I was there for the Jack Clarke goal which landed on my birthday.
I drove there from the Cotswolds, on my own, and parked near the ground. I called the lads, who were in a town centre boozer, and rang for a taxi so I could celebrate my birthday with them. But the Sunderland people, in town, had booked all the taxis to get to the stadium. I tried buses but there were none, tried hitching a lift but no one stopped.
So I walked back to the ground and scammed into their hotel bar. I was sure I'd meet someone I knew as I've always done over the last 50 years. Not a sausage, so I sat there, on my birthday, on my own amongst lifeless Reading fans moping around the bar whinging about the price of a pint ...
... football used to be about hordes of blokes fanatically supporting their hometown club and forgetting reality once a week.
Building stadiums, without a heart, in the middle of nowhere are where we are ... nowhere.