And
so, bearing in mind the ramifications of any potential legal action from
Bournemouth regarding the malfunctioning goal-line technology that gifted Villa
the point that eventually did for the Cherries, we have finally reached the end
of the Premier League season. Unlike the Championship, whose dramatic final
evening provided a torrent of incessant thrilling entertainment that ended with
the tragic, unjust relegation of Wigan Athletic, the Premier League crumpled
into inertia like a slowly deflating balloon on a sombre and shallow Sunday
afternoon that inspired me to watch third team cricket at Crook v Washington
and then Willington v Burnmoor; despite the Orwellian closing sequence of Match
of the Day, that could have been un homage to Cecil B DeMille, such
was its unnecessary, vainglorious exuberance, I think I made the right choice.
Hence, with the weather set fair for Saturday and Chelsea playing Arsenal, the
FA Cup final can safely be ignored in favour of Felling v Tynemouth in the
Banks Salver North Group and regular updates from Easter Road, where the Hibees
take on Killie, nigh on three months before the Jambos get to soil their boots
in the lower division. Anybody say Natural Order just then?
Getting
back to the Premier League, the first question I have about the campaign just
ended is how on earth did Manchester City finish as low as second? Following
the restart, they played simply the most beguiling, intricate, and effective
football imaginable. David Silva’s
departure is a huge shame, not just for City fans, but admirers of fine players
everywhere. In contrast, worthy Champs Liverpool looked somewhat unconvincing with
the title in the bag. The body language of the enduringly grumpy and selfish Mo
Salah suggests he’s wanting away and unless Klopp sorts out his main striking
option, in whatever fashion, I can see the title returning to Eastlands with
the rest nowhere in 2020/2021. Perhaps Joelinton will end up at Anfield; I hear
there are vacancies for turnstile operators…
The
second, perhaps unanswerable, question I have about 2019/2020 is, how do we
interpret the level of performance of a manager whose team accrued 44 points
from 38 games? According to many Newcastle United fans, if you do this and your
name is Rafa Benitez, it’s the equivalent to winning the Champions’ League, but
if you’re Steve Broooth it is on the cusp between a sackable and a hanging
offence. Barmy eh? In the last 3 seasons, Newcastle United have finished on 44
points in 10th position with a goal difference of -8, 45 points in
13th with a -6 goal difference and, this time around, 44 points in
13th with a -20 goal difference. If we ignore Benitez’s statistics
from the end of the 2015/2016 season when he failed to prevent the club being
relegated, his average finishing position is 11.5 with 44.5 points and a -7 GD.
Despite what the blinkered devotees of his sterile anti-football would have you
believe, it isn’t evidence of an earth-shattering performance, though neither was
Broooth’s debut season as awful as some would contend.
Comparing
the two managers should be an absolute non-starter, but the decline of Benitez’s
stock since he was shown the door at Real Madrid makes a more than cursory
investigation a valid one. In short, Benitez has a better record with Newcastle
over complete seasons than Broooth has; there isn’t much in it, but the
evidence is there. If you were so minded, there is the counter argument that
Broooth’s performance in the FA Cup is more impressive; while that’s not saying
much, the pitiful surrender at home to Man City in the quarter finals didn’t garner
much sympathy or understanding among the support to inspire anyone to advance
such a position. Both managers have had dismal aspects to their stewardship;
Benitez losing the opening 5 home fixtures of 18/19 was an absolute disgrace
that his apologists swept under the carpet, while the shameful hammerings
Broooth oversaw (Leicester home and away, Arsenal away and City away) displayed
his inability to shut up shop for damage limitation, a particular specialism of
Benitez, while the even more depressing impotent performances against also-rans
(the Villa away non-performance, the second half surrender at Watford and the
shot-shy shit shows away to Burnley and Palace) pay testament to the Big Lad’s
failure to respond to events or change tactics, even for injuries, which is why
Broooth will never be and has never been, a top quality manager. Then again, Benitez
was utterly inflexible in his tactical devotion to caution first football and
once he’d taken the strop over his derisory £6m annual salary offer, there
weren’t exactly dozens of top European clubs clamouring for his services.
Personality
wise, Broooth is avuncular and clubbable, especially among bibulous media types
of a certain age who respond to his disarming honesty with protective praise, whereas
Benitez is spiky, calculating and implacably incapable of accepting any
responsibility for the shortcomings of his team. Perhaps the only ways the two
men coincide is in their excessive BMI and inability to turn in a watchable
performance against Brighton; I’d imagine it will take a long time to win back
the trust of any poor neutral who inflicted both televised stalemates on
themselves this year. There go 3 hours of your life you’ll not get back.
Mind,
when I look back to the opening days of Project Restart, I was as guilty as
anyone of squandering my time in front of several dozen dreadful games of
football on Sky Sports, BBC and Amazon Prime. I don’t think I’d watched as many
live Premier League games in over quarter of a century, which shows I’d missed
the game itself, rather than the intrinsic sporting excellence on display, other
than when Man City were playing at any rate. Good job I didn’t have access to
BT Sport and the pubs were shut most of the time, meaning I had the bonus of
watching games without the inane input of some saloon bar savant, otherwise I’d have been a complete square-eyed
addict, though there is evidence I was going down that route as I kept up a
watching brief on the Championship as well. As an aside, the Millwall v Boro
game kicked off at 3pm on a Wednesday. What was that all about? Is Edward Heath
back in Number 10? Do we need to save electricity in case of potential power
shortages?
