assume his family worries have diminished considerably. Also unexpected was the news that Bob Taylor had travelled up on the team coach yesterday, presumably to visit his family.

Into the ground, then, and to our seats on the third row from the front. Although there was only about ten minutes before the start, there seemed to be many gaps in the rows of seats dedicated to the home followers. Battle-fatigue? Something like that; supporting the Mackems is not a pastime you approach in a casual manner. The Thing From Tring aka The Troll Called Poll got things underway at last, and very quickly, we found ourselves under the cosh. Although the name of the game was salvaging some pride from the wreckage of a season for both participants, it seemed to me that Sunderland were really taking this aspect of the game in a serious manner; something to do with saving face, no doubt. Sunderland came at us in a manner reminiscent of The Charge Of The Light Brigade; one thing looked horribly certain, those painfully-accurate in-swinging high crosses from the flanks would do for us eventually. How the hell Houlty kept out that blistering header from Stewart from point-blank range I have no idea. By rights, he should have been scooping it out of the net; instead he fisted it away for all it was worth for a corner. Instinct? Reflex? I dunno. I'm just glad we've got him on our side?

Following these early alarums and excursions, the game seemed to settle a little; one of those turgid encounters that neutrals find so unattractive to watch, if you really want to know, and quite honestly, I wouldn't have blamed them. Balls going astray, misplaced passes, moves breaking down, no subtlety to the play at all - most definitely not an advert for Premiership football at its best.

I suppose the whole game changed for the better when Hughsie was taken off about ten minutes before the interval; I hadn't noticed, but as he left the pitch, 'Im Indoors realised he was holding his side. My flabber was well and truly ghasted when Jason took his place - was this wise? O ye of little faith! Within minutes our striker was causing the Mackems a great deal of trouble, just like he had the day of that stupendous Cup win just over a year ago. I suppose in a game involving two sides more noted for their defensive failings than anything else, it really had to be a goalkeeping clanger that enabled our lot to draw first blood. Poor Mr. Poom - it's bad enough to have a rather silly name without conceding to the Prem side with one of the worst goal-scoring records in recent memory as well! As I saw it, what happened was this; one minute there was a ball whanging across the face of goal, and a keeper seemingly covering the danger; the next, an almighty agonised moan of horror as Poom spilled the thing right on to the feet of the ever-grateful Mr. McInnes. A goal-machine, he is not, but he accepted the gift will all due gratitude. One-nil, some mighty annoyed-looking Mackems in the home seats, and a frenzied bout of 'Boinging' from our faithful instead.

After that nasty aerial barrage at the start, when it seemed just a matter of time before we fell behind, they must have felt really hard done-by. A shame, then, that two minutes later, we repeated the dose! This time, a Koumas free-kick provided the means and the opportunity; once more, Poom tried to save, but yet again, spilled the thing. Another almighty scramble ensued, the end-result being our Number Four yet again running around like a thing demented and Mr. Poom, no doubt, wishing he were about a million miles away from the scene of the crime. Cue for more joyous celebrations in the away end. Two goals. TWO BLOODY GOALS! Was the world going completely bonkers, or something, or had we finally struck oil? And it could have been more - DD nearly got in on the act just before our little friend in black called 'time'. Oh- and as the whistle went for the interval, one other thought; earlier in the proceedings I had to - erm - powder my nose. On my way back afterwards, I managed to bump into a former colleague I hadn't seen for yonks; a small world indeed..

On to the second helping, then, and cushioned by a two-goal lead, it was time for the gallows humour-merchants to show their many talents, and it's fair to say the home crowd took the whole thing in the spirit in which it was intended. The usual stuff: "Can we play you every week?" progressing via the 23rd Psalm, to paeans of praise for our manager, interspersed with yet more 'boinging' an activity clearly unknown to the photographic community gathered below us, as their cameras and gurt-long lenses seemed more interested in what we were up to than what was happening on the pitch. Jason was really causing some bother to the men in red and white stripes, now, and it could have been more, quite easily. Oh, and because he was paid the usual defensive 'attentions' we Dick Eds now reckon he's been fouled 109 times this season - that's the running total, honest! Ironic, then, that not long afterwards, our main problem this season struck with a vengeance once more - our inability to hang on to a lead. We conceded so cheaply, it was untrue; having allowed Sunderland to get back into the groove and go for the jugular, it came as no surprise when they pulled one back. What did surprise was the fact that the previously-faultless Houlty managed to spill the ball - shades of last week, there - and Stewart pounced to hoover up the crumbs. 'Crumbs' is about the only comment on the whole incident that's repeatable! Having stupidly got ourselves within shouting-distance of a repeat-performance of the corresponding home fixture, it was always going to be sweaty, and Houlty was hard-pressed to prevent further loss as the home side pressed for the equaliser. Luckily, our nerve - and our luck; we were really riding it today! - held firm, and it was with great relief we acknowledged the final whistle. OK, we were down, as Bolton had beaten The Hammers, but at least we'd met our Waterloo with not a little pride notched up on our scoresheet as well. One other nice touch, typical of the mutually-respectful attitude of both sets of supporters today. As we made to leave our end, the home crowd applauded us warmly, we reciprocated, and what 's more, really meant it. Thanks for the gesture, and see you next season, chaps.

And finally. I think we should be told. Having seen TV pictures of Saddam's palace, and those bathrooms awash with gold-plated taps and all the furnishings and fittings commensurate with the lifestyle of the former tyrant, is it true that Albion supporter and tiler extraordinare Anc has been awarded the contract to restore these places to their former glory? Or could it be that Anc was the cause of all the holes and cracks in the tiling that were there in the first place? You know how it is, you really can't get the workmen these days, even in secret?

 - Glynis Wright

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