Common People

 Here's the story of two superb, successive Saturdays in the company of Morpeth Town Reserves -:

I was a premature baby, born a fortnight early. If I’d arrived on my due date, I’d have shared a birthday with Sean Connery, which would have been considerably cooler than arriving on the same day as the decidedly lame duo of Hulk Hogan and Joe Jackson. However, as my sporting DNA deigned that I should be a keeper, I am happy to note that two other distinguished stoppers, Nigel Martyn and Martin Young, also blow out their candles on August 11^th. Old Martyn was born two years after me in 1966 and has long since retired, while Young Martin made his entrance on a Monday in 1986, even if the Northern Alliance website claims he was born on January 1^st, 1970. After a distinguished playing career for the likes of Chemfica and Newbiggin, the Young’Un is now in semi-retirement, while passing on his expertise as keeper coach for Morpeth Town Reserves, concentrating his energy on a property portfolio and a blue, low slung Beemer that befits his executive status.

As part of my on-going desire to complete visits to every Northern Alliance ground, I was already aware that Storey Park was no longer the home to the brace of Alliance Division 3 sides, Morpeth FC and Morpeth Town Reserves, that exist in a parallel but unrelated universe. According to the Alliance website, they both shared Craik Park with the first team, except they didn’t; a conversation with Martin informed me that the bucolic greensward of Morpeth Common, adjacent to Craik Park, was the place they called home. For the purpose of my groundhopping activities, a club would be ticked if they were playing at the pitch, I’d first seen them at, or if they moved, I’d already been to that venue. Hence, I’m not intending to visit Newcastle East End at Millers Dene, as I’ve seen them at Stotts Road before and I watched the now-defunct Jesmond when they played at Millers Dene. Similarly, Burradon and New Fordley are playing at the Willie John Sams Centre, but as I’ve seen Newcastle BT there, as well as playing in the Over 40s there, I don’t need to revisit it.

Morpeth Common is at least 2 miles from civilisation, so I was grateful to accept the offer of a lift to and from my bus stop, courtesy of the Young lad. What made it even more alluring was the fact the game I’d selected was the big derby between Morpeth FC and Morpeth Town Reserves (MTR for ease of reference), which dwarfed the atmosphere of other titanic clashes at Goodison, Parkhead and the San Siro that were taking place on the same day.

I had a busy morning, doing stuff in town, collecting books, swapping a phone charger, catching a later bus and getting off a stop early. Luckily, Martin is a patient lad and waited for me. Both teams were meeting in the wooded glade that is the car park for the vastly improved, though locked and bolted, Craik Park. One strange happenstance occurred to me immediately; specifically, it was Morpeth FC not MTR who wore the iconic black and yellow stripes of The Dandy Highwaymen.

As kick off approached, I bowed my head to avoid errant boughs, picking my way through the thicket to the pitch. Flat, well-grassed and damp, it lay athwart a rugby pitch, against whose posts interested dog walkers took their ease and the first half of the match amidst mountainous mole hills. Rustic types in pastel knitwear that peaked through protective layers by Barbour and Hunter ambled past, taking the air and their progeny and pets for a walk. It was all very bucolic until the game kicked off. Fast-paced, furious and displaying the intensity of a Galatasary home game, the two sides tore into each other. Morpeth looked the better side, relying on diagonal balls over the top to their fleet-footed wingers, while MTR were dogged, determined and defensively minded. When they came forward it was courtesy of a solid, attritional, pressing game.  Morpeth FC make and miss several chances, while their keeper is called into action to turn a header round the post.

After an opening half hour of nip and tuck play, Morpeth FC turn on the afterburners. The opening goal sees a ball over the top finally reach a speedy winger, whose deft touch rolls the ball home. A minute later and the lead is doubled after a cross from the right is knocked home by an improvised rabona. A third soon follows; a carbon copy of the opener, except it came down the left, meaning it looks like game over as the whistle blows for half time.