As
regards Newcastle United, I approached the on-coming tranche of fixtures with
zero expectations and a degree of trepidation. The only good news in lockdown
was Matty Longstaff’s short-term contract extension and the offer of an improved
new deal, which I really hope will keep him at SJP. As far as the football was
concerned, the main positive to be taken was the fact that games provided a
break from on-line paranoid, delusional speculation about the doomed takeover
of the club, which has been incompetently piloted onto the rocks by Fag Ash Lil
Staveley.
The
first game back was the pleasant surprise of the deserved thumping we handed
out to The Blades, once Egan had been properly red carded. The team probably coalesced
on account of the ground being denuded of 25,000 moaning bastards, though the grudging praise by on line curmudgeons was
still hilariously mean-spirited. The Blades had 10 and had to be shite because
Joelinton scored… blah blah blah… Thankfully for the empty glass army, the next
game against Villa was a dull and functional 1-1 draw, enabling them to whine
incessantly, though we’d have won it if Shelvey and Dubravka hadn’t got in a
tangle after a late corner from which Villa snatched their equaliser. Next up,
City bundled us out of the Cup and the Dismal Jimmies had a right to moan on
this occasion; the game almost ruined the bairn’s birthday celebrations, but it
could all have been so different if Gayle had put the ball into an empty net at
0-1.
Suddenly,
out of absolutely nowhere, we turned in the kind of faultless, attacking
performance away to Bournemouth that was as good as a Bobby Robson era display.
It wasn’t just the goals we scored; it was the manner of the victory. I’ve long
said that Saint Maximen needs to be appreciated as, if he turned in a quality
season, which he largely did, then he’s away when the first £50m bid lands in
Charnley’s inbox. This was ASM’s finest moment. For once, the clamours as to
Bournemouth’s inadequacies rather than our proficiencies went largely ignored.
Indeed, the media lost the run of themselves, with several talking empty heads
saying Broooth should be a shoo-in for Manager of the Year. Errant nonsense. This
noise didn’t stop after we drew 2-2 with West Ham, with the deserved point from
an even game making us mathematically safe with 5 games to go, which was an
early release from the torture of endless hours poring over league tables,
creating scenarios both realistic and fantastical. However, that’s not really
much of an achievement in the wider scheme of things.
Safety
didn’t cause spontaneous eruptions of joy on Tyneside, comparable to Mardi
Gras in The Big Easy, which was just as well as our visit to Eastlands saw
Broooth’s front foot Mags predictably disembowelled. If only Muto had been
involved sooner, things could have been different. However, the Social Media
Moaners gave full vent to their despair, claiming we’d be relegated next season
and wouldn’t get another point this year. The utter lack of perspective became
even more maddening as it appeared to be an accurate prediction, or self-fulfilling
prophecy, depending on your attitude.
It
seemed that we’d got the monkey off our back in the first period at Watford. We
went in a goal to the good and it wouldn’t have flattered us to be two or three
ahead. It wasn’t quite as good as Bournemouth, but the situation looked
decidedly promising. As I was at the cricket club, I ducked out of the second
period to watch our friendly with Benwell Hill. Checking the score at full
time, I was shocked to see we’d lost, courtesy of two penalties converted by
Troy Deeney. I was disgusted once I saw a recording of the game; the second forty-five
saw a total abandonment of the tactics that had served us so well before the
interval, as we timorously retreated into our shell. The two penalties were the
result of a pair of utterly unnecessary challenges, though the award of the
first was more than questionably soft, but what really irked was clear evidence
of Broooth returning to type. Decent when required to do some simple
motivational speaking, but tactically inept and unable to respond when events
go against us.
Then
again, it was only a game of football; the same day Jack Charlton, a God as
Ireland manager and a Gollum as Newcastle’s, passed away after a life well
lived. He quit as Newcastle boss on the eve of my 21st birthday
after a dull 1-1 pre-season game with Sheffield United where less than 6,000 of
us dozed on a sunny Gallowgate. Jack was a passionate Socialist; goodness knows
how disgusted he would have been with the racist on-line abuse afforded to
Irish international David McGoldrick on social media, and to Wilfred Zaha the
day after; the latter by a 12-year-old boy. What the hell is this world coming
to?
The
Spurs game was an honourable defeat. With injuries starting to bite, Broooth
was obviously operating blindfolded, with both hands tied behind his back. In
the circumstances, NUFC were unlucky not to take a point after 22 efforts on
goal; instead, Mourinho claimed his first win at SJP and Newcastle were
condemned to finish either 13th or 14th. The point that ensured the same place finish
as last year was achieved came from the stinking pile of ordure at the AMEX
Arena, that was enough to keep Brighton up as well. The second half was one
hell of a tough watch after I’d ducked out of the first to play 6-a-side, which
shows how low interest levels had dropped to. Finally, we come to the Liverpool
game. Whilst the opening goal was amusing, the subsequent pattern of play,
involving minimal possession and desperate defending undone by individual
errors, was beyond predictable. Liverpool played us off the park, which is
precisely what would have happened under Benitez.
And
relax… the season is now over, and the 3-week post-season break is
underway. We’ve said goodbye to the
three underwhelming loanees, plus Rob Elliott, Jack Colback and a crop of
reserve non-entities but, after 16 weeks, the Saudi-funded, Staveley-led
takeover hasn’t been nodded through. My position remains unchanged; Ashley is a
bastard, but he’s never defenestrated a homosexual or beheaded an adulteress,
so if it is binary choice between him and PIF, I’d have to say he’s still the less
repugnant evil.
Oh
well; roll on September 12th…
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