When the boredom of summer is thankfully interrupted with the production of the fixture list, there is one that yours truly picks out with a fine toothcomb. The trip to hell that is the 'Cyanide Rivershite' stadium is avoided like the proverbial plague.¤ In fact I've only ever encountered this ultra-sophisticated shit-tip once since its introduction. Continuing my meticulous approach finally succumbed as my hopeless addiction has now scaled unsurpassable heights.¤ The Liverpool Way's tour to Spain started on
Sunday.¤ Catching the train from Milton Keynes-Liverpool, I proceeded onto our illustrious editor's house, where the comfort of his front room settee welcomed me, minus any signs of decaying wood rot.
Late Monday morning was the day of the flight from Liverpool-Madrid.¤ Wednesday morning saw us on the move again, courtesy of a seven-hour train journey from
Madrid-Barcelona, getting underway at seven oˇclock in the morning.¤ Our return took place at midday on the Thursday; with the return flight taking place on the
Friday afternoon.¤ Coupled with the endless journeys via the metro, the odd taxi voyage and the dreaded trek up the 3008 steps to our seats in the Nou Camp, a week's beauty sleep was the order of the day.
Not if you're due at the Rivershite, midday, on the Saturday.¤ Therefore it was thoroughly futile attempting to head home once back amongst the familiar surroundings of Liverpool's imperious town centre.¤¤ An advanced booking was made at the Lord Nelson Hotel, with a view to catching an early train the following morning.
So early, that I was up at 5-45, checked out of the room at 6-15, and on the Cross-Pennine service at 6-25.¤ Such a preposterous situation was compounded, as no direct service is available to that derelict part of planet, using the term loosely 'earth'.
A precarious situation was further compounded as the bargain basement price of £42.50 was required to allow me such pleasure; a cost that was substantially higher than what we were requested to cough up earlier in the week.¤ One wouldn't have minded so much except for Madrid and Barcelona are literally trillions of miles apart; the Pennines are separated by some seventy-eighty miles.¤ The dusk-dawn nightmare was further compounded as a connection to Darlington was required to allow us the opportunity of sampling the heavenly delights, no doubt ready and waiting for us.
Delights that never included light relief in the shape of a health conscious bottle of Red Square due to the licensing laws that currently stand.¤ Instead a microwaved sausage roll along with a Stella that Richard from Darlington kindly supplied was eagerly devoured at 9-30 in the morning.
Just as well really because open season was being declared once we proceeded 'through customs'.¤ Now then, just why does teeny-weeny innocence-fuelled Middlesbrough come in for a deluge of sardonic disparaging?¤ How about the people are faceless, aloof, impoverished, gaunt, grotesque, unarticulated, odious, obese, stretch-marked, pontificating, ignominious, ignoramus bunch of illiterate, verminious Neanderthals who reside in a small corner of the globe that characterises sixteenth century Britain, BC.¤ Apart from that, they're an affable bunch of humanoids.
As for their hostelries, here's one for you.¤ Hostelry 'A' (you must excuse me for not researching properly but I was living on raw instinct after such a tiring week) contained a signed Middlesbrough shirt, depicting the names of such footballing God's as, ahem, Steve Vicars.
Hostelry 'B', ensured yet more rib tickling adventure, courtesy of the outrageous decor.¤ Anyone whose ever felt at home surrounded by the luxury of shocking purple couches has obviously led a sheltered life.¤ At least when United 'have' sealed their fourth title on the spin, I'll know the establishment that shall be claiming my life.¤ Especially once a trip to the toilets has been cemented.¤ Shocking decor, part two, witnessed the walls adorned in luminous pink.¤ I was assuming that I was using the correct set, but it was slightly hard to differentiate, as the obligatory signs were conspicuous by their absence.¤ Of course, this could have indicated something rather disturbing.... Especially as there wasn't any obese stretch-marked trollop within firing range.
Without further ado, the ground was our next point of call.¤ Ah yes, another reason why this 'football club' gets my back up.¤ Could someone please challenge them as to whether it's really necessary to greet the respective team's arrival with a never-ending verse and hymn titled 'Doing the Boro'?¤ Simultaneously, when you've zero success to relate to then they must be excused.¤ Success within their vocabulary amounts to defeating us 1-0 virtually every season, which doesn't make for pleasant reading.
