My ‘friend’ was round last Saturday night – although I can’t keep calling him ‘friend’, but in the interests of preserving his identity (the suffering of watching Rovers is bad enough) I’ll grant him an adopted alias, something jovial and left-field perhaps, Cornelius for example.
Alas, Cornelius was round on Saturday night – there, much better. Over the course of a few Bacardi and cherry Vimtos (don’t ask), he was rather insistent that we tuned into the X Factor at 8 o’clock, or whatever time it was on, it’s all relative.
It must have been oh, well, a good five minutes in before I offered the abrupt, yet astute volley: ‘What are we watching this crap for?’ A camp Scouser crying about something or nothing, a prepubescent girl-band that appeared as if Topshop had vomited over them, one of them dressed as Miss Piggy from the Muppets and the other one that I care to forget. ‘Turn it off Ma.., I mean Cornelius, for Shearer’s sake!’
Less than twenty-four hours later, in the comfort of my Dad’s conservatory, drink by side, cigarette in shaking hand, painstakingly taking in ten blue & white shirts, desperately entrenched in their own half for the worst part of an hour and I was saying the same bloody thing.
Salgado and Dunn were back again, our own answer to Steve Brookstein and Joe McElderry, once adored by the masses, kings of the stage - serenading mums in triple-X fleece pants, warming the heart of Gran with a sparkly tooth – the next big-thing, ‘you’ve got the X Factor!’ Louis Walsh would scream. These days you can find them playing to diners in the Maidstone branch of Pizza Express or side-by-side with Pay Day Loans - shoving their Christmas carol cover album down the throats of the unemployed: ‘Another Aldi mince-pie with that? They’re only 18p for a box of thirty-two’ Yes, please.
At half-time, things were looking a little rosier of course; Cornelius turned to my Dad and asked, rather daringly: ‘If we win this Co.., I mean Craig’s Dad, will you give Kean another chance?’ ‘No’ he said, ‘he’s a wa…, I mean wally’. We didn’t win of course; sitting back for the entire half, waiting for the siege on goal that never really came, yet rather predictably waiting for the defensive errors that would.
A misplaced defensive header here, a needless handball and free-kick concession there - Robinson beaten by anything remotely long-range once again, or twice again. 1-0 quickly became 1-2 and ninety minutes that we’ll never get back compounded a miserable weekend of TV viewing.
So to the positives - we’re used to those this season, well, there was choosing not to make the early-morning trek up to the North-East for one. I didn’t half feel sorry for those that did. While they were boarding coaches or finding their cars in the frost, I was able to take in Stoke Vs. Spurs, putting the back-to-back in Sky’s Super Sunday – seeing as the ad-breaks received more air time than the post-match analysis; at least I was spared Steve Kean.
He caught up with me later of course, scanning Sky Sports News on another ad-break, seeing what insightful excuses the tactical mastermind had to offer this week. I forgot what he said as soon as he said it, ‘something, something, scored a perfectly good second, something, something else’ – I was more mesmerised by the fact that either Keano conducts his interviews sitting down or he’s being interviewed by André The Giant; looking up at the interviewer like a schoolboy being reprimanded by the teacher towering over his desk.
I’ve never noticed the scale of his size before, although it’s hard to judge when he’s lurking in his technical area, yards from anybody else – although come to think of it, I suppose that Clement chap does tower over him every now and again; I just figured he was a big bugger. I’ll keep my eyes-peeled the next time a player of average height is in close proximity, not just for the shorts and satchel either.
Watching the Stoke and Spurs game resembled most other Premiership games not involving our bad-selves – leagues, not just places, apart. Sunderland, as they have been most season, weren’t all that. The stands were packed for O’Neill, but there didn’t seem to be much noise about what they were seeing on the pitch. We got our noses in front and despite Jason Lowe’s air-shot allowing Richardson to fluff his lines in turn, we seemed to have gone beyond that nervous stage whereby we look as if we’ll concede as soon as we score.
The tactics in the second-half were more disgraceful than disappointing. I believe it was Brian Clough who offered the simple charge that ‘If you’ve got the ball, the other team can’t score’. I’m not expecting us to spray it around like Barcelona, or Brighton even, but even the slightest inclination of retaining possession would have been a bonus. In reality, we probably put two passes together at any given moment, before Pedersen launched another one into the channels for the invisible man. It wasn’t exactly wave-after-wave from Sunderland, more so the occasional ripple in a murky puddle. I’m still puzzled, or puddled, four days on.
A point would have sufficed, but seeing as Robbo left a gap the size of the Wearmouth Bridge and neglected to place a man on the post - we got what we deserved: bugger all. A seagull crapping over St. James’ Park, twelve miles up the road, could have foreseen what Larsson was about to do. What else was he going to do? It was that obvious, it defies logic. We were screaming at the telly when he was lining up, Cornelius, my Dad and I, more so than the night before when Barlow was busy licking himself – except for my Dad of course, he wouldn’t watch that tripe.
We did find some enjoyment in our Saturday-night viewing as it happens, courtesy of the Football League show after Match of the Day. Basic psychology would probably tell you that we were preparing ourselves for the inevitable next season. That aside, we were highly amused by the long-range punts, bouncing over defender’s heads, scrambled into empty nets past helpless and often useless goalkeepers, which pretty much accounted for all of the goals throughout three divisions. Come to think of it, it was a lot like watching Rovers over the last few years – although it’s more palatable in quick-fire highlights. The soggy pitches and rain-sodden crowds soon romanced us: ‘Doesn’t look so bad down there Cornelius, we’ll have a laugh if nothing else – pass the Bacardi will you?’
The Christmas tree finally went up this week: a white affair, gloriously decorated in blue and silver tinsel – interpolated by the occasional splash of a red bauble, she looks after me ‘our lass’. There aren’t many gifts under it yet, so it must represent a ghost of Rovers’ past, and not present. My Rovers Santa is also out in force, showing his colours in the garden – although my last check on him revealed an adverse reaction to the inclement weather – the paint on his hat flaking away in the rain; maybe it’s Formica in disguise. When I tried to plug him into the mains, I also discovered that the light had gone out – very fitting.
Fear not, once more unto the breach and all that. The behemoth of Baggies and Bolton await - two games that will either fill us with festive cheer for another fall or put us out of our misery once and for all. Bah, humbug.
By the time I write again, we should have a better understanding of our seasonal fate and in the absence of X Factor on Saturday night prime-time, what other joys are in store? Harry Potter and Westlife; on second thoughts, I may not be around to write again at all. ‘Pass the bottle again would you Cornelius?’ Uncle Jack give us strength. We are the Rovers.
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