A raw Monday night and a match of spectacular mediocrity at The Stadium of Light has Pete Sixsmith wishing he could have been occupied with more mundane matters
Monday night at Sixsmith Towers is usually a time for domestic duties or for popping over to Darlington to see an art house film like Pan’s Labyrinth, I’ve Loved You So Long and Sex Lives of the Potato Men, all classy movies with intense acting performances from the likes of Kristin Scott Thomas, Marion Cottillard and Johnny Vegas. I like a bit of culture, me.
Domestic duties usually mean doing the ironing, listening to Mark Radcliffe and Stuart Maconie on Radio 2. Shirts are neatly folded, trousers are pressed and socks are correctly matched up, as the contents of the basket are transformed from a tangled mess into a tidy pile, ready for the airing cupboard. Ironing is a kind of therapy for me; you get to see the results of your labours, which is a reward in itself.
However, this Monday, the delights of getting a crease in a pair of pants was replaced by watching possibly the worst and almost certainly the most worrying game I have seen at The Stadium Of Light. Thirty five thousand fellow sufferers had to sit through 90 minutes of alleged football from two teams who made any claims that the Premier League is the best in the world look as risible as a promise from John Terry to keep an eye on the Missus while you are away.