Soapbox: secret agent

Soapbox

Pete Sixsmith goes undercover to venture behind enemy lines. Did he survive? Read on… .

The time is 10.30 and I am ensconced in a safe house in Dunston, awaiting the right time to set off on the most dangerous part of my mission, ie infiltrate the Toon.

I drove up the motorway having taken anything that suggested that I was one of the chosen people out of my car. Pretending to be a Mag, I slumped over the wheel with my prosthetic beer belly resting on the dashboard and a look of pain and misery in my dull,downcast eyes.

I remember being told that the best thing to do is to blend in with the locals and not stand out.

As it is Sunday morning and most sound and responsible English people will be heading for church, I have decided to enter the enemy stronghold dressed as a typical middle class Englishman.

Believe me, getting the spats, the frock coat and the bowler hat took a while but now that I am actually in them, I will obviously blend in and my appearance will hardly raise a glance as I stroll up Pink Lane, past Bob Monkhouse’s old night club and into The Strawberry for a pre game snifter.

I will leave my rolled up brolly at JD’s in case that draws attention.

Of course I am nervous. At any moment I could be unmasked as a Sunderland spy, but I am convinced that the Mags around me will not have the wit or the intelligence to rumble me. All week I have been practising writing on bed sheets, deliberately spelling words incorrectly and jumping up and down in front of cameras in case I am in shot outside Sh******* Bar.

If challenged, I have a line of conversation that will save me. “Yes, that Freddie Shepherd fellow might have been a fat, greedy b******, but at least he was our fat, greedy b******. Ya knaa what I mean, like.” As I speak, I will get out my signed photo of Ant and Dec – a surefire passport to Mag acceptance.

I can hear the first police helicopter circling over the city. It’s time for me to put on my frock coat and infiltrate the bus queue. Wish me luck….

12.37: off the bus and in the city. Gangs of Neanderthals roaming the streets. Avoid brow contact

12.54: in the ground. First phase complete.

1.03: among fellow Red and Whites but closer to Venus than pitch. Can see Dunston, Sunderland, York and Nottingham from seat. I feel an attack of vertigo coming on!

1.35: Nufc a club with no class

2.08pm Djibril Cisse!!! 1-0 to us.

2.18pm: Only we can stop ourselves winning

2.58pm:: or Howard Webb. How much do you like him? 1-1 after Webb allows himself to be conned.

3.26pm: (aside from the desert)…Pending Sixer: points thrown away, or stolen

3.30pm: Sixer’s Seven arrives: another poor decision, but disappointing second half.

5.15pm
Back in the safe house, part of the Sunderland Liberation Front’s attempts to destabilise Tyneside. Battery and credit down on phone so no immediate reports. However, braved walk down Barrack Road, past hundreds of tooled up riot police who were pushing and prodding recalcitrant Cro-Magnons down towards St James’ Place. Good to see the police protecting ordinary decent citizens from this rabble.. However, while I was trying to cross Barrack Road, I was given a gentle push by a policeman which is indicative of the police state that we now live in.

Much discontent amongst roaming Neanderthals who would have been contemplating throwing themselves off the Redheugh Bridge had it not been for the Howard Webb penalty decision. As a fair and balanced Sunderland fan, and not a screaming bawling Mag, it is obvious that a brown paper parcel full of Cheryl Cole’s underwear, Jimmy Nail CDs and a £20 voucher for Sports Direct (enough to buy the company) were placed in Webb’s room at half time.

On my return home I will produce a balanced report on the state of the Mag nation, but you can assume that the words Webb, appalling, cowardly and decision will appear somewhere.

Secret Agent Sixsmith signing off and returning to civilisation……

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