Newcastle United are off to Wembley, but I'm not...
In Marxist theory and Marxian economics, the Immiseration Thesis (also referred to as emiseration thesis) is derived from Karl Marx's analysis of economic development in capitalism, implying that the nature of capitalist production stabilizes real wages, reducing wage growth relative to total value creation in the economy, leading to worsening alienation in the workplace. Applied to football, this theory explains life at Newcastle United under Mike Ashley and his litany of incompetent managerial camp followers, Chris Hughton excepted, to a T. It does not explain the gross and continuing hostility to the club and supporters expressed vehemently and incessantly across all social media platforms by devotees of such teams as Aston Villa, Everton and sunderland. Suffice to say, the utter lack of empathy displayed by such bitter, disputatious contrarians proves there is no such thing as a Commiseration Thesis. The only sympathy we’ll get in defeat will be out own. Perhaps it would be wise to disengage from all forms of electronic communication in the aftermath of our expected loss.
Having won only 1 league game this year and none at all in February, dropping from second to fifth in the process, as well as now being nonsensically deprived of the best goalkeeper the club has had since Shay Given because of an inexplicable rush of blood the week before the biggest game of his career so far and forced to rely on a half fit, unmotivated and increasingly unreliable centre forward after the baffling sale of a trustworthy understudy that makes me question both the motives of the owning House of Saud theocrats and the amount of actual power invested in a manager who looks increasingly like he has taken us as far as he is capable of going, our hopes of glory rest almost entirely in the shape of Sven Botman’s adamantine unflappability and the guileful brilliance of Bruno Guimarães. To me, it seems as if the fantastic high energy, high pressing game that took us to second in the table has left the team out on their feet. Anthony Gordon may well prove to be the creative spark we need for Plan B, and the signs are encouraging so far, but he’s cup tied like Dubravka (don’t worry he’ll get a medal anyway, as will Mark Gillespie; somehow), but in the here and now, we’ve got to try and keep Rashford and company out at one end, stifle the midfield creativity of Fernandes and his pals and magic or shithouse our way to a goal. St Maximin, who I’d only trust as an impact sub, Bruno or even Isak seem to the only ones vaguely capable of such an incredible event, as Wilson wanders around the pitch at half pace, displaying quarter concentration.
And yet, the Liverpool game, with only 10 men, was the best we’d played in weeks, despite the fact that every time I popped into the living room to check on proceedings, as I was making a rather tasty, though very mild curry from scratch, things got worse; 1-0, 2-0, Pope sent off in the time it took to brown some onions. To avoid the onset of despondency, it is essential to look at the world through a half full glass with which to toast the NUFC Twitter doom-mongers. Remember, we’ve only lost the grand total of 3 games, two of them to Liverpool when we were the better side on each occasion, all season, as well as enjoying an 18-game unbeaten run that is our equal best ever and have only conceded 15 goals in the Premier League. Since competitive football returned after the World Cup, our defence has kept 8 clean sheets, and though none of those have been in the last 4 outings, a grand total of 8 conceded in 13 games is reason to praise to the whole defence. Trippier, Botman, Schar and Burn played in 12 of those contests; we let in 5 in all that time. Alright, Nick Pope is a hell of a miss, but we’ll have the usual crew in front of his replacement.
So let’s remember just how we got here. Hostilities resumed after the Vallecano friendly with Bournemouth at home in the League Cup. Being frank, I’m glad the team weren’t as overconfident as I was going into this one. I could only see a victory by 2 goals minimum, especially when Howe made a statement team selection by putting out the first choice XI. Despite being slow to catch fire, we were the far better team throughout and ought to have won by more than the solitary own goal that separated the sides, but it was good enough on the night, as was the draw that pitted us against a Leicester team who we visited on Boxing Day in the league.