The second half begins like the first ended and Martin, on flag waving duty, chalks off a dubiously offside Morpeth goal, to leave the game at 3-0 and Morpeth manager, former £1m professional Trevor Benjamin, incandescent on the sidelines. Strangely, this is the last we see of Morpeth as a coherent attacking force as the determination of MTR pushes the ostensible home side back into their own half, pulling back 2 goals, courtesy of some horrendous flapping by the lad in the Morpeth FC goal. Of course, MTR are susceptible to the pacey breaks of the home team, but nothing they create ends up in the net, by a combination of wrong options and risible finishing. They hang on though and MTR have to be content with an encouraging second half showing that rattled the ball playing Morpeth FC.  Full time sees an exchange of oath-edged talk and empty threats, but bar some posturing and pushing, it’s good natured and they all head off to the pub, except me. Martin drops me at the bus stop, and I catch a helpfully late X18 back to the Haymarket, where I begin counting down to the next game; Newbiggin Central at home to, you’ve guessed it, Morpeth Town Reserves.

A week in which Marcus Rashford humiliates the Tory elite and Martin endures another Twitter ban goes slowly by, until I find myself on the 12.30 X32 to Newbiggin. I’m by myself, other than the driver, from Ashington onwards. I alight at the Sports Centre and walk past the pitches where I saw Newbiggin lose to Wallsend Boys’ Club, in the company of Andy Hudson, about 6 or 7 years ago. Newbiggin looked rough in May sunshine back then, with assembled crowds of tops-off lager swilling radgies, several feral horses and local ne’er-do-wells on trials bikes zipping all over the place. Frankly, Newbiggin is the closest I’ve been to a poverty-ridden Romanian village on British soil. Today’s game at the Welfare, in the lee of the Grace Darling Academy, has a preludial fly past by 4 lads on beach buggies, like a kind of itinerant, sea coal foraging, problem drinking Banana Splits, before the real business gets underway.

Today’s ref is Derek Thompson, a man who former Percy Main assistant Mick Ritchie demanded be breathalysed, such was his incompetence. However, Derek is a true original; unlike many thin-skinned, easily swayed refs, he doesn’t care who hates him. He’ll ruin the game for both sides simultaneously if the mood takes him. Today, he relied on his default position of cantankerous, uncommunicative capriciousness.  MTR displayed a much changed line-up from last week, but with the same results. A soft free kick was fired into the bottom corner after 13, followed by a tap-in made possible by fatal hesitation by both defender and keeper, before a fine, curling third just before half time left MTR in the same position as last week.

After the break, there was definitely a better showing, but little reward for it. Newbiggin are a decent outfit and their number 4 was head and shoulders above every other player on the pitch. The home side made it 4-0 with a stonewall penalty, were denied twice by excellent saves by the keeper and spurned a couple of gilt edged chances. At the other end MTR were denied a consolation as the ball had supposedly gone out of play before being tapped home. A shame and a 4-goal thumping on a dreich afternoon, but I enjoyed it, especially when Martin was called a “cheating cunt” for a correct offside decision. In all seriousness, all the very best to Morpeth Town Reserves; thanks for the last 2 games and best of luck for the rest of the season. Next week, I’ll probably be at Seaton Sluice v Willington Quay Saints.

 

The Hexhamshire Polymath

Harry Pearson is a brilliant writer. He is also my mate. You may think of him as the Poet Laureate of the Northern League; he is, but he is also a writer of impressive breadth and inspiring talent. Here is my reflection on his other dozen books that don't involve chunky KitKats at Dunston -:

Back in 1995, I read an article in When Saturday Comes about a book that had been named as the runner-up in the Sports Book of the Year awards. The fact this book was subtitled “a mazy dribble through North East football” suggested The Far Corner was ideally suited to my tastes. Indeed it was; I must have read it a dozen times or more in the past quarter of a century. Only recently has it been superseded as the best football book ever written, by the publication of its follow-up, The Farther Corner. In the next issue of Hopeless Football Romantic, I have an article that compares the two books that I’ll post up here once the magazine has been printed.

