This weekend
just gone, I was privileged to see a team of black and white clad footballers
cavorting with each other on the pitch, after their convincing 3-0 win in the
final game of a long season had handed them the title. Over the course of the
last 8 months, the club’s fortunes had swung in different directions and
nothing was resolved until the very last second. So, well done to Ponteland
United Reserves for winning the Tyneside Amateur League. Kennie Malia’s young
team beat Cramlington Town Reserves away, to overhaul their hosts at the top of
the table, and clinch the trophy.
That was
Saturday afternoon of course, which then continued until the early evening in
Jesmond with the absorbing draw between Newcastle, who closed on 211/9, and South
Northumberland, who had been dismissed for 224. I’ll come back to that game
probably next week, but suffice to say, it was so tense I could hardly breathe,
never mind sit still. Thank goodness for the 4.1% Wainwright’s beta blocker beer in the clubhouse to keep me on an
even keel. For a while at least…
Being calm
was off the agenda Sunday morning; not only were Newcastle United kicking off
at the unearthly hour of noon at home to Barnsley, but I’d managed to acquire
myself a freebie ticket up in Level 7 Family Area. Having attended 3 previous
NUFC league games, Reading and QPR on freebies and Forest with Ben, as well as
4 cup ties in the Platinum club at a tenner a pop (Cheltenham, Wolves, Preston
and Birmingham), I’d seen 6 wins and a draw. In addition, I’d caught 8 of the
16 other televised games, which isn’t bad as I don’t have Sky; thankfully Ginger Dave does and he only lives round the
corner. I’ll never be a regular attender at SJP again, regardless of
circumstances, but I do like to drop by now and again, especially for nowt. The
only minor problem with the Barnsley brief was it was a junior ticket, which
clearly could not be upgraded. So what? Newcastle United have defrauded me
enough times in the past that I might as well get my own back.
Stepping off
the Metro at 11.45, I was borne by the human wave of optimism up the stairs,
across Strawberry Place and under the Milburn Stand canopy, coming to rest
outside the sparsely used set of turnstiles, numbered 83-86. It isn’t the case
that these entrances give you access to an empty part of the ground, it’s just
that with it being the point of entry for families with young’uns, or gangs of
high school lads, they all tend to get there well before kick-off.
Additionally, the enormous queues for the lifts either side of the turnstile
block showed that many punters demurred at the thought of clambering 140 stairs
for their place in the sun. I must admit, the previous evening’s libations were
a disinclination for me to begin my ascent on foot. However, scanning the turnstiles
I realised one major hitch that could scupper my plans; when placing the ticket
in the machine, a green light came on for adult tickets and an amber one for
junior ones. Being candid, there wasn’t much of a chance I could pass for 15. Therefore,
I was at the mercy of the turnstile operator’s mood; a failed attempt at one
gate would immediately prohibit me from trying a different one as the ticket
would instantly become invalid.
Several
times I resolved to breeze into the ground, but on each occasion my nerve
failed me. Being candid, I wasn’t prepared for the shame and humiliation of the
inevitable knock back, so I stood idling and musing as the game kicked off.
Admittedly I had the consolation of a cricket back up plan of Sunderland 3rd
XI v Boldon 3rd XI in the NEPL Sunday Division 2. The perverse irony
of watching a different sport in a different town did appeal to me, so I
readied myself to leave the scene and take a long metro journey to Park Lane. Then perhaps the most fortuitous series of off-pitch
events I’ve known at SJP occurred, at least since someone threw a slack handful
of spare tickets over the wall of the Gallowgate Corner before we played
Southampton in September 1987 (won 2-1). In between the two pairs of turnstiles
for Level 7 is a stand-alone concrete pillar, bearing a sign above a door,
indicating this is the way to the lift, though apparently granting access to
the car park only. I was leaning against this pillar when 3 coppers, 2
stewards, one carrying a tray of pies and the other escorting a young fella
with a broken ankle, went through the door to the lift. The last of the coppers
held the door open for me and gestured that I should walk through. I did,
without even thinking. I entered the lift. I kept my mouth shut. I was borne
upwards. I exited at Level 7. I had by-passed the turnstiles. I was inside the
ground. I was ignored. I took the seat number from my ticket. I got away with
it. In fact, the whole ground rose to applaud my entrance in the 17th
minute of proceedings.