If you want to pinpoint the high water mark of our season (thus far?), look back at this game. Almost as surprising as the superb picture quality of the Amazon Prime stream for it, was the incredible display of sparkling, attacking football. By the time any of us had stopped rubbing our eyes and gawping at the screen, we’d gone 2-0 up in 7 minutes, after Wood, in the side as Wilson presumably couldn’t be arsed to get out of bed, had belted home a penalty and Miggy had notched another Goal of the Season contender. The pressure was off, the game was won and Joelinton killed the Foxes with one hell of a header. We were sublime from front to back and the amazing run of form left us in second spot; deservedly so.
I was more than a little disappointed not to source a Leeds ticket for New Year’s Eve, having tried every which way to procure one. This left me with the unpleasant task of having to listen to the Radio Newcastle commentary for probably the first time since Railton Howes took over hosting The It’s a Goal Show from George Bailey. Both in the ground and in the living room, spectators and listeners grew increasingly frustrated with the first instances of woeful finishing that have continued to bedevil us throughout 2023, but more frustratingly, the antics of the Dirty Yorkshire Bastards. Revie may have left them nigh on half a century ago, but his shithousing spirit lives on, as they somehow fluked a point. I admit to hating almost every other club than Newcastle, but I particularly hate Leeds. Probably that’s why I regard Bradford City as my second English team.
Anyway, the thing about shithousing is that you love it when it’s your team dishing it out and the notoriously entitled Arsenal management, players and supporters began the year with an incredible sulk as we clung on for a deserved point after a rotten stalemate. I was only able to follow events on Sky Sports News, where the loathsome Lee Hendrie became almost orgiastic every time Arteta’s side crossed the halfway line. His disappointment at the result was palpable. The fact was, Big Dan Burn ruled the Emirates, to ensure yet another clean sheet and a further game unbeaten.
There’s something about the FA Cup that Eddie Howe hasn’t cracked as yet; a 1-0 loss at home to third tier Cambridge United last year was matched by a 2-1 defeat at Hillsborough this year. Sheffield Wednesday used to be a big team and one of those away games I most looked forward to, but no longer. I’ve long preferred the Blades to the Owls, but that didn’t matter a jot as we demonstrated the weakness of our squad when the hitherto bench warming reserves got some game time. At full time, I stated that this result wouldn’t matter if we beat Leicester in the Carabao Cup quarter final in midweek, but actually it didn’t matter that much at all anyway. Manquillo, Lewis, Lascelles and Ritchie proved conclusively that their race is run at SJP. Unfortunately, courtesy of a miss that was no worse than either of Isak’s disasters, so is Chris Wood’s, though the on-line criticism he received was completely over the top. A first choice XI and VAR would have meant we won that game, but we didn’t, so well done to Sheffield Wednesday, who lost to Fleetwood after a replay in round 4.
And so we moved on to Leicester at home in the Carabao Cup quarter final. I know loads of blokes my age have their “man cave” stuffed floor to ceiling with signed photos, replica shirts and other sporting goods, but I’m not one for football memorabilia to be honest. For a start, Freddy Shepherd and Douglas Hall’s antics with one of those fake sheikhs in a Marbella hotel room, back in early 1998 put me off buying Newcastle shirts forever. Therefore, apart from a random selection of scarves and the odd woolly hat, my mementoes tend to be printed ones. In fact, sitting directly above my head where I’m typing this, on the wall in front of me, is a framed copy of the programme from the first game I attended. Priced 7p, the January 1st, 1973, edition of The Black ‘N’ White previews Newcastle’s home clash with Leicester City, which ended in a 2-2 draw. If I’m honest, I recall absolutely nothing of the game from my perch atop one of the concrete barriers in the Gallowgate Corner where I rested my back against my dad’s protective chest and glimpsed only fitfully limited sections of the brilliant green turf, apart from the deafening roars of the crowd and the huge building site to my right that would soon be known as the East Stand (I still call it the New Stand you know).