However, it should be noted that Harry has published the grand total of 14 books, of which only 3 are about football. His other works deal with agricultural shows, Belgium, specifically cycling in Flanders, cricket, dogs, the internet, playground games and war games. He’s a bloody nightmare to categorize and display for bookshop shelf fillers and non-fiction librarians. As I am honoured to call Harry one of my dearest friends, I would like to discuss the treasure trove of the dozen works that don’t discuss the merits of the tea bar at Esh Winning or the architecture of Ryton and Crawcrook Albion’s row of decommissioned bus shelters that provide cover on wet afternoons.

Harry’s second book, published in 1996, was also rooted in the North East, though rather than the devastated former pit villages and desolate concrete new towns of Durham, the picturesque and occasionally bleak Tyne Valley which Harry has called home these past 30 years or so. North Country Fair follows the quintessential Pearson approach; observational humour and lovingly-crafted, episodic narrative with regular, splendid interpolations, all delivered with Harry’s trademark laconic, deadpan humour. Within its pages are vignettes and snapshots of agricultural shows where everything from racing pigs to giant marrows are displayed and judged. Unfortunately, the original title was deemed too arcane for the casual reader, so it was retitled Racing Pigs and Giant Marrows, which seemed only marginally less opaque than the original. Whatever you call it, this is a charming read.

Perhaps the most informative of Harry’s books was his 1998 travelogue of an extended sojourn spent in Belgium, Tall Man in a Low Land. His parallel career as a writer for Conde Nast Traveller made him uniquely suited to writing travel books. The revelations that some visionary Flemish or Wallonian invented beer, chips, and pigeon racing, providing vast numbers of working class blokes from the Tees to the Tweed with the staples of their diet and an adored pastime, was a truly life-changing moment. Having known little to nothing of Belgium, especially the poorer, Dutch-speaking north, I came away from this truly enlightening volume with a fistful of useless knowledge; for that I’ll be eternally grateful, even if the promise I made to visit Belgium 22 years ago is still to be realised.

Strangely, it would be 7 years until Harry published his next book. Equally strangely, following a trip to Dunston 1 Fleetwood 2 in an FA Cup qualifier in September 2000, I wouldn’t see Harry again until a chance meeting in Newcastle Central Station in the summer of 2009. Somewhat fittingly, Harry’s next book when it came, was also about not seeing things for real. Around the World by Mouse is probably the greatest book ever published about the dial-up internet, which shows that, in light of the pace of technological advances, a book such as this could only have been written in the pre broadband era of screeching modems and glacially-paced downloads. The premise is that Harry doesn’t leave his living room and, hunched over an aged Compaq PC, uses the power of search engines, from Alta Vista to Yahoo to pilot a worldwide course by means of trains, boats and planes, stopping off to do on-line touristy things by putting himself in the care of rickety, homemade websites. What makes the book screamingly funny, is the use of a plot device, later popularised by Michel Houllebecq, that involves wholesale copying and pasting of wads of text, comprising terrible computer translations, suffused with inaccurate adjectives and bizarrely formal verbs. The cumulative effect is uncontrollable mirth. This is Harry’s least favourite of his own books, but I thoroughly recommend it to you, even if the last section of the book is a bit rushed.

As I’ve mentioned before, Harry and I are good pals, though there are interests he has that I know nothing about. An example of this is the litany of revelations contained in his 2007 publication Achtung Schweinehund! One of the first facts I learned about Harry is that he was schooled by kindly Quakers at the Great Ayton Friends’ School. As he is a most self-effacing and gentle bloke, it was a profound shock to discover Harry has been an obsessive war gamer for his entire adult life, though that is the second half of this fascinating book. The first is a rip-roaring, nostalgia heavy, trawl through the British obsession with World War II and how it influenced boys’ play in the late 60s and early 70s. It’s a superbly well-observed portrait of life in those almost far-off days that existed in a parallel universe to the swinging 60s, but it pales into the background when Harry waxes lyrical about his love of toy soldiers and the seemingly endless complexities of scaled-down battles and war campaigns. Rather like, Tall Man in a Low Land, Achtung Schweinehund! is a treasure trove of trivia and recondite facts.

