It’s a funny thing isn’t it, waiting. I recently bucked the fiscal trend of what seems like the entire planet and bought myself a shiny new computer. I think the very pleasant Irishman at Dell must have nearly fallen of his ergonomically perfect chair (or whatever they sit on in chicken shed call centres these days) when it dawned on him that he was about to make a sale. So, while this was the end of his waiting game, it was just the start of my own. “We estimate to deliver you shiny new laptop within three weeks” read the confirmation email I received a few hours after parting with enough money to keep a Smoggie in methadone for an entire month. Fantastic! I could have walked to Ireland where they make the bloody things and picked it up personally in less time. And that made me think: strange isn’t it that Ireland is now a world leader in technology when a few years ago all they were associated with were Shillelaghs and Leprechauns. Now they are not so much a race of angels, but a marauding bunch of billionaires splashing their Euros all over Wearside like a stag party in Spearmint Rino’s. So, back to my PC. Two and a half, impatiently endured weeks later I received an automated phone call from Mr Dell where I selected an appropriate delivery time when I knew my wife wouldn’t be at work.  So, I counted down the days like a five year old anticipating the arrival of Father Christmas, and on the day in question I asked my wife to call me as soon as it arrived.  This she did; however, not before she also called me five or six times to ask me the most trivial of questions ranging from the car insurance renewal date to when the window cleaner was due (slightly worrying). Finally, I received the call and was forced to endure an entire day’s work where all I could think about was my new toy.  One particularly angry customer, complaining about his lack of any service from the company I represent nearly got a mouthful of “well you may have your problems, but I’ve got a shiny new PC at home in its box waiting for me to play with it.  Get some perspective....sir”.  So there you have it.  My waiting game was finally over and I poured over my new toy’s lines and curves and its ultra slim design and lights that blink for no other reason other than effect. The following day, another wait was over, nearly thirty years since Sunderland had beaten Newcastle at home. 

It’s a good feeling, isn’t it, beating a bitter rival? It’s like waking up from a night of gruelling passion with two Swedish nympettes to find that they have tidied your house, ironed your shirts and cooked you an ambrosiaesque breakfast served up on a platter made of pure gold. Does it get much better? At the moment Kieran Richardson squared up to score what has to be one of the best free kicks since Ronaldo’s sublime effort against Portsmouth last season, I think I wasn’t alone in thinking that the bad luck which blighted our trip to Fulham would rear its familiar head again to deal the lads yet another blow. I’m pleased to say that I was wrong and the rest, as they say, is history.

Not all sweetness and light though was it?  No, there were some amongst our number who’s ‘enthusiasm’ boiled over and marred what was a fantastic occasion. A few kids who can’t hold their Babycham meant that the awesome feat achieved by the lads shared newspaper print space with the ugly side of life. That said, and I’m not condoning their reaction, but Joey Barton, and I don’t think I’m being too unkind here, needs to be taken outside and shot. Choosing to warm up in front of a crowd as partisan as a Serbian with the entire Waffen SS living in his town was an act of unbridled provocation.  Kissing his club’s crest was designed to do nothing more than infuriate the already passionate home fans.  Isn’t that incitement?  If the fans had responded to this provocation and rioted, perhaps we would have been talking about Mr Barton being charged by the police...again.

The farce continued with Kinnear condemning Barton’s treatment at the hands of the Sunderland fans stating that “..we must keep this out of football”. Err, excuse me. Pot, kettle?  Isn’t this the same man who started his first press conference by referring to the gathered journalists as bastards, fuckers  and, I might add, cunts? While he may not have been far off the mark with some of them, especially the Daily Mail, this kind of behaviour seems to be endemic north of the Tyne.  It makes Kinnear’s appointment not so surprising in hindsight. 

Still, we won, and that, as they say, is everything.  They also say the same about money and I’m inclined to agree after just forking out £48 for a ticket to the Chelsea away game.  Better value than my PC, however, which seems to have contracted some kind of STD.  Should have known better than to buy a computer from a bloke called Dell.

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