Despite the Leicester tie taking place on New Year’s Day, it was the only game in England that day, as it didn’t become a mandatory Bank Holiday until the year after, when Newcastle celebrated the fact by winning 1-0 at Highbury, courtesy of a goal from Terry Hibbitt (on the wing). I wonder if the additional Public Holiday had anything to do with the fact that January 1st, 1973, was the day Britain, along with Denmark and the Republic of Ireland, joined the European Economic Community, or Common Market as we all called it then? In point of fact, the Leicester game should have been played at the end of November 1972, but the team from Filbert Street secured a postponement when a flu epidemic swept through their squad, leaving them with only 7 fit professionals. I was distraught on learning this the night before, having been promised by my dad that he’d take me to this one. At least he kept his word for the rearranged game, though I’m not sure why we waited for this one, where we took our places with 36,866 others, when December 23rd and 30th had seen us at home, beating Man City (2-1) and Sheffield United (4-1) respectively. Bit late to ask him now, as he passed the day after Bobby Robson back in August 2009.
While I was aware that New Year’s Day marked 50 years since I’d first attended St James’ Park, the significance of the opponents didn’t hit home until the Carabao Cup quarter final draw seeped into my conscience. Having missed out on a ticket for Leeds on New Year’s Eve, it meant that Leicester City would become the first and last opponents I’d seen on Tyneside, over a period of half a century. As I type those words, I still can’t quite believe them. How on earth have I been alive for more than 58 years and spent 50 of them so concerned with the Magpies?
Anyway, having secured my usual cup tickets in Block E of the Leazes as it joins with the East Stand, for me and Ben, I was about to enjoy a very different matchday experience than I did back in the mists of time. For a start, we won. In fact, we obliterated Leicester from the opening whistle. Sean Longstaff should have had us a goal up after 40 seconds and a procession of other gilt-edged chances (Bruno, Sean again, Joelinton and Wilson) came and somehow went begging. With the score at 0-0 nearing the 60 minute mark, I started to feel decidedly panicky, but cometh the hour, cometh the man. Dan Burn has been outstanding for Newcastle since he signed last year and his goal here, reminiscent of Phillippe Albert for Belgium at the 1994 World Cup, was an absolute stunner. When Joelinton crashed home an unstoppable finish from Almiron’s superb through ball 10 minutes later, I was in absolute dreamland as the roof came off. All that was needed was Jamie Vardy’s inexplicable miss, provoking some magnificently abusive chanting about his wife’s inability to keep a confidence, before I knew we were going through to our first semi-final in 18 years and our first in this competition since 1976. I was there that night when we beat Spurs 3-1 to get to Wembley back then, but that’s for later.
As Leicester slunk down the tunnel, the whole ground, players and fans, was united in a common purpose, with deafening adulation falling in waves from all four corners of the ground. We are the Geordies, and this was the best night I can recall in at SJP since the days of Bobby Robson or back in Keegan’s first spell in charge. Not one person in a black and white scarf left the ground with anything to grumble about. Everyone was rightly ecstatic. Emerging onto Barrack Road among a massive, swaying throng of delirious chanting supporters provoked a real lump in the throat that not even the idiotic decision of Stagecoach to put on single deckers on a match night could dampen, resulting in a packed bus singing us home as follows:
Tell
me ma, me ma we won’t be home for tea.