2007 also saw the appearance of Dribble! The Unbelievable Football Machine. Harry’s journalism has seen him contribute to such publications as The Guardian, Conde Nast Traveller and When Saturday Comes, where he still shares his work on a monthly basis. This book is a distillation of the long-running series The A to Z of Football, collected in book form. Of course, it’s a load of preposterous lies mixed with devastatingly barbed attacks on the sacred cows of the game. Unlike a lot of these cash-in volumes, it is properly written and seriously entertaining.

As those of you who saw my cameo appearance outside Tynemouth Co-op will know, I am a cat person and definitely not a dog lover, except for Lexy and Poppy of course. Indeed, I’m rather more of an Andrew Newton than a Norman Scott when it comes to canines. That said, Hound Dog Days, Harry’s delightful account of his relationship with his dogs Ingemar and Little Man, has almost persuaded me to get myself a rescue mutt to look after. The idea of a gentle stroll down by the River Tyne out west of Hexham on a clear, early morning in summer with your best friend at your heels, is certainly an appealing one. Check this book out and I’m sure you’ll agree.

I referred earlier to a chance meeting with Harry in Newcastle Central Station. It was at the end of May in 2009; I was headed to Bathgate for the West of Scotland Cup Final between Bonnyrigg Rose and Musselburgh Athletic (2-1 to Bonnyrigg), while Harry was headed to a club cricket game in Yorkshire, as part of his research for Slipless in Settle; A Slow Turn Around Northern Cricket. Not only does it have a brilliant punning title, it is the cricket equivalent of The Far Corner, which was recognised by it winning the 2011 Cricket Society / MCC Book of the Year award, the Cricket Writers’ Club Book of the Year award and being named Best Cricket Book at the 2011 British Sports Book Awards. Cricket is the game Harry played the most and it is the sport to which, I feel, his writing is best suited. It also brings out the very best in him as an author; analytical, affectionate, detailed and dispassionate, the prose of Slipless in Settle is an endless series of Champagne Moments, Gold Awards and spontaneous applause from the boundary. I love this book as much as the two Corners.

 Harry’s next full length book was another cricket tome; The Trundlers, which is undoubtedly a labour of love, as well as a meticulously researched hagiography of S. F. Barnes, the greatest medium pacer the world has ever seen. Before this, he edited Conkers for Goalposts, another WSC tie-in, telling the lore of playground games. I must admit, this is an acquired taste that I haven’t fully developed. However, his next project, a pamphlet commissioned by New Writing North about rural sports clubs in Northumberland, involving archery in the Borders, quoits up by Allendale and cricket at Bomarsund, Housekeepers, Shortlegs and Flemish String is an absolute delight; a love letter to his adopted county in all its glory. Seek it out where you can; it is a treasure in miniature.

Harry gave me a copy of The Trundlers while watched Northumberland flay Staffordshire all around the County Ground in Jesmond. It was the day Andy Murray won Wimbledon for the first time in July 2013, but I’m proud to say we didn’t see a stroke of the final, as the summer game held sway. His next book was about cricket too; Connie was a biography, in loving detail, of the West Indian great Learie Constantine. Focussing equally on Constantine’s background, playing career and post-cricket legal and political adventures, it is beautifully rounded portrait of one of the most seminal figures in Caribbean cricket history. Connie was longlisted for the 2017 William Hill Sports Book of the Year and won the 2018 Cricket Society / MCC Book of the Year. Deservedly so in my opinion, as this is Harry’s longest and, probably, most important published work.

