Shachtman Denver Overdrive

 This World Cup is going to spoil one of potentially the best season's ever for NUFC...

It was just before the Manchester United game when I last blogged about Newcastle United. At that point, the season had seen a steady start, but nothing out of the ordinary, with some of the usual hysterical gripes on social media exploding from the great unwashed, such as the clown in the Peaky Blinders cap bellyaching that we were in a relegation dogfight after the Bournemouth draw. So, how’s that working out for you fella? Perhaps you were the one in The Gosforth Hotel at the start of the Chelsea game, also keeping the Birmingham millinery manufacturers in work, claiming we’d get beat with Woods and Willock in the team. Well said that lad…

Looking back now, in something of a sulk that the unwelcome distraction of the World Cup will stay our stellar progress, the most amazing thing about the Manchester United game is that it wasn’t on the telly, which is probably why it felt like such a low profile affair. No I don’t do fire sticks or any of that palaver, so I only got to see the highlights on Match of the Day 2. Should have won it in the first half; could have lost it after the break, so I suppose a draw was a reasonable result in the circumstances, though I do think we’d have had more of a go at them with the benefit of 6 weeks of hindsight after the way we’ve played since that point. The biggest shame back then was news of Isak’s injury, which I guess just proves football is a wicked game. Predictably ASM found some kind of injury to duck out of things and make his reputation grow by not actually playing. I’m becoming less and less convinced he is essential to the squad moving forward.

And so on to the Everton game, where the big pixels of Amazon Prime made the television coverage look like a tribute to the Blockbusters pieces that Bob Holness used to concern himself with, when not performing saxophone solos for Gerry Rafferty (yes, I do know…). What was still abundantly clear is that Newcastle were the best team by far and Everton, under the less than expert tutelage of Lampard minor, have not progressed a scintilla since El Fraudo was given the shove. Almiron scored a blinder, and we could, and should, have had a few more, but it didn’t matter too much in the end as Everton were so pedestrian, they didn’t threaten our goal in any meaningful manner throughout the entire game. It was an efficient victory with the added bonus of another clean sheet as we continue to demonstrate that the current Newcastle defence is almost unrecognisable from the shambles under Algarve Bruce.

If the Fulham and Brentford games had an air of unreality about them, on account of the crushing margins of victory in both, then that particular sensation was redoubled during the next pair of fixtures. The manner in which Newcastle crushed Aston Villa was redolent of the 5-1 scudding handed out to them when Andy Cole notched his 40^th of the season back in 1993/1994. Sometimes it can actually amaze you just how good a team we’ve become. The fact Villa had won well themselves the week before, having freed themselves of the shackles of Gerrard’s incompetence, was not a threat, more of an utter irrelevance. Courtesy of that stumbling carthorse Mings rendering his own keeper senseless and pensioner Ashley Young (ironic name alert) displaying the reactions of a tired Argentinosaurus when the ball was fired towards his arms, we got the first goal from the spot, which put us ahead at the break and allowed us to crush them underfoot in the second period. It could, and should, have been 6 as Wilson and Murphy both cracked the woodwork late on.

As for Southampton, having endured Hassenhuttl’s bellyaching after Wood and Bruno did for his side last year, it was even better to see them both on the scoresheet again as we obliterated his mob, despite not passing the ball that well. What we did was score a clutch of sublime goals, with the side netting feeling the caresses of our footwork on every occasion. Probably the most telling moment was Botman’s frustration as they pulled one back on 89 minutes; with an attitude like that, no wonder we’ve got the best defensive record in the league. Incidentally, Sean Longstaff was incredible; his indefatigable stamina showing the fruits of all those summers spent haring round the back field at Tynemouth Cricket Club, with his dad Davy shouting the odds from a prone position. Let’s hope young Matty reaps the benefits soon, as there’s not one true NUFC fan doesn’t love the bones of the pair of them.