We’re stood on the 63, on the 63…
Following Leicester, we moved on to Fulham at home, and our first double of the season. Possibly because it was my first even London away game, a 2-2 draw on a gluepot in February 1983, I’ve always had a soft spot for Fulham. Actually, it’s more likely because my second London away was at Chelsea the month after; we won 2-0 and getting away from Stamford Bridge, only a couple of miles from Craven Cottage but a completely different world, was a matter of life and death. Thank goodness I was the opposite of a football casual in my long overcoat, Dennis the Menace style jumper, ex-army strides and paint spattered DMs; I looked like one of those early settlers in Cardboard City rather than a terrace ultra. Anyway, Fulham must have liked me too, as they used to send me birthday cards each year. This happened after Fulham v Newcastle in February 2005 was postponed as The Cottagers had to play a rearranged FA Cup 4th round replay against Derby County at Craven Cottage. Having already booked a flight down, I decided to go ahead with my London weekend and take in this cup game as I’d not been to Fulham since that game in early 1983. To buy a ticket, in the Fulham end, involved a fairly complex registration process, but as a result I ended up on a database that saw birthday cards sent on August 11th and seasonal ones in mid-December, meaning for about 5 years I received unsolicited greetings and warm wishes from, in order, Chris Coleman, Lawrie Sanchez, Ray Lewington and Roy Hodgson. After the latter departed his position, the cards stopped coming; I initially thought it was because Mark Hughes is such a sourpuss, but I reckon 5 solid years of zero ticket purchases meant the marketing bods had figured out I probably wasn’t going to buy a box in the Stevenage Road stand, no matter how many billets doux they sent me.
Despite John being over from Maynooth, I again missed out on a
ticket, so I was left with no choice other than to tune into Radio Newcastle
again. It was worth it for the Mitrovic penalty incident alone. I’ve never had
any time for the Dalmatian Whitehurst, so I’ve no sympathy for the way he must
have felt on the coach back home. Full time, I headed into town, where the
craic was great, as it always is when you grab an 89th minute winner, where I
drank deeply among good company.
The following week saw the NUST AGM; as a sleeping member
these days, I didn’t bother heading along. The outcome of events was a wholly
unsurprising power grab by True Faith, who’ve ditched their dull print
version again (other than a Wembley special that looks the spit of United We
Stand that the whole magazine was based on from the get-go in 1999), which
puts Michael Martin back in the saddle again. It will be interesting to see if
NUST continue to lick the PFI’s arse is quite as flagrant a manner as the Dubai
Chronographiliacs Society do. Whatever the future might bring, the Denver Humbert
Octet will continue to stamp their feet and cryarse, while skilfully failing to
mention their Fuhrer’s stint in the employ of the House of Saud.
All of this pointless politicking was of even less interest
than the point we picked up at Palace in yet another 0-0 between the two teams.
Indeed, it’s the third one in 2022-2023 and a properly dull non-event it was
too, though we could have won it in the first half. Still, the work rate
continues to be exceptional, and I reckon the 39 points we’d reached at full
time has made us safe from the drop.
With the league boxed off and the FA Cup a fading memory
(don’t all Newcastle fans think of the last Saturday in January as our
mid-season break?), it was time to concentrate on the Southampton double header
in the Carabao Cup. At work, on the bus, in the supermarket, all the talk was
of the hunt for tickets. Never mind not getting an away one, I simply couldn’t
source a home one either. Outrageous really; just because I hoyed in our season
tickets in 2009, I reckon I still ought to have been given preferential
treatment, like I was a desert based dentist with a vast collection of gaudy
watches and trainers. I mean, where is the loyalty NUFC should be showing me?
In all seriousness, at this point if any ticket became available, Ben would
have had it, not me. I made a choice to stop watching Newcastle full time all
those years ago, which I don’t regret for one second, even now. Then again,
you’d wonder if some people will be clippity clopping their way up Wembley High
Road on the back of their customary high horse. We shall see. I’m getting away
from the point here…
For the away game, my nerves were more about the magnitude of
the game, rather than the result. I knew Southampton couldn’t beat us over 2
legs, so I didn’t go out to watch it, or seek out a stream. Sky Sports News, in
the shape of a uniformly positive Gary Rowett, kept me up to date and, while
relieved and elated at the final score, the highlights showed yet again that
our finishing is getting worse by the week. At least the defence, especially
Pope, remained as unbreachable as ever. As for VAR, well at least it balanced
itself out I suppose. 1-0 was good, but 2-0 would have been better, to the
extent that nerves were already kicking in for the next leg on the morning
after that first one.