Finally, in 2017, Harry went back to Belgium to research his account of Flemish professional cycling, The Beast, the Emperor and the Milkman, as well as consuming many cakes and much ale. Again, Harry’s skill is in drawing pictures with words; we see the rain sheeting down across cobbles in market town squares, we taste the cream and chocolate of the regional treats and small the hops and fruit in 10% lambic and saison beers. We know the proud and reserved Flemish citizens, on buses, in cafes and by the side of hilly roads, who Harry introduces us to. The affection and admiration we feel for these model citizens has been inculcated in us by the quality of Harry’s writing. The Beast, the Emperor and the Milkman was the third of his books to be longlisted for the Sports Book of the Year. It didn’t win. News has come through that The Farther Corner has similarly been listed; for goodness sake, let common sense prevail and Harry win the blasted thing!

 

 

The X Factor

 I'm still enjoying my quest to visit every Northern Alliance ground, with Arriva buses giving me the means to do so -:

Amidst the swirling despair created by the maelstrom that is the Covid-19 first and a half wave redux, the least welcomed occurrence imaginable was the appearance of another international break. A fortnight’s sporting anomie is an unhelpful intrusion during ordinary days, but the forced fervour of an England triple header has nothing to commend it in these desperate times. At least we have been reassured that the incompetent, venal arrogance of our top clubs and their owners are all in rude health, for nothing else can explain how a league, whose members have just spent in excess of £1.2 billion in the recent transfer window, can have the barefaced audacity to introduce a £15 charge for Pay Per View games and then point out that many of these barren cash cows will kick off at the “iconic” (I’m not making this up you know) time of Saturday 3pm. Fair play to Leicester City for being the sole voice of reason in the towering Babelfest; massive respect to that club.

Now, let’s be honest, it’s of little surprise that Newcastle United versus Manchester United is the first game scheduled for this “exciting new opportunity for fans” to be ripped off, bearing in mind that the two clubs are the most blatant examples of shameful owners only interested in their clubs as money making enterprises. Last season, Matty Longstaff’s debut goal made this clash one of the few memorable moments in an eminently forgettable season; this season I’ll be more likely to watch Matty Leadbetter between the sticks for Chemfica Amateurs. In actual fact, I’m still torn between Seaton Sluice v Blue Star U23s and the titanic derby that pits Morpeth with Morpeth Town Reserves, depending on where the latter takes place. You see, I’m still in the business of counting down the remaining Northern Alliance grounds I’ve not visited. If you’re not attending a non-league game, I’d recommend donating your £15 to the Newcastle United Food Bank rather than Sky TV.

You’ll recall I blogged about my last foray into the wilds of Northumberland for Ellington against Stobswood in a game that actually transcended the Beaufort Scale? Well, that hike was like popping in to see the neighbours when compared to my last two excursions to Rothbury against Gosforth Bohemian Reserves and North Sunderland versus Heaton Stannington A. One of the most exacting features of any day out in Northumberland’s border county is the weather. The season’s first new ground saw Harry Pearson and I forced to endure a deluge on a soft evening in Haltwhistle. The rain that night was tumultuous, punctuated by periods of scarcely credible monsoon conditions, like a watery, Mogwai percussion track, but not incessant, whereas the downpour I forced myself to endure at Armstrong Park, Rothbury was a constant, heavy downpour. It made the howling gale at Ellington appear like a gentle summer breeze by comparison. The glorious sun on a still day as Harry and I looked out towards the Farne Islands from the beer garden of the Old Ship in Seahouses, before I headed to North Sunderland and he and Deryn back to their holiday cottage in Embleton, made an autumnal day out that had started towards the scenic on arriving in Morpeth, now seem beautiful, life-affirming and vital. Would I rather pay £15 to watch Joelinton and Shelvey than tour England’s Border County by bus? Like shite I would!!

