Ouston; You Have A Problem....

Pitch invasions and cyber capitulations; a typical month in the life of Newcastle United....

March 9^th would have been my old fella’s 85^th birthday. He’ll have been gone 10 years this summer, on the day after Bobby Robson in point of fact, but I still consciously mark the passage of time by recalling him on every appropriate landmark date. To be honest, he wasn’t a great one for any kind of fuss; in fact, I can only recall him celebrating 2 of his birthdays properly. We held a surprise 70^th do for him in 2004 and he loved it. Happy, hammered and honoured. The other momentous date was his 40^th; Saturday March 9^th, 1974.

When you’re a kid, time moves fast and even though my first trip to SJP had only been 15 months previous, for a 2-2 with Leicester City on New Year’s Day 1973, I was feeling like a regular, as the old man took me to all Saturday league games, though cup games, other than almost meaningless Texaco games at the start and end of the season were, for some reason, off the agenda. Hence, it was unsurprising when no offer to take me to the FA Cup quarter final game at home to Nottingham Forest was forthcoming. What did knock me back on my heels somewhat was his announcement that he was going to the game without me, in the company of my Uncles Brian and John, his brother and brother in law respectively. Drink would be taken.

Strangely, I wasn’t one to sulk at this snub, so I took the disappointment in my stride and followed my usual Saturday regime for away games and cup ties; once Football Focus and On The Ball had finished, I took myself off to my room with the transistor radio I’d been given the previous August on the occasion of my 9^th birthday for company and tuned into Home and Away with George Bailey on Radio Newcastle.  It was the only option for those wishing to keep abreast with regional sport, as Metro didn’t launch until July of 74. The rules governing what could be broadcast were strict and Spartan; three 30 second bulletins in each half, as well as goal flashes were the limit of what commentators at the ground could say on air. Messages were relayed to the anchor back in the station, who read them to an agog audience. Otherwise, for the dedicated football fan, it was a case of tuning into Radio 2, which did have the second half commentary from one major game or other, but it never seemed to involve Newcastle United, except for this momentous afternoon. Even then, I swerved the clipped vowels of Bryon Butler, choosing to remain loyal to the local Beeb lads from Archbold House in Jesmond.

My memory may be playing tricks, but the first half seemed to be relatively uncontentious, certainly in comparison to what came later. The fact Forest, a somnolent second division outfit in the days before the stellar impact of Brian Clough on the City Ground, were ahead 2-1 at the break was seen as typical of Newcastle United; a gutless capitulation when the stakes were even slightly raised. The one FA Cup game I had been to had been the year before, when the East Stand was opened for the first time at the Luton Town fourth round tie. It was on Match of the Day, so typically we lost 2-0, without a shot in anger or a whimper of dissent. It got far worse than even that one, against Forest soon after the break; the referee, a pompous and portly insurance agent from Amersham by the name of Gordon Kew, awarded Forest a penalty and sent Pat Howard off for arguing. Quite bizarrely, on doing some research before writing this I’ve found that not only is Kew still alive, aged 88, but was actually born in South Shields. Typical Mackem behaviour on his part, obviously.

As soon as the ball hit the net, the Leazes End decided to voice its objection. First there was a trickle, then a stream and then a torrent of invaders, hell-bent on causing mayhem. Kew took the players off and the game was suspended for 20 minutes until order was restored. The old man used to recall how, as the invasion started, many of the older heads in the West Stand Paddock, which was his location of choice, were disappointed by such stupidity and made their disappointment known. Him and John were bemoaning the existence of mob rule and attempted to canvass Brian’s opinions on the subject, only to see a person I always recall as Bob Ferris’s body double, complete with leather car coat, bubble perm and Mungo Jerry sidies, behaving like any responsible auditor for Gateshead Council with a Vauxhall Viva and a Bellway semi in Whickham should, by hightailing it across the cloying pitch, waving his black and white favours above his head like a dervish. Once order was restored and Brian’s adrenaline levels had fallen to normal levels again and he retook his position in the West Stand Paddock, knee deep in clarts, the game restarted.

On the radio, the local commentator had abandoned any pretence of neutrality, blaming the entire situation on Mr Kew and generally going ape as Newcastle got back into the game; a Terry Mac penalty halved the deficit, before a glorious John Tudor diving header brought us level and then, in injury time, which was about 5.15 or thereabouts, Bobby Moncur scored the winner from about 18 inches. An astonishing turnaround, but the result was never going to stand. Almost immediately, the FA insisted on the game being replayed, at Goodison of all places and, after a stalemate, Malcolm MacDonald got the crucial goal in what was referred to as the second replay, that put Newcastle through to the Burnley semi-final and the subsequent crushing at Wembley.

