AN OPEN LETTER TO TONY SUSPECT
Thanks Tony, thanks a big fucking bunch! What for you may enquire? For the simple task that you support the only other Premiership team that has the downright audacity to lay claim to red & white stripes, the rightful colours of Sunderland AFC. Aye, fucking Southampton, or should I say Flukehampton. Or should I say fucking Harry Houdini-hampton of the Premiership? Six weeks ago you were consigned to slide down footballs slippery snake to the First Division and we were revelling in mid-table glory after clambering jubilantly up the varnished ladder to the Premier League. Then, and don't ask me how, you somehow manage to string a win of about 6 games together whilst no doubt bribing Dr Fate to hand us something like 6 defeats in a row. Mid-table glory had suddenly become lower-table languishing.
And so it came to pass that on at 7:45pm on Tuesday 20th April Sunderland and Southampton came to meet to do battle at what would be my final ever match at the beloved Roker Park (home of Sunderland for over 100 years). My great-grandfather had stood on these terraces, as had my grandfather, and then my dad, and now I did. It was, in footballing terms a six-pointer, crunch-time, winner takes all. I had to bid farewell to Roker Park, to the Fulwell End, to the Roker Roar, to the crumbling terraces and corrugated roofing and crappy 70s 'Welcome to Sunderland' lighting, and so the trip was planned - a 250 mile round trip from Hull to Sunderland and back again. The match was a sell-out so we crammed into the terraces, squeezing together in a massed huddle of expectation. Then out came the teams, Sunderland claiming rights over the red & white stripes for tonight, Southampton relegated to their dull away strip. From the kick-off we were terrible, the midfield lacked composure, the defence looked leaky and the strikers were clumsy. Southampton were all over us and on 20 minutes Roker Park was as silent as a funeral procession as the Southerners hit an easy goal into the back of the net. All was still, hearts sunk, disbelief ran riot. The only movement came from an isolated pocket of Southampton supporters who were jerking spasmodically like ants on acid. I thought of you that moment Tony, I thought "you lucky fucking jammy fucking cheating fucking bastard". The 'fuckings' were admittedly uncalled for, but emotions were running high.
Then something happened, Reid took Johnston off and replaced him with Niall Quinn (aka Joe Mangle) and we were transformed. The attacks began and Southampton were panicking, their goal peppered like a spicy chilli. Five corners in three minutes and the Roker Roar was in full force, a hurricane of noise and emotion howling up the pitch like a crazed banshee. Quinn jumps well and bullets a header to the bottom corner only to rebound off a defenders legs, but Quinn stabs at it again and it's destined for the net only to strike the foot of the post with a thud like a head hitting concrete. It was about now that half of the crowd realised that Southampton genuinely had bribed Dr Fate, either that or they'd summoned a forcefield between their goalposts. The onslaught continued with the crowd oohing and aahing every near miss like happy kids at a fireworks display. But they held out until half time, during which we were treated to Sunderland boxer Billy Hardy doing a prize draw which soon deteriorated into a punch-up between him and the bloke dressed as a black cat in a Sunderland strip. I probably wasn't the only one harbouring malicious thoughts about Tony Suspect being in that cat-suit.
And since this is meant to be a column in a punk rock zine and not a match-report for the Observer, I'll skim over the details of the second half, suffice to say that it continued as the first half had ended. And then it was over. My final match at Roker Park had ended in defeat. The scarred bloke in front of me had said 'shit' about 400 times in a row, and the crowds began to file solemnly out of the battle arena like wounded soldiers. I hung back for a few minutes, taking a mental picture of the stadium. A guy in front of me had done the same before picking up an empty crisp packet and handing it to a steward on the pitch to put some of the grass in for him. And then I joined the crowds and shuffled out next to two old fellers whose parting words were 'see you at the funeral tomorrow then...' It was kind of a moving moment.
My misery was compounded the next night as West Ham beat Leicester 1-0, which has now (barring a miracle) almost consigned Sunderland to relegation. I couldn't give a fuck about that blind West Ham supporter off the Coke advert, I mean fuck, he can't even see the quality of the opposition anyway so he probably couldn't care less (and I'll probably be going to hell for saying that...). And uh, that's my just about my column for this time around, it was a big thing in my life so sorry if you don't dig tales of footie misery (hi Dave Monk!). Thanks again Tony Suspect, I hope you have at least pangs of guilt, you heartless saint.
What's that Rick? Oh, you wanted me to write about punk rock or sex for this column huh? Uh, oops, sorry! Okay then, something about punk rock; ANNALISE CD out any day now on my label Pigdog Records and it's fucking great passionate hardcore, write for details. And something about sex; it's great if you do it with the lights on, apparently.
LISTENING: SPARKMARKER, KARATE, DRIVE LIKE JEHU, LOVEJUNK.
READING: 'American Psycho' by Brett Easton Ellis, new 'Real OD' & 'Mad Monks', Ann Summers catalogue.
PLAYING: Red Alert, Carmageddon, MDK, Kick Off '97.

CONTACT: RUSSELL REMAINS / PO BOX 43 / HULL / HU1 1AA / UK