Although, if you’d asked me that question the week before, as I splashed my way through deepening puddles from the bus stop in the centre of the village back towards Armstrong Park, I may have given you a different answer. More than 45 years since I’d last been there, Rothbury seemed to be the ideal spot to be shot dead by the coppers, rather than spending upwards of 2 hours in receipt of a natural cold shower of unrelenting grimness. The journey up had been fun; it always is on any deserted X-prefixed Arriva bus, surging bravely, without any need for socially distancing, through deserted, scenic villages, ruined by exclusive developments of 5 bed detached mansions for dormitory executives, where the only way to tell a sheep pound from a cricket ground is by the scoreboard in the corner. We made the usual sedate progress to Morpeth, which I’d once considered a decent journey by bus. The situation was ramped up a gear by a change of drivers as an imposing Goth with a decidedly manic cast to his eyes took the wheel. He tore the single decker X14 along saturated, deserted country roads, picking up a couple of passengers at Longframlington but nowhere else; perhaps they were hiding behind the shelters as he tore down bumpy stretches of tarmac glazed with rainwater. At least we were dry on board. By the time I’d walked 50 yards, you’d think I’d been for a bathe in the Coquet.

Armstrong Park should be a site of outstanding natural beauty. Hewn out of the hillside, it disappears away off in the direction of Cragside, giving way to bucolic, rolling countryside. To the right, it hugs the B6344 that stands between it and the river, while to the left an impressive pine thicket acts as a natural barrier. There is no cover against the elements, but suitably attired country folk either stand proud beneath capacious golfing umbrellas or sit in their 4x4 monster trucks with the heating on. Personally, I sat on one of the memorial park benches that fringe the pitch and immediately soaked my shorts from arsehole to breakfast time.

Rothbury won this one 2-1, but it should have been far more comprehensive than that. From my elevated viewpoint, it was clear the pitch was as vast as it was true, grassed and flat. Rothbury used the width to provide openings for their two strong frontmen and opened up a 2-0 lead by the interval. Bohemians were podgier and older, seemingly without answers to the strength of the home side. Strangely, the second period saw little real action, until Bohs pulled one back from a scramble, deep into stoppage time. Soon the whistle blew, and I squelched my way back into the village, in search of hot coffee. I found a cup in the unfriendliest deli it has ever been my misfortune to visit. Indeed, I cursed my impetuousness when, just the other side of the Co-Op Funeralcare concession where Raoul Moat was brought to repose, I spotted a delightful looking micropub, The Narrow Neck, only 50 yards further on; sadly, time was against me and an altogether more solicitous driver piloted the X14 back home. Rothbury, I’ll be back on a sunnier day than this.

Current government guidance as regards football spectators is, courtesy of the DFA and NFA’s illogical interpretation, as you can expect, a farce. Maximum crowds at Northern League level remain 150 for clubs in restricted areas, while for Alliance and Wearside clubs, a maximum of 40 spectators can see top flight games, but none are permitted below this, which is, of course, impossible to enforce in public parks. As a writer and journalist, I always contact clubs I intend to visit to establish press credentials and ensure my attendance is accepted and expected; my pal and fellow Communist Jon Tait was very accommodating at Rothbury, as were those who ran the Twitter accounts of Ellington and North Sunderland, for it was there I headed on a day of dappled sunshine, as the X15 and X18, by turn, ploughed through glorious piles of russet leaves. Leaving Tynemouth at 10.00 and arriving in Seahouses at 13.15, I had plenty of time to contemplate the benefits of County Lines drug delivery operatives, who provide an excellent service for otherwise untoxicated rural youths and the legacy of the famous Northumbrian anarchist punk band Crasster, famous for such classics as Banned From the Lobster Pot and Do They Owe Us a Kipper?

Having passed Embleton and Craster FC’s stadium a few miles south, Seahouses creeps up on you by the golf course. I alighted, wended my way down Main Street and met Harry and Deryn in the beer garden of the Old Ship to pass a wonderful hour. On departure, Harry gave me a valedictory bag of excessively spicy crisps he’d bought in Aldi and a can of craft ale he hadn’t. I left feeling like Grace Darling at low tide, then took a meandering, inaccurate walk to the ground, which I was required to access by clambering over a five bar gate. This really was the countryside by the seaside.