Neither me nor the old fella made any other FA Cup games that year, but I do recall the sheer elation of being in SJP to see us win the Texaco Cup, in front of over 36,000 at home to Burnley. My programme collection also tells me I attended a less-than-memorable 0-0 with Norwich City on Easter Monday, but I’ve wiped all knowledge of that clash of the titans from my memory. We were still there in the ground though, cheering the team on; the Forest invasion, which I’d seen as a surreal stampede on Shoot the day after, was something brushed off as youthful stupidity by the mature and revelled in as proper Geordie agro by the trainee boot boy element. The truth is certainly somewhere between the two, but the negative aspects of the day were used by the more scurrilous sections of the press as evidence enough to hang the club.

Fast forward 45 years and nothing has really changed; 7 fans accidentally spilling onto the track at the edge of the pitch at Bournemouth is being called an invasion by The Sun, that renowned champion of the Beautiful Game. It wasn’t; it was simply unbridled, supporter elation at a last gasp equaliser at any away ground nigh-on 400 miles from home. Ask any football fan; they would have reacted in a similar way, regardless of whether it was the Northern League or the Champions’ League. Pitch invasions are the current folk devils of the sporting press and the game’s administrators on both sides of the Border. A year on from West Ham’s home trouncing by Burnley that saw not the ICF, but an apparent gathering of librarians and Sociologists re-enacting Clive “Bex” Bissell; The Craft Ale Years on the turf of the Olympic Stadium, it’s happening all over. The clown in the Stone Island coat taunting Jonathan Smalling as Arsenal cuffed Man United the other week, a drooling simpleton in a scarlet Canada Goose snide getting his grid all over social media after a pointless incursion during the Swansea v Man City game, as well as more serious events such as the Brummie pillock now doing 4 months for ploating the admittedly highly punchable Jack Grealish. With my Hibs hat on, I’m acutely aware of the incidents involving flying Buckie bottles versus Celtic and the bodying of James Tavernier when the Huns were in town. One positive aspect shows that in confronting both sides of the Old Firm, Hibs display no latent prejudice; we hate Weegies of all persuasions. Let’s have a sense of perspective though; it isn’t Luton v Millwall redux. Frankly, it’s only really a passing fad.

Back in the 70s and 80s, the panacea for all footballing ills was seen as a combination of steel fences and ID cards. Well, look how that turned out; there’s 96 fans, crushed to death against metal barriers at Hillsborough in 89, testament to the ultimate efficacy of caging fans in like cattle off to market. At SJP, fences were erected in the close season of 1983 and came down again in 1989, post Hillsborough. The only time we came close to an invasion in those days was after a 3-0 loss to Charlton in May 1987, when a bizarre combination of results had meant we were safe from relegation despite that thumping. It was a daft, happy potential invasion, unlike the events of May 16^th 1990. The Mackem play-off loss, when we’d completely bottled the home leg, ended in ridiculous scenes whereby Gabbiadini’s goal prompted the Gallowgate to pour onto the pitch in pitiful spite. As soon as George Courtney hauled the players off the pitch, I turned on my heel and marched out of the Milburn Stand. I was back home in Spital Tongues before the players emerged to play out the remaining 90 seconds in front of silent, empty stands. My reasoning has always been; if you can’t handle defeat, then don’t watch football. It’s really as simple as that.

As regards Newcastle United, it seems that watching them is going to be quite easy over the next few weeks, once this latest interminable International Break is over. Despite the predictable crocodile tears all over social media from the usual ultra uber conspicuous superfans, the fact that the Arsenal, Leicester and Brighton away games, as well as the Southampton one at home, are all going to be on the box, is an absolute boon for those of us who either can’t afford or still refuse to line the pockets of the current ownership by becoming active members of Ashley’s Army. To show my hypocritical streak, there is the small matter of the Palace home game on April 6^th taking place on a day when Benfield are without a fixture, which almost seems tempting, though I am firm and resolute in my standpoint that I will not return to SJP while Benitez remains in charge.

Of course, such a philosophical position is becoming ever more untenable as the team appears to have turned a corner. At the point of writing, after 31 games, the team has remarkably achieved exactly the same results as at this point last season, even down to number of goals scored and conceded. Spooky huh? Well, it’s about the only frightening thing about the club of late. Since I last wrote about NUFC, the subsequent 6 league fixtures have seen 3 home wins, 2 away draws and an away defeat. Both the Huddersfield and Burnley victories were achieved with absolute minimum of fuss; the second half of the former and first half of the latter could have seen considerably more goals than they did. However, Schar’s Goal of the Month against Burnley and Sean’s debut home league strike were enough to calm the ire of the most embittered of fans. The West Ham loss was pretty straightforward as well; we did OK, but they’re better than us and have more creativity in their side. They deserved the points and good luck to them. The really sad thing was seeing Sean have his season ended in such a seemingly innocuous way. However, he will come back stronger, though I’m steeled to the fact we probably won’t see him turning out for Tynemouth this year.