When Palace rolled into town for the League Cup tie, it was great to finally get to a game. Courtesy of my mate John’s membership, he sorted out brilliant tickets in the Leazes North East Corner, which must be one of the most civilised parts of the ground to spectate from, for him, me and my Ben. This is a 70 year old bloke coming over from county Kildare for a midweek game you do realise. That’s what I call dedication. We had a superb pizza before the game in Pinocchio’s as well as the usual brilliant pints in The Bodega. It was just a shame we had to endure 90 minutes of football that teetered between tepid and terrible. I liked our initial team selection, but both Shelvey and ASM were still miles off the pace and turned in woeful displays over the 90. I liked Howe’s substitutions even more, but the crucial breakthrough just would not come and so we had the lottery of penalties. The least said about Bruno’s effort the better, but you have to say that Pope earned his money that night. When he came in the summer, I wasn’t convinced we needed another keeper, but he has demonstrated he’s a clear step up on Dubravka. The reward of a home tie against Bournemouth next time out is one I appreciate. I’ll definitely be at that pre-Christmas treat.

And so, the Chelsea game. Again, what can you say? They were absolutely horrific, and we ought to have smashed them out of sight. I’m still scratching my head at why we didn’t get a penalty when Chalobah almost took the laces out the ball, but it simply didn’t matter in the end, despite Kai Havertz’s toddler tantrum, as Willock scored as good a goal as any of Miggy’s recent superstar strikes. Almost incredibly, but totally deservedly, we head into this strange pause with 30 points from 15 games, having tasted defeat only once and that being in August. Without question, these players are responding to some superb coaching and man management; whether they’ve been here for several seasons and been able to shake off their post Algarve Bruce torpor, or if they’ve arrived in the last 12 months and have grasped the nettle in turn the club around, they are giving Eddie Howe at least 110% if not more. Howe himself has proved all doubters wrong, in terms of his coaching and his demeanour. It’s a while since we last had a manager I respected, probably Chris Hughton if I’m honest, but here is a man whose words I hang on. Except when he is unnecessarily forced into a corner by mendacious members of the Fourth Estate asking vindictive closed questions about Saudi Arabia. That we can all do without.

Ah Saudi Arabia; the investment by PIF. At some point, the elephant in the room had to be addressed. I’m guessing that probably 10% of our active support have some kind of moral dilemma about being owned by bloodthirsty, theocratic despots. However, most of them can sleep soundly in the knowledge of this. Being generous, I’d imagine only 1% of those have walked away from the club and then, they’ve done it without making a fuss for the most part because, being honest, as a single person you’re never going to right the wrongs of such investment, much less turn Saudi Arabia into a modern, democratic state.

Indeed, the only visible protest group who are voluble in their opposition to Saudi investment are the Denver Humbert group, NUFC Fans Against Saudi Sportswashing. The irony was, they had a silent protest before the Chelsea game; all 8 of them. Now the self-elected theoretician at the head of this miniature vanguard of the non-working class is my cousin, John Hird. He’s 61 and has been a resident of Euskal Herria since 1992. There’s still a season ticket in his family, used by his elderly mother I believe, but Denver Humbert himself doesn’t go. We come from a large, fractured, extended family and I do not have any contact with him or any of his relatives; a situation that will not change any time soon. However, I will say this; I feel it beholden of me to correct the endless inaccuracies on social media, about his biographical details and motives for doing this. Don’t get me wrong; I’ve made enough embarrassing errors on social media to last a lifetime, so I really hope he stops his protests sometime soon as, to be perfectly frank, his motives are far from praiseworthy.

Denver wasted most of his adult life as an obedient errand boy for Vanguardist megalomaniac Peter Taaffe in the discredited Trotskyite cult, Militant and whatever daft reformist scion they evolved into subsequently. He doesn’t really want to save Newcastle United, although there is more than a whiff of the Shachtmanite Steve Wraith about Denver. What he really wants to do, with his tiny band of pals, is to make unrealistic “transitional demands” to help foment class warfare. He actually needs to seek medical attention as he’s 61 in a fortnight. I know this protest group will peter out into nothing, like all of his other efforts over the last 40 years; I just wish he could have the self-awareness to see this and then, from the comfort of his Vitoria-Gasteiz bolthole, enjoy the NUFC ride, giving critical support all the way.