Just another three points, the main objective of the exercise achieved. The fringe benefits though, were well-earned, long-awaited and exuberantly celebrated..... 

After the record-shredding London victory comes the removal of another Achilles heel with success in the rebuilt Wearside slum. By my reckoning (with the Dell and Wembley now out of commission) that just leaves a debut win at St.Mary's and the acquisition of silverware somewhere, anywhere to slay those ghosts of past underachievement.

No wonder my mouth hurt from smiling on Monday.

(There's also unfinished business at Kenilworth Road, Luton, but that's a deep and dark personal thing, probably only explainable under hypnosis. Or LCL.) 

Maybe it was only discernible to the locals, but somewhere on the road into mackemland there must be a signpost with the inscription "abandon hope all thee who enter here."

When I say that Sunderland were hopeless, I mean that not only were they rotten but also seemingly devoid of even a hint of pride, optimism or motivation. Never were a side more there for the taking, and thankfully we managed to convert the goal that sent one corner of the ground bananas, and caused the rest to sink lower in their seats with expressions of grim resignation.

From the first approach to the ground in the toon convoy, it was obvious that the locals had no stomach for the approaching contest. While fewer in number this time, there were still crowds of them clustered round the ground to watch us arrive - people on buses, which must be even more exciting than their Air Show or Kite festival. However, an almost total absence of abuse and animation from the motley crew on hand told it's own story. 

Sullen faces greeted us, and those mackems assembled near the away end couldn't even manage a welcoming chorus. The large police presence, obviously primed for civil disobedience on a grand scale, stood idly by with absolutely nowt to do.

Into the stadium for around 11am, and a large scrum clustered round the bar, which remained resolutely shuttered until high noon, when to a hearty but inaccurate chorus of "we are the drunk and disorderly", it opened to dispense plastic bottles and pints for a short time until the constabulary ordered it's closure.

Despite the obvious sobriety of the vast majority of the toon fans, save for those who had taken advantage of ridiculously early (and illegal) opening hours in some establishments to maintain pre-match rituals, our support was whole-hearted and constant. Standing up for the whole ninety minutes (as usual) does have something to do with it.

By contrast our Wearside brethren took their seats en masse at around 12.55, leaving some gaps around the ground.

On a pitch that suited perfectly Peytar's style of play - agricultural - we were off and running and 45 minutes elapsed with a dodgy offside robbing Bellamy of a goal and a combination of good keeping and bad shooting preventing the home side from scoring.

To digress for a second, it has to be said Quinn and Kilbane put in two of the worst performances seen in living memory on any football field, anywhere. The former seemed to be tethered by some invisible rope like a tinker's horse on the roadside, while the ineptness of Kilbane conjured up thoughts of that thoroughbred tosspot of ours, Wayne Fereday.

Back again for the second half, and the optimism in the away section seemed undiminished, in contrast to the mackems, who stirred themselves briefly to welcome Mboma before lapsing back into their former catatonic state. No big pieces of card or showpiece this season for the Murray men, and aside the from the usual nonsense coming from the stand to our left (including "Robson's nearly dead"), the rest of the ground struggled to match the atmosphere at the recent Tyne-Wear reserve game.

Finally the goal came, and yet again we had a defender to thank, and a grandstand view of the action and reaction immediately afterwards. A topless Dabizas belly-danced in front of the toon faithful and was joined by his jubilant team mates. One over-used photo in the Monday papers showed the exhilaration on the faces of Distin, Robert and Jenas - not perhaps the first names that would come to mind, but an indication of the fact this team really are united in a common cause, for once.

The contrast in the opposition ranks couldn't be greater. As an avowed fatalist of the glass half-empty variety, your correspondent waited for the inevitable reaction from the home players and fans. When it came it was most unexpected.

Instead of a call to arms from the unwashed in the seats, and a redoubling of effort from the red and whites, came nowt but silence from the fans and a collective hunching of shoulders from the players. Phillips came deeper and deeper to try and spark off something from his pedestrian and uninspired colleagues, Peytar's forays to the touchline became more frequent, trips back to his seat more despondent.

End result? nothing. The fans couldn't even summon up the bile to shout abuse at their own kind, and started to drift away well before the end, and in droves by the 80th minute. This is a Tyne-Wear derby remember, on their own ground and with their side only one goal down. Had this been a war, they'd have been handed white feathers by passers by, or court-martialed for dereliction of duty.

In the face of this mass indifference their former beaus played out time to the inevitable conclusion, unwilling or unable to raise themselves. I say almost, because there was still the threat of Phillips, reduced to making chances for himself and unlucky not level the game with a cracking effort that produced a dazzling save from Given. 

Apart from that, the chief threat on the field from the home fans was a streaker, who made a couple of good runs across the United back four, and certainly looked more mobile than Niall Quinn.

A second toon goal could have followed but it wasn't to be and the final whistle brought the expected mass celebration from the toon fans. The singing segued from a raucous "Blaydon Races" into an equally bawdy "we beat the scum 1-0", via "you're going down with the Boro" and "we're gonna win the league" - there must have been more of us on the early morning jungle juice than was first thought....  

If the mackems are reminiscent of any football team (and it would have to be a broad definition) it's the final days of the Robson-led Boro. A form of salvation was ultimately to be found by the introduction of the quifftastically cheeky cockney conman Terry Venables, but who could possibly help poor Peytar? There are few obvious candidates,  especially now that Johnny Morris is no longer with us...... 

In this lost season, the mackems can only be grateful for points already earned and the failings of others around them in the Premiership. They might need to book a return visit from Billy Graham mind, if they want to fill the seats they've already got, never mind the grand extensions planned by their small-minded Chairman. 

On this evidence, that classical music cobblers should be replaced by "If I ever lose my faith in you" by closet mackem Sting. Or early Joy Division perhaps, along with renaming the ground to the stadium of gloom. 

For the diehard mackems, their misery and embarrassment is probably roughly akin to the feelings of repulsion towards toon fans that I felt after the home playoff defeat 12 years ago. Then we seemed to have a team that had no future and not much of a recent past, with little cause for optimism in any quarter. Not dissimilar to Sunderland in 2002 really.

As for our lot, once Bobby had been cheered on to the pitch for interviews, we were let out before Peytar appeared, thus preventing a second consecutive ruination of his excuses to camera (you may recall last year's local news programmes hilariously transmitted an attempted interview with the apeman, against a backdrop of "who let the monkey out?" and "Monkey's heed...." from the locked-in toon fans).

Once out of the ground, there was scarcely a home fan to be seen, apart from what looked like a five-man suicide squad looking for a confrontation, presumably happy with odds of 600 to 1. The massed ranks of policemen ushered them away, but to be honest, the miserable wretches clustered round a nearby chip van were more frightening.

Back on the buses and a speedy departure back to civilisation, via Washington. Inevitably one or two of their lot were still walking up the road (contrary to popular belief not all of them live in the skips round the back of the main stand). Now see if you can guess what their witty riposte was to the good-natured abuse coming from the black and white buses? yep, you've got it: "2-1."  Some things don't change.....

Beer never tasted better back in the toon, as those who had made the trip were welcomed back by the non-attenders who had made many publicans very happy in the City Centre while the game was on. Sore heads a-plenty then on Monday at work, but it's always handy to get some practice in - we might just need it in the coming months....

Biffa