This was arguably the most pleasurable of our SIX derby wins in a row. Have a read as Craig Clark continues our enjoyment at their expense. Sour grapes never tasted better…
Well, where do you start with this one? Humiliated again by little old Sunderland, it must really hurt to be a Mag. I mean, we even didn’t bother showing up for much of the first half, looking more like John Carver’s Newcastle of last season than a club that had notched five derby wins in a row.
No wonder they’re bitter. And by God they are. That superiority complex born out of stealing the good bits of Gateshead, ignoring Clayton Street and lauding “their” airport (it isn’t) must make it that much harder to take when they get battered time and again by a club from that little town on the banks of Wear.
They’re not bothered though. It’s not like anyone ever wrote a letter to the Mayor of Milan to confirm whether or not he’d seen a Mackem there. If they had, you’d be forgiven for thinking they cared a little too much. They wouldn’t be that sad, would they?
Come on, when you’re the Barca of the north, you only really care about playing the big boys in Yoorup, right? Strange then, that all I could hear from above me in the North Stand were songs about Albert Luque and Ryan Taylor. When did they play for them again? I’m assuming they did something against us, but I’m too busy basking in the bliss of victory to remember.
I recall Mathieu Debuchy though. He scored in a game recently. Maybe they should restart their DABOOSHEE chant. Honour a hero. Then again, they did lose, but these days even just scoring is an achievement for the Mags. That should write him into Geordie folklore.
I say Geordie, I mean Mag, because we shouldn’t let their appropriation of the word go unchallenged. It isn’t theirs and never was. I’ve seen Mags from Easington proclaim themselves as Geordie, accusing Sunderland fans from Gateshead of stealing their identity. I’m from South Shields, south of the Tyne, and still more of a Geordie than someone from an outlying village in County Durham.
I keep talking like we won on Sunday, when of course we didn’t. I’d forgotten its possession and having shots that didn’t result in goals that really count. In fact, the more you say it, the truer it becomes. It doesn’t make you look dead silly and embarrassing. Honest.
If I was a Newcastle supporter, I’d be very worried. This is a Sunderland team that didn’t turn up for almost 45 minutes. The best they could muster was a Jack Colback one on one with Pantilimon. Hearts were in mouths before the soon to be crocked turncoat saw his tame effort fumbled wide by the big Romanian. Unlucky lad, shouldn’t have signed for that lot, you might have enjoyed winning a derby again.
Then that curly haired bloke who they don’t seem to want to let shag their wives anymore ballsed it up and we could enjoy the rest of the afternoon. He’s dreadful isn’t he? Couldn’t care less whether he deserved the red or not. He was utterly embarrassed by Fletcher. Captain? I wouldn’t leave him in charge of barn full of chickens in case one of them lost their head and outran him. To think, he was once their Bobby Moore according to another derby day bottler, Alan Pardew. More like Bobby Davro.
Once we scored, even against ten, I actually became nervous. We were so poor in the first half that I’d almost resigned myself to defeat. We’d won five in a row, we’d had our fun, it had to come to an end sometime and it finally looked like happening. Now, even with an extra man – or two if you include that oh so biased referee – we had something to hold onto. And when we’ve got something in our grasp, we usually toss it away.
Not this time. We rubbed it in. We kept a clean sheet. They “battered” us, but couldn’t manage a goal against a team with dirtier sheets than a Mag with a “Boycoutt” protest to arrange. Their destruction of us, so complete was it that Steve McClaren, a man who appears to be lost in a charisma vacuum, called the first half perfect.
So perfect was it, that it resulted in no goals for his side, and not for the first time. Six in a row, Steve. Thirteen scored, Steve. One conceded, Steve. Above you in the table, Steve. Now, call me daft, but that sounds perfect.
You can tell it hurts, because they really believe they’re better than us and deserve more. You can feel the bitterness oozing out of every blog post, fanzine article and Tweet. They’re furious, foaming, raging, with hatred seething out of every pore. Why? Because we’re just Sunderland, no match for a city like theirs, with its Gate full of stag dos.
That city they so bizarrely insist on calling “The Toon”. I’ve never understood that. Are they proud to be a city or do they wish they were a town, just like Sunderland? I certainly wouldn’t blame them for wanting to be us.
They can keep their Eldon Square, their view of the Baltic and their self-importance and we’ll have our seasonal three points off them. After all, that’s what really matters and don’t they know it.