Playing the bl too far back in
Occasionally I use public transport. No kidding. Saturday was one such occasion. I listened to the pre-match predictions of my fellow passengers before the Coventry game.
It was like travelling in a hearse, only with less levity and repartee.
One bloke said: “They reckon at work that we’ll get beat three nowt.”
Wherever he works, their collective opinion is evidently to be taken seriously.
A second bloke opined: “They’ll be lucky if it’s only three.”
The misery began to take on a competitive element when a third bloke chipped in with: “They’ll be lucky to get the nowt.”
I’m not even convinced that he was joking.
Certainly no one smiled, as though it was somehow possible for Sunderland to end the game (which they were all attending with the theoretical aim of pleasure) on minus goals.
I suspect that sharing their protracted list of gloom and grievances was the nearest they had come to an adrenaline rush in several years.
Talk then moved seamlessly on to: they won’t have a shot on target, no one will turn up, Coventry will be laughing at us and so on.
When we alighted close to the Colliery Tavern, I was fortunate enough to notice a large and deep puddle before I could plant my foot into it.
Others were less fortunate.
The puddle was in turns blamed on the club, the council, the government, the EU, Brexit and Will Grigg; all of whom might feel a little harshly.
Strangely, it was only the weather which escaped culpability.
It was a thoroughly desolate bus journey.
I rather enjoyed it and went back on the same bus for a second helping before the Burton Albion game last night and was no less amused.
The despondency is well founded.
But who’s to blame (for the football, not the puddle)?
I could compile a lengthy list of people who deserve a w
w h b s e w
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