As far as the other 3 games go, the rank incompetence of the officials at Molineux in failing to spot two fouls in the build-up to their overtime equaliser left a nasty taste, only equalled by the idiocy of certain NUFC walking planks demanding Dubravka be dropped. This game makes you despair at times. However, at other times it makes you literally jump for joy. We’ve already discussed Ritchie’s equaliser at Bournemouth, but the turnaround against Everton was even better. Jordan Littlearms has morphed into Steven Taylor in gloves (thank you Gary for that one) and it seems his career will only go in one direction very soon. Then again, that victory wasn’t just about Pickford’s implosion, it was all about the endeavour, work ethic and spirit of the team. Same as last season, Benitez has publicly castigated and berated them, calling them out for not being good enough, which may be true, but they’ve really dug in and turned it around.

Let’s be frank; Newcastle United are not yet safe from relegation. There is much work still to be done, but the quality of the centre backs available, not to mention the impact of Almiron to bring the very best out of Perez and the transformed Rondon, gives plenty of causes for optimism. Benitez will never play football the Keegan way and can be infuriatingly stubborn and inflexible, but I’ll admit he is tactically astute in a dour, defensive manner and he’ll always keep this club up, having learned from the preventable demotion in 2016, even on a shoestring, though the club should be aiming to achieve so much more than that. Unfortunately that doesn’t tie in with Ashley’s philosophy, such as it is. If Benitez leaves, then Newcastle United will probably be poorer for his departure in the short term, as his squad are now performing exactly how he has wanted them to do from day 1.

If the departure of Benitez would be viewed as a catastrophe by most of Newcastle United’s support, then the imminent withdrawal from public life of True Faith founder and former editor, one time NUST board member and previously a regional FSF representative Michael Martin after 20 years in his unasked for role as the inflexible paterfamilias of the most visible strata of NUFC’s supporter hierarchy, may not resonate so deeply. It comes at an ironic time as NUST are making yet another attempt to reanimate the dormant corpse of organised support aspirations. Having resigned from the Trust in 2015, I doubt I’ll be parting with a fiver of my hard earned, though the disappearance of the likes of Peter Fanning and Wallace Wilson from the executive board must be seen as a positive move, bearing in mind their unique influence on the chequered slalom of Magpie activism. Perhaps they’ll all withdraw from football entirely and become taxi drivers or something.

The straw that broke the camel’s back for Michael Martin was the savaging he took on Twitter for a seemingly innocuous tweet about how morally indefensible it is to support a team you have no geographical or familial ties with. Reasonable point if you’re talking about the Big 5 in England, if akin to shooting fish in a barrel. Sadly, some took hold of the wrong end of the stick and savagely berated MM for having a go at Newcastle fans born more than a mile from the banks of the Tyne. I have to say, despite having been on the end of an internet campaign of trash talking by MM and several of his one-time allies back in 2015, I felt sorry for him. He was being blamed for something he hadn’t said by people who hadn’t read his words in the first place. That’s something I find so frustrating about social media; attempting to put the record straight and have the last word when confronted by drooling cretins is impossible. Like a many-headed hydra, the cyber chattering classes can never be effectively cut down. Certainly the vicious, wholly-inaccurate and repeated attacks on him by Sunderland’s supporters must have worn down even the most stubborn and hard-faced on-line pugilist.

However, the crucial fact to bear in mind is that levels of resentment against MM have been rising ever since True Faith intervened to suggest the Wolves boycott be abandoned, as the club was apparently on the verge of being sold and such a tactic may scare off potential buyers at the eleventh hour. This grave miscalculation has been shown to be a terrible tactical error, as no bid, much less deal, was forthcoming.  Whatever their motivation, the primary result of TF’s actions was to fatally undermine the fragile truce that existed amongst almost the entire congregation of organised NUFC support. The more cynical of observers pointed out such an intervention coincided with the relaunch of the print version of True Faith.

Now I’ve read all 5 issues of the relaunched print version of True Faith and I have to say, it is utterly unlike the final editions of the previous print incarnation.  It’s not like Militant or Socialist Worker any longer, as there is no inflexible party line that is reinforced in ever article. Indeed, as well as a wide range of opinions, there seems to be less confrontational zeal running through the pages, probably because of the wider range of contributors involved. Whisper it though, it’s largely dull and worthy in the style of The Mag. Additionally, I don’t see many, indeed any, ordinary folks reading on the bus or in the pub these days.

Perhaps the written word really is dying, which is probably reflected in the obsession of True Faith and others with podcasts.  For the first time in months, a Through Black and White Eyes editorial appeared on the website the other week, which I took to be a retirement speech. To be honest, MM attempt to rewrite Prospero’s farewell to the stage was a strangely self-pitying document, in which he portrayed himself as a naïve ingénue in the world of social media. Throughout the document, he demonstrated utter incomprehension as to why his words were so badly and deliberately misconstrued. Partly I suppose it’s because people are stupid and partly because those with a score to settle don’t value the truth that much. However, I had expected a little more insight and self-awareness as to why he’d become such a pariah. Perhaps that’s something he can reflect on during his retirement. I wish him well.