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MIDDLESBROUGH'S FORTRESS RIVERSIDE HAS DRY-ROT 30-8-06
Peter Holmes
Well, well, well, a week is certainly a very long time in the business that is the English Premier League with all it's inherent highs and lows. From the first shrill blow of that chrome whistle, it's up and running, followed by nine months of obsession carried-out at it's usual frenetic pace from one end of the pitch to the other.
That accepted measure of consistency, form, for some takes a few games to attain. Some never really get into the groove while others hit their stride at full pace and look like they've been playing for weeks with the ball hitting feet and shots screaming into the net.
Then there's the Boro.
"Form? What's that like Chor? Can yer get it at Boots? Never seen it, never had it like!"
Which probably explains why we have a historical form chart that resembles the silhouette of Nessie, (that fabled beastie of Loch Ness) dementedly shagging a ship full of inflated giant inner tubes.
In essence, not unlike the shape of that mythical and fabled Boro roller-coaster we have all ridden during our long suffering but loyal lives supporting Our Beloved.
No bloody wonder I suffer from motion sickness.
Basically, consistency for our favourite football club, is as illusive as good looking women are to Sunderland supporters.
I am trying to cheer myself up here so play along with a silly old twat.
Overall, it's a very long season and signs read too literally, of present form, may be misleading. Already, after Chelski's 3-0 too easy demolition of Manchester City, the movers and shakers were wondering if the moneybags of Rouble Bridge could go through the season undefeated on semi auto-pilot.
I have a huge cheesy grin on my face as I write this next line.
"Bumbling Boro next!" was the expectation, while the reality became another loss at the Riverside to Boro aided by two late goals and wilful spirit provided by you blokes vocally lifting the team.
As a Gadgee who stood on his soapbox, no in his pulpit, and preached positive thinking in my last rant, well fellow worshippers of the Divine Smog, look at the effect. All of you amazing souls gathered at the Riverside cathedral that night were the reason we prevailed.
That, and all the other lost souls of Teesside, in overseas refuges who sat at computers, listening to radio broadcasts and watching net-casts.
A very satisfying night's work indeed and funny when you do Chelski over, everybody is happy. They have taken the mantle off Manchester United and Arsenal as the team every one else loves to hate.
That whole collective will to win did it. We fused our positive energy to suck that ball into the net. It energised me, flying off the peak of that high point on the roller-coaster, I dementedly clattered the keys and I was actually going to write an article regarding how we need to make the Riverside an impenetrable rock-solid fortress, a funeral parlour for other teams.
Hello! You still there? Laughing ya bollocks or tits off I suppose?
I would have still written that subject matter if we had gained something out of last night's game but our old disease returned. Consistency, or a total unfathomable lack of it.
This time in the form of our nemesis, those south coast party animals Pompey, who came to town and flogged our arses rather convincingly.
If Chelsea are our bitch, as James Bassett succinctly coined it, with our abysmal record against them, are we Pompey's?
The fact that Portsmouth fucked up my half-written article was very annoying certainly, BUT, it was made all the more unpalatable by the simple fact that I awoke from my toasty teddy-bear slumber, broke my spooning snuggle up to the Bride's derrière, then dragged my superannuated daggy arse out of my pit at 3am to watch it live on Fox!
Yes! Three..fucking...AM!!!!!!
I pinched myself as the first goal went in, surely this was just a bad dream, and was bruised all over the bloody place by the time the fourth creased the net on ninety-two minutes, or at nearly 5am Perth time.
Live broadcast nearly over, I numbly watched a dead Boro trudge off to nearly empty stands at the Riverside while charismatic Harry Redknapp twitched his way through handshakes and backslaps with his players.
All of this bad dream - no, nightmare - unfolded at the Riverside, y'know, the one I was going to write an article about turning into a fortress, but all the soldiers had buggered off home for the night, the moat was empty and the place had dry-rot.
Irony - you've got to laugh and cry.
Besides, how the hell can we beat the double EPL winners one game then get totally walloped by a team of wallopers who were nearly relegated the next?
If I could work that conundrum out you could make me Boro boss!
Night, night, God bless, got some zeds to catch up with and the Bride's derrière.
Enough Said,
ErimusRed.
TALK ABOUT IT IN THE NEW HOLGATE MESSAGE BOARD
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