A view from behind enemy lines....................
Driving through the shithole that is sunderland, you realise why all of their players live on Tyneside. This is true depression. This is reminiscent of a war zone.
We park near the old Roker Park and walk towards the ground. Starving, we spot 'Roker Pie Shop' on the corner of a nearby street. Thinking their pies have got to be better than anything else served up in the SoS, we enter, wandering up to the counter to see a rotund mackem lass, with a sweat on.
I ask 'what pies have you got?', she looks with some incredulity, shooting a bemused glare akin to my dumping on her cracked tiled step and then wiping it on their windows. 'We don't sell pies, just sunday dinners' she responds with disdain.
'Of course you don't love. I should have guessed. What with this being a pie shop and all'.
Onwards we traipsed towards the SoS.
We get to the ground to find they've completely blocked 25% of it off for the travelling toon army. We walk the entire circumferance of the stadium to reach our turnstile.
I feel dirty for having been forced to buy a pie in this rat pit, but needs must. I invest in meat and potato. The sunday dinner pie shop, with it's sweaty assistant and cracked tiles had never been so appealing. I'm now regretting not buying the beef and yorkshire and wandering to the stadium, gravy dripping between my mits.
We get to the seats, crackers they are, courtesy of Ellis Short to be surrounded by no less than 30 yanks. All on Corporates. That's one way to fill your seats. There was also about 50 or so service personnel in their army uniforms on freebies too.
I judge it best not to mention that Mike Ashley would do the same but we don't have the space. Or the Chairman for that.
The warm up's finish and the Steven Taylor 'we wish you were dead' chant gets it first airing from the end opposite our fans. I don't know the name of the stands. Let's call it Scum Container 1.
The atmosphere is good pre kick-off with those ardent Sunderland fans from Texas enquiring how many time out's were allowed and 'who's the little guy in the square zone?' The answer was O'Neill and it was the technical area. Who was I to educate? I'm the knacker whispering to his mate for fear of getting mullered.
The game kicks off, Newcastle start strongly with the early possession and corner.
Cabaye SCORES!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The closet Geordies are quickly outed.
Behind me, a family (father and mother in their late forties, son early twenties) are outed. Exposed. The undercover Geordie Taliban had been identified and all hell broke loose.
'Tha Black N Whites', 'Get oot yer fucking scum', 'Get that dorty slag oot' to name a few of the more polite requests.
Up come bounding stewards and a few labouring rozzers. The infiltrators duly escorted out to much abuse and aggresion.
I sat still, heart pumping, staring on as Cabaye pumps the badge and gee's up the travelling masses.
This is not going to be easy.
I'm sitting next to the most stressed mackem you've ever seen. Before the kick off, he took his seat and started the game with his head in his hands. On the rare occasions his digits left the side of his greasy barnet, there were straight to his mouth, as he chewed on his nails in extreme stress.
There not half jumpy over us, these mackems. I think we're under their skin.
I'm staring straight at the halfway line as Tiote wins the foul, sitting there quietly enjoying our dominance, when BANG the red mist descends. It takes all of my self-control not to yell at that filthy mackem Fletcher to get off his fucking arse. This isn't Vietnam cuntchops.
I gaze on in horror as the red card appears. Silently, viewing the Mackem fans delight. They know they've got the advantage now.
We've just got to get to half time I keep saying.
The second half, as expected is Mackem dominated, and we're camped out. The Mackems around me growing more and more frustrated with their sides lack of creativity. Like a severe case of floppy cock syndrome, they just couldn't penetrate.
The only way they were going to score was through a set piece.
As the half wore on the Geordies were more and more vocal. At one point they had the whole upper tier of Scum Container 2 absolutely rocking to the 'O Brien' song. The stand was literally moving and the noise deafening. The daft Mackems had no retort.
The dissenting Mackems were quick to criticise golden boys Johnson, McClean and Sessegnon as shouts for changes increased in volume and aggression.
Just as I was thinking we may hold out, they go and nick one. I'll never forget the feeling of sheer disgust at having been touched by a hoard of celebrating mackems. Greasy boy next to me had his hands off his head and out of his mouth for the first time in the game. Going wild.
On play, they probably deserved it. The moral winners, of course was NUFC, who upon reflection have got far more quality in our first team. They just have no answer for the HBA's, Santons, Colo's and Ba's of our side.
With 11 men, we win that game comfortably. As it is, I'd always take a point down there in the hope that we'll get all 3 at our place.
We left, all bodily parts still functional, no Wireside pot shots from Scum Container 3 were noted and, as we saunter back to the cars, I reflect 'I wonder if the Off Licence next to the 'Pie Shop' sells Chinese?' Nothing would surprise me in this educationally challenged shithole.