Hell of a view
I had too; only other times I’ve been up there I saw us beat Everton 6-2 on
Good Friday 2002, draw 0-0 with Swansea in the Gary Speed memorial game and Brazil
defeat Costa Rica in the Olympic football. Lots of teenaged lads in Stone
Island and CP Company, even more parents and tiny bairns. Good atmosphere.
Within five minutes, everyone was back on their feet to acclaim Ayoze Perez’s
delicious backheeled opener; a goal almost as impudent as his precocious winner
at West Brom that won Goal of the Month in November 2014. I’d missed Hayden’s
early departure, but at least I saw Haidara in a black and white shirt for the
first time since decimalisation was introduced.
He wasn’t up to much frankly, though neither were Barnsley. Happy to be
in the Championship next year and becalmed in lower mid-table, they produced as
supine a performance as you could imagine; witness the utter lack of marking
for the second goal and inability to deal with a long punt down field for the
last one. Their two efforts on target, both blocked admirably by Rob Elliott, brought
scarcely a response from their fans, who only appeared to show passion when
news of Brighton’s goal at Villa Park filtered through. They set off a flare;
there were gestures thrown from both sides of the sterile line and the coppers
hoyed out 2 from each end. That said, fair play to the sizeable number of Tykes
who hung back to applaud our team at the final whistle.
Now I’ll
admit to having been a dreadful curmudgeon for large stretches of this season,
but I’ll hold my hand up and say I was delighted to be there when the title was
won. You have to say they deserved it with the way they dug in and came back
from the Easter Monday fiasco at Ipswich Town. The joy from the players is what
made the day special for me; none of this sullen, job done, underplayed lack of
emotion malarkey. Instead, they were leaping all over each other and generally
giving Ponteland United Reserves a run for their money in the celebration
stakes. Without wishing to deflect from the joy of the occasion, perhaps many
of those players realise this is probably the best moment of their careers and
it won’t get any better than this for a whole load of them.
In contrast,
Rafa Benitez has had many better victories than this in the past and may well
have several more in the future, whether on Tyneside or elsewhere. Yes he’s done a decent job in assembling a
squad to gain promotion, albeit in fairly mundane circumstances and playing
prosaic football much of time. Yes he’s popular with the support, other than
the lunatic fringe who demand the moon on a stick, but that wouldn’t be
difficult considering the shower of shit we’ve had in the dugout since the
utterly irreproachable Chris Hughton got the bullet. Yes he’s won the title,
but to celebrate that fact is, as my friend Gary states, like George Orwell
winning the People’s Friend letter of
the week and hiring an open top bus.
Meanwhile,
talking of authors, both Mark Douglas and Martin Hardy have 2016/2017 season
diary cash-ins ready to roll from the presses with almost indecent haste. Mark’s a great writer on a terrible paper, but
I presume he’s been pressurised to come up with this volume of platitudes from
the public domain. Surely he’d be happier watching his beloved Bradford in the
play-offs? As far as Martin is concerned, it seems both contrary and
opportunistic for Martin to abandon his chronological accounts of Newcastle
United from the mid-90s for the sake of a single campaign narrative. Then
again, he’s a full time writer grubbing a living as a freelancer these days, so
he needs to earn a crust. Also, it’ll give him another year to find a way of
explaining in print about his exclusive that all the Muslim players at SJP were
set to walk out when Wonga were named
as sponsors. Let’s just remember what
happened again. Perhaps we can even discuss the ramifications of Newcastle’s supposed
new sponsorship deal with a Chinese on-line gambling firm. Now that is
something I find morally abhorrent. I’ve never bet in my life and don’t intend
to start, but the club who have done such good things with the NUFC Food Bank
initiative ought to give bookies a wide berth, as they cause untold misery for
millions in their thrall; not just the unemployable and workshy either, but the
likes of that little shit Joey Barton. Mind any sympathy I had for his plight
disappeared when I learned he’d been betting against the club that covered his
backside when he was in chokey. A character as complex and detestable as Paul
Gascoigne; he’ll never eat Greggs in this town again.
