A lovely way to spend the day. Watch the Mackems win the first game (Rangers, spit) and start singing "We are top of the League, sing we are top of the League!". Then the Mags have a 2-2 draw with the Smoggies and the red and white faction do a good impersonation of their manager by resembling little more than a troop of howler monkeys. One chap in particular was up and down like a whore's draws whilst egging on his three young bairns and giving them no hope of rising above their genetic handicap. Being roundly accused of having eaten more than his fair share of pies by the Toonfaction did little to dampen his ardour. Don't forget this chap, I kept an eye on him throughout. The Mackems managed to lose their game against the Smoggies, which made our draw look a tad more respectable, before we beat Rangers due mostly to a stunning display from Steve Clarke, who ought to be forced to sign as a player just in case, what a shot! Things were nicely balanced with all teams in for a shout at the honours, when an unbelievably sweaty Ally McCoist bagged a hat-trick to sink Boro. The decider was due to be played between the Mackems and the Mags, and the atmosphere was much as you'd expect, despite a turnout of only 5,000. If you think the Mackems are deluding themselves about their current importance in football, it's nothing like the way they delude themselves about their past "greats". Many cheery chants were sung which will no doubt feature on August 25th as well, from the traditional: "He's fat, he's round, he bounces on the grand [insert Mackem's name here]" to the brand new, "Where's your brewery gone? Where's your brewery gone?". The ball at one point left play with extreme force to strike a young Mackem lass in the face. As she was led tearfully to the loos by her mam she was treated to a sympathetic chorus of "You're just a soft Mackem bastard!" and returned to a chant of "You're not bleeding anymore!" Excellent crack. Even better than this, the primates were treated to a virtuoso display by Peter Beardsley who thrashed 2 of our 3 goals past them for no reply in a bad tempered affair. Since the warm up had consisted of a Toon bairns side beating their Mackem counterparts by the same scoreline, it was yet another bad day to be shooting your mouth off in a red and white shirt. Now, to be fair (one afternoon with Pedro and you can't shake it off!), some of their fans took it all in good spirit, but Mr Howler Monkey had clearly had one of the worst days in his miserable little lard-soaked life, and compounded his previous parental errors by teaching his kids to be sore losers as well, by storming out with a face like thunder to the deserved taunts of everyone in black and white. Perhaps sadder still, the organizers insisted on their being a Final between ourselves and the Smoggies which we lost. A bigger man would have hung around until the end and had something to laugh about. Shame, eh? The Final itself was a pretty superfluous affair since we had finished the group stage 3 points ahead, and since they hadn't thought to inform us that it was going to happen, nobody was expecting it. A blonde moppett had unfortunately been given a microphone and continually extolled us all to "Make some noise!" - dreadful, she also declined the opportunity to display her mammary glands to all the gentlemen in the audience, so she made no friends that day. It was definitely a fun day out, but went on a bit long for the youngsters (like Jonno), and was infuriatingly shown on SKY despite not being sold out. Beardsley was Beardsley our best attacker and defender, Waddle was knackered, Carr was portly but brilliant, Kennedy could sign tomorrow, Steve Clarke ditto, Wharton had a disadvantage in years (seemingly) and the rest weaved in and out without making a lasting impression (on me, that is). Entertaining games, but the lack of off-side seemed to catch most of the players out with only a few seeming to make the most of the opportunities this presented. Still, Toon top of the League with a 3-0 drubbing of the Mackems to put them last is not an experience to be sniffed at, whatever the level.