A sequence that looked very much continuing within the opening 30 minutes.¤ The early start was affecting our highly paid contemporaries as they showed all the
exuberance of a prolapsed bear.¤ Driven on by the Sanctimonious Sycophantic, Paul Ince, Boro led the midfield a merry dance.¤ Particularly Danny Murphy, who was more than content to make life as easy as possible by surrendering pocession in alarming fashion.¤ With the sacrosanct Gerrard taking his place on the bench, we shouldn't have faced many problems getting to grips with a less than average side.
Yet Jerzy was called upon to keep us in the game as early as the second minute. Slack marking from an innocuous-looking corner presented Queudrue with a free header, which he was more than alert to. From there on in, Boro made the entire running, with the incandescent 'mole' and Queudrue, once again going close.¤ Our unimpeachable back four were being kept employed, performing stirringly under the fierce face of adversity.
Why all the panic, heaven only knows.¤ It's now etched in folklore, the less possession we have, goals are in the offing; and when you have such an adroit fused gelignite in the shape of Nicolas Anelka, actions speak louder than the critics blinkered bigotry.
One couldn't personally appreciate the build up that led to Emile's 11th strike of the season.¤ Receiving my ticket within a couple of days of submitting my application was simply too good to be true. I found myself watching the game at pitch level from the discomfort of the front row.¤ For once the 'Premiership' made pleasant viewing as Nicolas produced a piece of artistry that left a trail of beleaguered looks amongst the three Boro defenders who he'd disembowelled. With Didi's effort parried conveniently into Emile's path, the sleeping pill syndrome was extinguished.
For the remainder of the half we settled down and eventually found our range. We may have been a tad fortunate to be leading but how many times have United found themselves within such an ascendancy over the past ten years?¤ Having said that they're not dour and prosaic, are they???
Such words could be used to epitomise the circus act that welcomed the interlude.¤ Half time entertainment at Cyanide Rivershite consists of pre-pubescent cheerleaders and fairground entertainment as they attempt to whip the home support into an orgasmic frenzy: certainly not easy on the eye.¤ Sean Dundee performing a more than passable impression of a footballer would have been the coup de grace!
The restart saw the visitors enclosure riddled with anxiety.¤ Content to play out time, Ince and co were given yet more freedom to express themselves.¤ Even though their possession wasn't producing a white-knuckled ride towards hell, you always sense that the inevitable could materialise.¤ If the midfield were in sympathy with the forward line and the back four we would have been viewing another attractive scoreline.¤ Fused gelignite Anelka was craving the ball as much as a prostitute craves roast erected penis and used notes.
Thommo smelt those fears by replacing the ineffective Smicer for Stevie G in an attempt to knock Sycophantic Ince off his stride.
Five minutes remained when a flowing counter attack propelled John Arne into goalscoring territory.¤ Only one outcome and cue that song.¤ At long last we have another GENUINE opportunity to air it conventionally.¤ Recently this song has been sang out of sheer laziness, which is a slight insult to the likes of Didi, who apart from Ipswitch away, rarely gets an airing.
At least now we could relax.... infamous last words.¤ Danny's misery was complete as he squandered a guild-edged chance to rub the local inbreds noses into the rough.
Boro, still recalcitrant, pulled a deserved goal back through Gareth Southgate, who'd been impressive at the back; even if he did attempt to provoke Nicolas into an unnecessary cantankerous set-to.
So our title hopes remain alive.¤ The performance was secondary to that of the result.¤ Ninety minutes earlier I'd have settled for this because as previously stated we rarely pick up anything here apart triple doses of hepatitis B.
Dour Boro was all of the sudden a picturesque setting with warm sunshine, magnanimous home support and trains that were running on time.¤ I was even starting to warm to th.....................................
TEAM: Jerzy Dudek; Abel Xavier, Stephane Henchoz, Sami Hyypia, Jamie Carragher; Vladimir Smicer (Steven Gerrard), Danny Murphy, Didi Hamann, John Arne Riise; Emile Heskey, Nicolas Anelka (Jari Litmanen):