Despite the
premature adulation for Benitez (thanks again Gary), I have to say personally I
regard him as only being marginally in credit for what he’s achieved since his
arrival on Tyneside. You can balance this title with the inability to get more
than 2 points from games at the end of last season against Villa, Norwich and
the Mackems. The club record 14 away wins this campaign are offset by having
the double done over us by play-off hopefuls Fulham and Sheff Wed, not to
mention relegated Blackburn. The
inability to come back from going behind in several games, compared with the
indomitable spirt of the Norwich (H) and Brighton (A) games. A stuttering start
and a triumphant finish to the season. Yin and yang all over the park. Statistics
can be manipulated to suit any argument: Newcastle gained more points this time
than Keegan’s cavaliers, but less than Hughton’s roundheads. Most wins and most
goals in the division, but more home losses than in the previous 3 promotion
campaigns combined. Perhaps we ought to take comfort from the fact the single
most irrefutable statistic is that Newcastle United obtained more points than
any other side in the division in the campaign just ended. However, the nagging
question is always there in the back of your mind; what happens now?
The day
after promotion was achieved, HMRC were up at Darsley Park going through the
books with a fine-toothed comb, looking for where les corps are buried from the era of Francophilic folly. Social
media went into a frenzy of lurid claims relating to forced relegation and
points deductions when Lee Charnley had his collar felt and so did Sylvain
Marveaux; the latter for presumably impersonating a footballer. I’m glad I
wasn’t le gendarme charged with
running the anonymous winger in, as he’d spent so little time on the pitch I
wouldn’t have been able to recognise him if he’d been shredding cheque book
stubs in front of me. As ever, the storm
has blown itself out. Things might happen and charges could follow, but not for
a while and nothing I’d imagine that will discomfit the NUFC playing side of
operations, which is where we should have our gazes firmly fixed.
Looking at
the squad list, other than Atsu’s loan spell ending, we’re in the situation
whereby only Sammy Ameobi, Vurnon Anita and Yoan Gouffran are out of contract.
Sammy must surely have miskicked his final ball for us, though the latter two
players have had their best seasons with us (Big Vurn’s performance against
Preston notwithstanding), on account of being coached and trained properly for
a change. If they were to leave, it will be with the best wishes of all
supporters who understand how football is played, rather than the mindless
radgies who believe the ideal NUFC player is a cross between Jimmy Nail and
Skeletor.
Before we
even begin to think about new signings, there are those who’ve been away on
loan to consider: Krul, De Jong, Saivet and Riviere from the first team squad,
as well as Armstrong and Woodman from the fringes. Of the questionable quartet,
the only one whose return wouldn’t fill me with dread would be Saivet, as I
simply haven’t seen enough of him to hold him in utter contempt, yet. Perhaps
we can trust Rafa’s judgement in this instance.
Looking at
the signings he made last summer, obviously Gayle, Ritchie, Clark and Hayden
have been unquestioned successes and I’d be happy for them to be in a Premier
League squad, if not first names on the team sheet every week. Hanley and
Murphy haven’t put a foot wrong either, but I wonder if they have the
attributes for the top division. I hope Yedlin has, but he needs to add more
steel to a game based entirely on explosive pace. Diame has let himself down
with an infuriating number of under par performances and I doubt Rafa will be
forgiving or sentimental enough to give him another season at the club.
Meanwhile Lazaar, Gamez and Sels simply are not good enough; they must be moved
on.
And what of
those players Benitez inherited who remain at the club? Perez, so harshly and unfairly
berated, is still a jewel and must remain. Shelvey has shown us what he can do,
but he needs a creative partner. Elliott and Darlow are solid and steady; I
trust them both. So too Lascelles, who has played through the pain barrier and
Dummett; unfairly castigated for the crime of being a local lad. I don’t believe
Rafa is convinced by Mbemba, good player he may be, or Haidara, who hasn’t
really progressed in over 4 years. Aarons is a low-carb Nile Ranger who needs
bulleting, as does the woeful Serbian Whitehurst who, if retained, will get
more red cards than goals in the top flight.
If you’re
asking me to give you a list of suggested signings, you’re out of luck. In all
seriousness, it is time for the fans to relax and enjoy the silence, while Benitez
negotiates with Ashley. I have no doubt that Rafa is fully aware of who and
what he needs for next season, while Ashley remains as enigmatic as ever. If
the capricious billionaire plays nicely, the club will march forwards, but if
he doesn’t the repercussions for the club will be frightening. Newcastle United
need Benitez far more than the other way round; if Ashley doesn’t give him a
sizeable transfer budget, Rafa could easily walk into another major club job
tomorrow.
Were that to
happen, the question of who would replace him would be almost immaterial as
whichever crawling sap took over the job, they would struggle not just to keep
us up with the current squad, but to emulate Derby’s 12 point haul of
2007/2008.
