Having acquired the tickets the day before from Dalglish himself (thanks to a mutual trip to a service station just outside of Stoke), I set off for Sunderland at 8.30am, juicing-up the car and picking up my cousin en-route.
A long and arduous journey ensued, exponentially multiplied by the rising sun and the heat it was giving off. (Thank the LORD for Air conditioning!)
Having hit the match-day traffic, we arrived in Sunderland with barely enough time to make the 12.45 K.O. (due largely to an unprecedented detour into the services to answer a rather insistent call of nature.)
As we made our way along the main road at a pace the World's most obese snail would define as "a bit slow", we found a side-street that looked quite posh (for the area, you understand), and decided that it would be as good a place as any to leave the car. (No burning effigies (or cars) on this rather quaint cul-de-sac, and, this, being Sunderland, filled the criterion for parking up.)
Setting off on foot, we soon picked up the trail of the Mackem fans as they stepped ever-so-slowly towards the ground. (Didn't they know there was a game on!?!)
Answering another call of nature at a rustic park toilet block in which George Michael would feel at home, we once again resumed our quest toward the stadium.
After a fashion, we arrived at the arena and traversed our way through seemingly endless swaths of Sunderland shirts, hoping to find the familiar all-red kit of our own fans. As is always the case, we chose to head in the wrong direction and ended up walking the entire perimeter of the ground before we found our lver-bird salvation. (At this point, I feel I must stress that not one Sunderland fan hurled any abuse what-so-ever, and they are, infact, a really nice bunch of people.)
We entered the ground as part of a queue that stretched the length of the Tyne-Tees border. Taking up our seats in the upper tear, we just managed to arrive in time for the team to come out of the make-shift tunnel. "No Gerrard", I said. "No Crouch!" My cousin lamented. (Being a lanky streak of p*ss himself, he has a sense of camaradarie with our lofty number 15 and was, as such, sorry to see he didn't even make the bench.)
The game got underway, with the Liverpool fans more than matching the Mackems for noise and atmosphere. (I can say that, too, as I was right next to the feckers!) The Stadium of light is quite strange, as it appears that their "kop", if you like, is actually the corner of the ground right beside the away fans. Bizarre. We certainly couldn't hear the other parts of the stadium, save for the occasional boos as their players were officiated against.
Multiple choruses of "We've got the best midfield in the World" and "Campionie" were to be heard, with that ever-so-original "You stole our stereo" being the Mackems' best retort. (Along with a "We hate Newcastle" ditty that had all the invention of a stick.)
I won't get bogged down in events during the game, but I have to commend the Sunderland fans once again, as even after a comprehensive 2-0 defeat, we never got any stick, despite having to again walk through the away fans to get back to the car.
Another call of nature en-route, and we were back at the car. A heavy-hearted Mackem greeted us, and said "Well done lads - I hope you win the title. You've got a brilliant team." A few pleasantries were exchanged, before we made our way home. (Well - not quite "home." I went straight to work, after grabbing a bite to eat at a nearby pub. (Which in itself offered some respite from the congested roads and burning sun.)
All-in-all - a good day at the office.
P.S. If you were wondering who my choice for man-of-the-match was, it's a toss up between Momo and Xabi.
