John McCormick writes: As I’m doing Rob Hutchison’s post, Radio 5 has cut from the footie to some southern hospital where the heir’s spare has produced a spare heir. Apparently there are some 80 year olds waiting outside for something good to happen. Yeah, I’ve got that T shirt, I’m thinking.
But the reporter goes on and on, trying to build mountains into molehills. Not that it matters to Rob, who not only has something good of his own to report for a change but can also give Radio 5 lessons in brevity:
The fat lady puts away the mouthwash for now, ambles towards the fortress of darkness, sees John Carver, and thinks her luck just might be in after all.
It ain’t over yet baby, never easy with Sunderland is it?
Pantillimon – 7 save(iour)
O’Shea – 6 battling
Coates – 5 poor
Van Aanholt – 6 intermittent
Jones – 7 evraesque
Cattermole – 7 controlling
Larsson – 6 busy
Gomez – 7 majestic
Defoe – 5 quiet
Wickham – 6 grafted
Graham – 8 superb
Vergini – 5 – heartstopping
Johnson – 5 brief
Rodwell – 5 brief
Got to go.
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Whickham grafted? In the words of the bloke sitting behind me, after another feeble aerial challenge from our young forward, ‘For God’s sake, whickham, what are you doing? You’re the size of a small country. Hit him!’
Built like a light-heavy, challenges like a bantam.
Harsh on Coates, I know he’s donkey, but he’s OK in the two games