A lot has happened since we last heard from our unlikely heroes behind the scenes at SAFC, a stuttering draw, a couple of defeats, a change at the top and finally something to cheer for the supporters but how is the mentally unstable Samson holding up and his long-suffering better half Delilah? Only here on Roker Report can you get such inside thoughts and opinion on the club as we take a look inside Delilah's diary.
Saturday 19th November
Its funny how quickly Samson’s mood can change. After he had recovered from the monumental hangover that followed the Manchester United defeat he seemed more upbeat, more his usual self. He attributed this
to SAFC’s upcoming run of games and was positive we were ready to turn the corner and that good old Brucey would set things right, “Next four games!” he kept muttering.
My alarm went off at 07:30 as per the norm on a matchday but Sam was nowhere to be found, his side of the bed clearly had not been slept in and his kit was missing. Upon arriving at the Stadium I found him in full matchday mode, “in the zone” as he liked to call it, parading around the pitch, high-fiving non-existant young fans and posing for photos infront of the empty stands. It wasn’t even 09:00. I left him to it thinking he’ll soon tire himself out but no, he just kept circling the ground, lap after lap with a glazed look on his face muttering “must win” through a huge painful grin until kickoff when he promptly blacked out in the dressing rooms, curled up on a hideous cardigan I could only presume belonged to Nicklas.
In fact he remained there until the young Dane had to forcibly move him via a hefty right boot as the game had long since finished and he was late for a dinner date with Meyler and Campbell at Nandos. “How did we get on Delilah?” He questioned with an excited look etched across his optimistic face. How could I break the news of another frustrating performance without demoralising the fella? I thought he took the news quite well… despite frantically trying to call Peter Reid at 04:30. Reidy however changed his number a long, long time ago, after what we have dubbed the “Wilko Incident” another dark day in Samson’s life, a story for another time.
Saturday 26th November
We were late for work today. I could kill that bloody cat at times. He simply wouldn’t get out of bed this morning no matter how hard I tried. “It’s only Wigan Samson, we’ll be fine” I reassured him which seemed to do the trick as he traipsed to the bathroom already sulking. I should have known then that it was going to be one of those days.
As Di Santo stroked the ball home Samson snapped, he went completely postal and began tearing around the concourses screaming obscenities about Mr. Bruce and his local heritage at the top of his lungs. This could only end badly and Sam was ejected by some burly gentlemen in blue coats. However the damage was done and Samson’s chant seemed to catch on with the crowd. I sheepishly gathered our gear together and snuck out before Steve returned from the dugout, I wasn't fighting Samson's battles this time!
Sam was already home by the time I returned, drunk with Jon Stead already among a sea of discarded lager cans. The sight of Samson and the cardboard cutout lanky striker swaying whilst chanting “Bruce Out” to an empty living room is one I’ll not forget in a hurry, especially as Samson had seemingly lost his clothes on the way home.
Sunday 4th December
Samson’s been a good mood all week. Even on Monday morning I found him hangover free sat at his computer chuckling away to himself as he went on to spend the coming 48 hours straight on the SMB spreading rumours as to Bruce’s sacking. Come Wednesday night when the news we were all expecting broke Samson declared himself the new Nostradamus and has been wearing a makeshift robe from our bedsheet claiming himself to be some kind of prophet. There was no reasoning with him, despite the news coming as no shock to anyone Samson still believed that it he who had predicted his downfall first and that I should respect his new found abilities to see into the future.
Thankfully this obsession didn’t last long. Despite everyman and his dog knowing that it was a two horse race between Martin O’Neill and Mark Hughes, Samson was adamant that Lee Clark would be appointed,
predicting a reconciliation between both Lee and the Sunderland fans and Champions League football within two years. Thankfully Martin O’Neill was named the new Sunderland boss, Samson burn’t his “robes” and claimed the whole event never happened and that he always knew Martin was the man for the job.
We didn’t travel to Molineaux today as Samson went AWOL again. I got a call from the club asking if I could come and pick him up as he was demanding to be let in to the Academy, rambling about needing to clear the crumbs and Greggs wrappers from Bruce’s office ready for Mr. O’Neill’s arrival the next day.
Sunday 11th December
I haven’t seen Samson this happy for, well, ever. It would seem that O’Neill is quite the cat lover and Samson has taken up residence during the day in his office sat contently on Martin’s lap, purring away whilst dreaming of certain future success for the club that lies ahead. Some of the players have found the situation slightly uncomfortable, trying to discuss their role with the team whilst Martin sits opposite, stroking a giant black cat on his lap. Young Colback left the room looking quite shaken, as if it had stirred some images from a nightmare he battled to keep repressed, locked deep, deep in his memory, poor lad.
The day did end on somewhat of a sour note however as Samson was returned home by the Police having broken in to Seb’s house after the match where he had prepared a hot bath for the Swede, complete with
bubbles, candles, rose petals and Champagne. It was a nice, if weird, gesture I thought, Samson's unique was of showing his appreciation to such a sublime freekick, obviously Sebastian and the local constabulary thought otherwise. Anyone know a good lawyer?