Being a Sunderland supporter on Tyneside is a little bit like the dekulakization of the Russian population under Stalin: essentially, people whom he considered a threat to the Soviet state needed to be dealt with accordingly, and were sent to Siberia.
In this scenario, we are the peasants and Newcastle United fans are the OGPU, otherwise known as the Soviet Secret Police. Because that’s how we were viewed and treated.
You have to go about your business quietly around these parts. A knowing nod here,
a secret handshake there, and the unveiling of a Vaux badge to the trusted few you knew to be of red and white persuasion.
In truth, though, there are more than a few Sunderland fans in my part of town, and sadly, I haven’t quite managed to remain under the radar.
A couple of children I know (to be fair, top lads, but they’re only six and eight, and should know better) give me dog’s abuse on the school run regularly. It’s a source of regret to me that it’s not the done thing for a thirty-eight-year-old man to respond in kind with a volley of vitriol which has been finely honed in the playgrounds of Northumberland, where I was often the lone red and white voice. I’m also friends with their parents.
Yet we all shared the same itch: to throw off the shackles of tyranny and shout from the rooftops about Brian Brobbey, Régis Le Bris, Granit Xhaka and all.
That was until approximately 13:05 on 22 March 2026, as the second half got underway and we realised we’d once again been gaslit into thinking we would end up being sent back home with our tails between our legs. In many ways, it was a classic Sunderland fan trait that we’re all guilty of: being lulled into a false sense of insecurity.
We should’ve had faith. Deep down, we actually did… didn’t we?
Sunderland exploited space. They had verve, swagger, pizzazz and an equaliser at the perfect time. Meanwhile, Eddie Howe panicked and introduced a bag of damp owls from the bench in the hope they would make the difference.
Charitably, it could be said they flapped around a bit, turned their heads 270° and occupied some space on the pitch — though just not the spaces Howe wanted or required them to.
One in particular was the yawning expanse of green to which Xhaka played the ball into for Noah Sadiki to run forward and lay the ball into Enzo Le Fée’s path. It was bigger than the difference between Anthony Gordon’s view of expectation versus reality.
The rest, as they say, was history as the Frenchman produced the greatest meg since Meg Ryan’s performance in the 1990 film When Harry Met Sally.
Brobbey struck a dagger to the heart of the Magpies, capping a wonderful performance which will be used in seminars far into the future about how to lead the line.
It was all so sweet.
The centre of the Venn diagram of Wearside glory and Tyneside despair; the wretchedness of their plight rammed firmly and decisively down their throats. This was for all those years in League One, the gloating, the belittling and the glee shown during our demise.
Mags turned on their heels and made for the exit without waiting to see if there would be a VAR reprieve that would never come. It was a glorious moment, watching them stream out en masse like concertgoers after the curtain had fallen. Your season has left the stage, lads. There’ll be no encore; you can go now; your warm, flaccid Brown Ales await you.
Howe wasn’t angry. Instead, he just appeared beaten — not just on the day but perhaps in his job as a whole. Meanwhile, Jason Tindall looked on as if someone had replaced the contents of his £100 bottle of tanning solution with the rusty water leaking from an old fridge in the back of a zero-star hygiene-rated Benwell kebab shop.
Meanwhile, I had to go next door and apologise for the noise. But guess what? It turned out her old man was a massive Sunderland fan, so no drama. And on my way back, four cars drove past me in the street — all men, all glaring and all furious at the temerity I had to wear a Sunderland shirt in their part of town. Correction, fellas: My part of town.
Monday 23 March 2026 felt like a new dawn, like the mission had been completed. Take that, Newcastle. Six points coming back to Wearside in the bag. It was the final piece in the jigsaw that this great institution needed to let everyone know it was a force once more. It was done swiftly, ruthlessly and decisively.
Meanwhile, in the gulag, we’d thrown off the yoke of our oppressors.
Newcastle United apparel on the school run? Zero. Just glum looks, regret and a visitors-themed dog joint which hadn’t dared to throw open its shutters to sell its little canine coats. A while later, I see a fellow MLF who runs the beer shop, and it was all fist pumps and embraces.
Then onto Savers, walking in with my Sunderland badge peeking out beneath my jacket. I just wanted everyone to know I was there; however, I was greeted with a “Haway the Lads” from the bloke behind the counter. Truth is, I knew he was a Sunderland fan, as my source network had informed me of another resistance fighter in our midst — I just wanted to show solidarity.
Because you see, there’s no need to quietly ghost around town anymore, trying to hide who we are. It feels as if we’ve tunnelled under the Berlin Wall and to freedom.
We are Sunderland AFC. And we’re back.