Back in 1976, we lost the first leg of the semi 1-0 away to
Spurs, but common sense told us that we’d be alright in the second leg. Gordon
Lee’s prosaic plodders were no match for the cavalier mavericks of Joe Harvey’s
squad, but at least they tended not to implode quite so spectacularly. I’ve
very hazy recollections of the home tie; we won 3-1 and I stood in the West
Stand Paddock in the Gallowgate Wing with my dad, my mate Ken and his mam.
They’re all dead now. Apart from feeling as if my toes were falling off, I’ve
no other memories of the night, other than being told, in no uncertain terms,
that if Wembley tickets did become available, it was a case of age before
beauty in the Cusack household. In the event, none of us got to go to Wembley.
And neither of us got to go to SJP for this semi-final either.
Ben and I watched it in The Bodega, which I’ve never seen so
full for the broadcast of a home game. The jangling nerves that had troubled me
all day were swept away by Sean’s magnificent early double, though he did
concede that the sporting highlight of his career to this point is still
stumping that Mitford fella off my bowling the other year. Just when our
football became as sublime as Leicester away, the unthinkable happened and we
actually conceded a goal. Now the whole of Tyneside held its collective breath,
as the rest of the country quizzically wondered at our unnecessary fear, as we
remained 3-1 up on aggregate and had been playing stratospherically well. And
then Bruno was correctly sent off for a nasty stamp, causing bile to rise in
our collective gorge.
In the end, we had scared ourselves over nothing. The joy at
full time and after the rest of the thirsty crowd returned to the boozer was
incomparable. I can’t recall such sheer, unbridled joy at the result of a
football match in years. Although, in the weeks that followed, I’ve struggled
to remember such sour faced pessimism from a fanbase that only a couple of
years ago demanded merely that our team tries, not wins. Four subsequent league
games without a victory and you’d think Ashley and Benitez were back in post.
On the day of the West Ham game, I took in Stocksfield 3
Heddon United 0 then headed for The Black Bull in Gateshead, which I managed to
confuse with what used to be The Borough Arms initially, for a drink in memory
of my dear, departed friend Geoff Johnston. It was clear the pub wouldn’t be
showing the game, as the England v Scotland 6 Nations contest remained on the
telly, though nobody was watching it, so it was time to be sociable. There were
a good few old faces to catch up with Stevie was the only one attending the
game, though Paul went home to watch it. Of the remaining FPX members and
fellow travellers, two of them had no interest in football (Garry and Dave),
one (Raga) was focussed on his team Gateshead winning away to Solihull Moors
and another (Trev) is a Mackem. Just a shame that self-proclaimed superfan
Denver Humbert couldn’t make it over. His octet could have had another one of
their mega rallies outside the ground.
Despite the brilliant early start that almost blew The Hammers
away, the highlights showed we ran out of steam and that Declan Rice eventually
ran the show, as we missed Bruno badly. Yet again chances were missed. Wilson
scored, which is both encouraging and the probable explanation for why he
couldn’t bring himself to travel to his old club Bournemouth the week after.
Mind to be fair, basking in the joy of Percy Main’s 3-0 hammering of Chemfica,
I couldn’t be bothered to travel into town for the first half of the trip to
Dean Court, partly as a result of a delayed arrival in town after a near miss
on the 310 into town. Shelley and I arrived at a packed to bursting Bacchus and
didn’t even try for a drink, watching the last few minutes that was notable
mainly for Trippier’s amazing clearance off the line after Burn lost the run of
himself.
A draw is always a point gained, but draws are the new defeats
in NUFC fan world, and full time saw plenty of aggravated bile spitting about
our failure to sign Maddison in January. If, and I fear this will be the case,
we lose to Manchester United, the levels of anger will become so toxic that all
the progress the club has made, will begin to be eaten away by spoilt,
self-righteous entitlement in the 15 games that remain of the season. However,
just dare to imagine that we win on Sunday… my whole life will be complete from
then on.
Travel hopefully all who are going, whether you have tickets
or not.
No comments:
Post a Comment