If you can’t beat them, join someone who can
31/03/04 | by Alastair Gunn

It was my great fortune to be up north this weekend, getting lashed with a mate in Durham. As I was to discover, one of the many delights of being a student up north is the really cheap lager, but that's not strictly relevant to the ulterior motive I had in mind. Sunderland were playing Derby. 

I like Sunderland. They have a public transport service called the Metro (pronounced with that wonderful Northern vowel on the end that has no symbol in the Roman alphabet) which is free. That is, although your supposed to pay, no- one ever checks so no-one ever does. Apart from in Newcastle. But I didn't go there.

Futhermore, this wonderful working class seaside city without the imposing old architecture of, say, Nottingham, London or that one building in Stoke on the way to the Port Vale ground without any windows, has the Stadium of Light. Built in an old ship yard, and especially designed to be easily expanded, it makes the City Ground look utterly at home in Division One. 

Symmetrical, big and well-designed, the only complaint is that sterile "family" atmosphere that I understand was left behind at the Roker. Even the shitter was clean as a whistle, and I understand that a few of the visiting fans may have mistaken it for one. I prefer to think that actually, they reckon their piss is a superior quality to that which their team plays and were lapping it up. It is plausible! 

Mostly, the dross that was on the pitch was equally sterile. The home team fielded such luminaries of the modern game as John Oster and Darren Byfield. I thought Byfield would have done well to find work in the conference from what I remember of him at Villa and, despite ominous goal-scoring form of late, he is indeed as useless as I remember him. Even on-form, he uncannily reminded me of Marlon King in his earlier games with us. 

John Oster, once the darling of Welsh football (and Catholic priests all over the British Isles) was a little better and actually opened the scoring in the first half, retaining composure with Derby defenders closing down on him. For a fresh faced lad from the valleys, and undoubtedly aware of the discerning Derby player's preferred bed fellow, he must have been wetting himself. That told as he missed a sitter in the second half. 

So at half-time, everything was going to plan. Derby were losing, playing unbelievably badly and improbably Forest were 2-0 up. Kosher! 

What was worrying, however, was the lack of penetration Sunderland possessed. Tommy Smith looked good up front and Julio Arca was running the game down the left so well that his left-back McCartney was actually looking good (no mean feat). Marcus Stewart was doing very well on the bench as well. It is nice to see that Mick McCarthy has helped him find his best position. All this aside, Sunderland are a very dull team. Goal notwithstanding, the most exciting thing to have happened so far was Peschisolido getting knocked out by Mart Poom. 

Never fear, Derby were inviting penetration like a poof in a banana plantation. Indeed, it was early in the second half that Tommy Smith looped a header into the back of the shaggers net. The balti pie and overpriced tea went down that much better after that. 

Then, shock horror, McCartney decided the best way to clear a ball was by doing an African war dance inside his own penalty box, culminating in thrusting his shoulder blade towards the ball. Ian Taylor, who I would have bought in the summer if I were Paul Hart, scored the spot kick. 

Unaware of what may have been happening at the City Ground, I assumed the worst. Perhaps Joe Kinnear had had a stroke and been unable to communicate his instructions properly. Now, with Barry Roche up front, and James Biggins playing blind fold in goal, surely Derby would equalise whilst Forest slipped to a humiliating 3-2 defeat, with Des Walker returing miraculously from injury to score an injury time own-goal winner?! 

I need not have worried. Lightening never strikes twice, especially when Derby's best player is Carlton Palmer's 17-year-old, six-an-'alf foot evil creation, moulded into his own image. I do suspect that the lanky reject, spurned by Stockport of all places, has taken it out on us with Tom Huddlestone. He even has an obscure, ale-from-t'dales surname: a quintessential feature for the lead in a Frankenstein meets English lower divisions sci-fi thriller. Expect Palmer's literary debut in a waste paper basket near you soon. 

In the same waste paper basket could well be George Burley's contract this summer. Derby are the most likely companions for Wimbledon and Bradford in the relegation zone come May. Yet, with so many teams avoiding one place, it would be pre-emptive to say that Derby are playing so bad they will not stay up. We can all think of at least one side in that pack of teams who Derby can beat on their day, so hard-core Derby fans will not be giving up hope just yet. Nor can we be complacent. 

That being said, I return from the North much warmed, metaphorically speaking, of course. The priority concern for us Trickies is that other teams around us do badly, or rather, worse than us. Derby are likely to oblige. With a handful of games left, we can expect them to get a mere handful of points, perhaps making 50 points their seasonal return. Realistically, the team that goes down will fail to secure that handful, so the high forties will be the cut off point. 

Finally, I think us fans ought to consider giving Sunderland a quick hurrah before we hit the slumber sack tonight. Their gallant play deprived the shaggers of three points last Saturday, and especially in these lean times for the club, we should appreciate that more than ever. The people of Sunderland are very friendly, even if they do speak a different language. Reassuring smiles get you by though when up north, and a good weekend of cheap lager and seeing Derby get beaten meant smiles aplenty! Sunderland, I salute you!