I must say both the ground and the pitch were immaculate; same as Rothbury, which made Wallington look like Walker Central, North Sunderland are obviously a superbly organised and well-run operation. Both clubs deserve to be the epicentre of their local community’s sporting life for years to come. The only strange thing was North Sunderland were attired in black and white stripes; what’s in a name eh? Their opponents were Russell Ward’s promising Heaton Stan A outfit. Having left his post at Shankhouse, where he’d led them to NFA Benevolent Bowl success, Russ is in his second season back at Grounsell Park and he’s assembling a squad of quality ball players, though none matched the North Sunderland number 8 who was a class above everyone else of the pitch; a lovely ball playing centre midfielder who wasn’t afraid to do the hard stuff when required.

It was a quality encounter of strength and endeavour from the home side, pitted against the guile and finesse of the big city visitors. Tied 1-1 at the interval, it wasn’t clear who would win it, though an early goal after the restart saw North Sunderland looking more likely, until a late rally by Stan saw them pinch the points. A tremendous 40 yard strike hit the underside of the bar, before being recycled for a thumping short range equaliser. The winner, when it came, was cruel; the home side lost it in midfield and a Stan forward streaked away and finished to grab the points. It wasn’t quite a smash and grab, but a draw would have been fair.

 At the final whistle, I wandered up to a hotel without hand pulled beer for a Moretti, took the 5pm X18 to Belford and thence the 17.45 X15 to Haymarket, arriving starved, dehydrated and in desperate need to micturate at 19.40. It had been another excellent day and the Morpeth derby, Seaton Sluice and Wooler, probably against Heaton Stan, are all I have left on my Northumbrian bucket list.

 

 

Bringing Home the Bacon

 Broooth's Front Trotter Mags are having a little rest. Here's my take on how they've done so far...

An underappreciated and oft unmentioned benefit of being a football fan is that joyous feeling of satisfaction you get on waking up the morning after a good win, which as a Newcastle you accept gratefully as it isn’t always obvious where the next reason to be cheerful is coming from. While mid-morning sanguinity perhaps doesn’t compare to bursting out laughing at the sound of the alarm on the Monday after the Spurs game, when recalling the last second penalty that was the best get out of jail free card ever tabled, that wistful smile of happy contemplation gets the day of rest off to a positive start. The two Sunday mornings after the victories over West Ham and Burnley were especially enjoyable; the cerebral equivalent of breakfast in bed. Breakfast in head, if you like…

Someone who must certainly appreciate the value of a full English is Steve Broooooth, not to mention his preference for large cod and chips with a portion of curry sauce from Gorman’s at Cowgate at lunch and teatime. And he certainly warrants an immense smorgasbord of deep-fried, lipid-infused comforting junk food for bringing home the bacon in the two performances against the claret and blue sides that Newcastle beat so comprehensively in the first and last games of the initial segment of the season, now ended by the unhelpful appearance of an international break. It’s best to enjoy our comfortable top-half position while we can, as there are games against: Man Utd, Wolves and Everton in the next tranche of games and to expect anything other than a trio of thumpings shows crass naivete, especially if Broooooth tries to impose his thinking on the players.

It’s an interesting statistic that Newcastle’s two successful outings in the Premier League have been against sides who are still wedded to an inflexible 4-4-2 game plan that, regardless of available personnel, must be strictly adhered to. A self-confessed tacticphobe, Broooooth is also one of the structural dinosaurs still carrying a torch for the football equivalent of black and white telly, Fray Bentos steak and kidney pies, half day closing on a Wednesday and taking delivery of two pints of gold top from the fella in the electric Unigate Dairies float each morning. This sepia-tinged nostalgia for Alf Ramsey’s wingless wonders can only get you so far and when it fails to pay dividends, the results make for grim viewing. Graham Potter may look like a Russell Howard impersonator, but he’s one of the newest English managers on the block and he certainly understands the need for flexibility in team selection.

