Not exactly a European goalfest, was it? Perhaps you should all have gone down the for your net-bulging treats (actually I've never liked the term 'net-bulging' - it suggests a weightwatchers night out down the disco to me for some reason - like I should talk).
Any road, the was going to be dead exciting, wasn't it? Particularly that clash of hard-bitten, ruthless Gods of club management, and slightly pretentious red wine connoisseurs, Mourinho and Fergie.
A strange thing happened to me at the on Saturday. It may surprise readers that it has never happened before - but the air was warm, I had too many coats on, and all right, there was that extra pint of cider before heading off to the match - and when we got there, there was a suspicion that the stadium had been renamed the Trappist Riverside it was so quiet - and blow me if I didn't fall asleep.
I was awoken by the bloke next to me pushing me in the gob and clearing a slew of spittle off his parka. That wasn't the most shaming thing though. It was simply that, in the midst of a relegation dogfight, I lost focus.
It was like Rio Ferdinand circa 2004. But when I watched the highlights of on Match of the Day and nodded off again. Calling all insomniacs. The Riverside has the cure! On the other hand I did revive into a growl at the highlights from Old Trafford.
It's been a hard few months watching , hasn't it? They're on a brilliant run but I'm a bit gobsmacked as to why most commentators are purring about their excellence whereas won the title by being plain dull.
always treats a good bit of positioning by any centre-half like it was painted by blinking , but this time everyone else has just been banging on like Fergie's Flinty Back Four are the of defenders. Even I get accused of being part of the OT love-in.
Let's be straight about it. The Blue Bell's chants of "Boring Boring Man-U!" felt a bit forced, I'll grant you, but there's no doubt that it's Vidic and Ferdinand who have created this run. I'm a little tired of praying for a Moses to part this Red Sea. (In fact would have fitted in nicely).
The rumour is that the door to the manager's office at has a big whiteboard on it with a damp cloth at the ready.
Some lowly youth team nobody who's destined to play his first team football at somewhere lowly like Bournemouth, or Leeds, has been busy writing the letters H-I-D-D-I-N-K on it this morning. (Given the average footballer's brain power he'll have finished that by ten this evening.)
Guus - my first choice for England boss ahead of Capello - has got his hands full at the Bridge. It's not surprising he's gone there, mind. He has a 'relationship' with Abramovich apparently, which is a bit like me saying I have a relationship with me bank manager.
I often get hassle for always accentuating the negative, but even for an old misery like me it's hard to know what which piece of shoddy slack-backsided shambles to pick on first after this weekend's sport. Suffice to say if you played for a team called 'England' you're not up to much.
Credit must go to the Italian lad Bergamasco, a scrum-half who delivers with all the accuracy of a drunk relieving himself against a wall. I know he's not really a number 9, but hellfire a kid playing blind man's bluff could have made a better stab at it.
It got so bad I was wondering whether the English backs might ask Mauro if, before delivering the next pass, he'd like to Gift Aid it.
In these , when children are not allowed to go to school and posties are keeping their feet warm by the fire 'cos the Post Office don't want their delivery boys suing them for making them go outside without off-site ice-skate training, there's one cry that I can wholly agree with: Shut That Window!
I mean the , of course. That potty little portal that turns the middle of the football season into some bizarre jumble sale.
I forget why it's here, now. You'd think tired old hacks came up with the idea after they got too knackered chasing football agents up and down the country all season long and thought condensing the whole farrago into one short month would give 'em plenty of time for a nice, whisky-soused lie-down. It's the only argument in favour if you ask me.
Of course there's always a lot of giddy gossip going on during . The ghost of is often seen in Gateshead taxis.
A couple of years back, we had that Zinedine Zidane having a ploughman's in the Blue Bell at lunchtime. And only last year, rumours that Cristiano Ronaldo was seen in the only seemed to be authenticated when it appeared he'd been diving off the top board, and howling in agony all the way down.
Still there's always some gossip that no one tells you about. You've got your but here's some of the things you may not have found out about the shenanigans on deadline day.
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I'm Derek Robson. People call me Robbo. Legend has it I was raised in the furnace and smog of Teesside. Some might say I took the hard road. I like to tell folk I had trials for Middlesbrough, for Hartlepool and for burglary (not guilty). I've always loved sport. My job is to say it as I see it - whether it's in the bar of the Blue Bell or on this blog. You won't find me calling a spade a soil-redistribution implement.
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