Perhaps the single most damning fact about Brighton’s defenestration of Broooooth’s Front Foot Mags (I’m being ironic), is that the Just Eat gourmet sent out an unchanged side, including a plainly unfit St. Maximin, for that game. Despite his quaint, almost touching, sense that it was correct to stay as we were, to reward those who’d played West Ham off the park the week previous, the fact is, credible, tactically-aware managers pick the best team for the opponents they are facing. Dated notions that we should “let the opposition worry about us” are examples of lazy thinking and misplaced arrogance. David Moyes is possibly even more out of date in his approach to the game than Broooooth. It’s alright to celebrate a win against one of his sides as an example of a job done well, but to invest any importance to those 3 points when your next opponents come to town, unless they are Burnley, West Brom or Newcastle United, is a disproportionate reaction. Then again, West Ham have dismantled Wolves and Leicester in successive games, so what do I know?

I like Andy Carroll; he’s got the second best haircut at the club, behind Jeff Hendrick, now that Darlow no longer resembles Nick Cave, but he offers little or no threat up top. It isn’t as if he is missing chances; he simply isn’t having any efforts on goal. Alright, his aerial prowess remains relatively undimmed and he can still lay the ball off with unerring accuracy, but his mobility is so restricted he could justifiably apply for Disability Living Allowance. It’s like watching Duncan Ferguson in his second season, but without the goals. He tried his best, but the Brighton game was the day his race was run. Graham Potter understands the need for fluency; that’s why he shunted Glenn Murray out the door.

The point I’m trying to make is that not that we should dispense with Carroll entirely, as there will be a time when nuanced play must be jettisoned for aerial bombardment, but that discussions based around trying to pick a best XI are pointless. While Wilson must start every league game, as must St. Maximin, the appearances of Frazer, Almiron and Joelinton must be dictated by a differing tactical approach to each and every opposition side. Same with midfield: Hayden is a shoo-in, but his compadres in the centre should be selected from a revolving cast. I like Hendrick and Sean, but don’t get the reason Shelvey, who correctly identified how much better our football generally is when compared to the Benitez dictatorship, gets so little praise. He’s a good passer, scores the odd goal and generally thinks creatively. Also, I hope Matty gets back in the side when we need a muck and bullets battler.

Looking at our squad, I’d imagine there are quite a few contracts about to be paid up, especially considering the extensive list of those coming to the end of their deals next summer: the non-playing trio of Aarons, Lazaar and Saivet we can take as read, but I can’t see any futures for Atsu, Yedlin, Carroll or Gayle, unless something dramatic happens for either of the latter two. The jury is out on Fernandez, Schar and Clark, not to mention loanee Lejeune, but injury and loss of form makes centre back no longer a position of strength but one of concern.

Being a dinosaur does sometimes work in Broooooth’s favour. Witness his disarmingly honest reaction to the penalty at Spurs, especially in contrast to Mourinho’s increasingly bizarre stream of consciousness responses in interviews that appear to be based upon Michel Houllebecq’s template for discussing the disintegration of human society in these appalling times. Mind, Broooooth did himself no favours with his increasingly tetchy and hyper-sensitive reactions to criticism, real or imagined. Even his interview after Burnley was spoiled by crowing rather than simply celebrating.

Of course, to huge numbers of the Newcastle social media dysfunctional family, Broooooth can never do right and will always struggle to gain even grudging respect, though I must admit to laughing out loud at the observation the most enjoyable Premier League game we’ve seen where Broooooth was the manager, was the 5-1 twatting of the Mackems. That is slightly unfair, but nothing compared to the grudgeful, small-minded miseries who refuse to give the big man a scintilla of praise for getting us to a very winnable League Cup quarter final, bitterly observing we’ll probably be relegated by then. Alright so we stunk the place out against Blackburn and Newport, but at least we tried, however embarrassing that makes the Newport game in retrospect.

If you respond to any positive result for Newcastle United with anything other than joy unconfined, it’s not a question of red or brown on your bacon stottie, but arsenic or hemlock.