to
hear it said
“He
walked out on the whole crowd”
Leaves
me flushed and stirred,
Like
“Then she undid her dress”
Or
“Take that you bastard”
I
had an unpleasant shock the other morning when I opened up my laptop (we’re
still old school in this house, I’m telling you). As soon as I logged into
Zuckerberg’s online Tower of Babel, I was wished a Happy 11th
Anniversary of being a member of Faecesbook.
Back in June 2008, things seemed generally quite rosy in my world’s garden, but
by the end of the summer after, my dad had died, as had Bobby Robson, while
Newcastle had been relegated, following the despicable treatment meted out to
Kevin Keegan and the farce of the Joe Kinnear administration. Probably the only
good things I can recall about 2008/2009 are my beloved Benfield winning the
double of Northern League Division 1 and League Cup.
Gazing
back to those events from over a decade ago, it’s remarkably difficult to countenance
how anything other than the old fella’s terminal illness could actually impinge
on my consciousness. Eddy was diagnosed with renal cancer on May 1st,
eventually hospitalised on July 1st and died on August 1st.
Whatever faults and weaknesses he had to his character, many people loved the
bloke and it was tragic to see him slip away so quickly. At the time, and I
maintain this belief in retrospect, the image of Alan Shearer ranting and
raving like a lo-carb Graeme Souness about the need to wear a suit and
not use your phone in the changing room to a bunch of uninterested mercenaries,
had minimal impact on my world, though I suppose it was a suitably farcical way
for NUFC to pull relegation out of the bag. I do recall putting the season
ticket renewal forms through the shredder, then mailing them back to the club
in a Jiffy bag, along with a post-it note bearing the message, you must be
bloody joking.
That
single act of puny, putative rebellion was enough to economically disentangle
myself from the fraudulent entity that was and still is masquerading as the
football club I’d fallen in love with aged 7, effectively completing the
journey of emotionally distancing myself from Newcastle United that had begun
with the sacking of Bobby Robson, the traducing of Kevin Keegan and the sale of
Shay Given. I made a resolution that day
that I’d never put a penny piece into Newcastle United while Mike Ashley
remained in charge. I didn’t say I would
boycott games, but I refused to directly line Ashley’s pockets. Consequently, I
have always taken the position that I would buy, or preferably accept gratis,
spares from people who were away with work, holidays or whatever. Indeed, my
first offer of a ticket was the Reading game the opened the home programme
after relegation and saw a Shola hat trick blast the Biscuitmen to bits. I
turned that one down. Too soon, though I quickly got over that initial
reluctance as the following grid shows. Incidentally the number of other
tickets I knocked back because Benfield or Percy Main were playing, is not
recorded, but it would double, if not treble, the figures below -:
|
Season
|
League
games
|
Cup
games
|
|
2009/2010
|
11
|
1
|
|
2010/2011
|
4
|
1
|
|
2011/2012
|
12
|
0
|
|
2012/2013
|
11
|
6
|
|
2013/2014
|
4
|
1
|
|
2014/2015
|
5
|
1
|
|
2015/2016
|
9
|
0
|
|
2016/2017
|
4
|
4
|
|
2017/2018
|
1
|
1
|
|
2018/2019
|
0
|
0
|
|
Total
|
62
|
15
|
At
the time, despite following Benfield, I was on the committee of Percy Main
Amateurs, basically because I was writing a book about that club, so I
basically watched them at the weekend in the Alliance and Benfield in the
floodlit Northern League on a Wednesday. When neither of them had a game, I found
time to watch Newcastle United, meaning my first game back at the scene of so
much caterwauling and tears was to see Danny Guthrie’s glorious strike beat
Leicester on August Bank Holiday Monday, from a seat in the Milburn Paddock,
Leazes Wing, courtesy of my mate Dave. Next up was QPR on a Wednesday night at
the start of October, high in the Gallowgate via Shaun Smith’s contacts. I
passed on a freebie pair from work to Ben and his Grandad for the Doncaster
game, while I watched Percy Main beat Peterlee 4-2 after being 2-0 down. Via
connections in the Irish Magpies Supporters’ Club, I obtained 8 tickets for Ben
and his pals for the 2-0 win over Watford in early December, preferring to
watch Percy Main put Wallsend Boys’ Club Seniors to the sword in the
Northumberland FA Minor Cup. Courtesy of Dave, I was in the Milburn Paddock
again to see the 2-0 win over Boro and 0-0 draw with Derby around Christmas
time. He even had a spare for the Plymouth cup replay. It was a great seat, but
I ended up throwing his generosity back in his face, by accepting a freebie
season ticket from a woman at work whose husband was working away in China;
something to do with the oil industry. Cheers for that Kev! She was vaguely
interested in football, so went to a couple of the Saturday games, still
allowing me to enjoy Cardiff, Coventry, Preston, Scunthorpe and Sheffield
United at the join of the East Stand and Gallowgate completely without charge.
If only all seasons saw my conscience so untroubled.
Back
in the Premier League, Ben showed interest; hence, I broke my vow and splashed
out on Arsenal League Cup tickets. We lost 4-0 and I felt chastened, but I’ve
always defended paying for tickets where he is concerned, as it’s my duty and
my joy as a father, regardless of regime or result. Thankfully, I got back on
the freebie gravy train, with Blackburn and Fulham tickets in the Leazes
courtesy of my mate Richyy who was poorly, before Cola found me a perch in the
centre of the East Stand for the bizarre 3-3 season ending contest with West
Brom. I also got Man City tickets as a Christmas present. We lost that one of
course.
In
2011/2012, I was rather proud of my ingenious way of getting a freebie against
Fulham. Those who had attended the abandoned pre-season friendly with
Fiorentina were allowed to choose a replacement ticket for a Category C game. I
persuaded Jamie to get his for me against The Cottagers, as he wouldn’t need it
as he was a season ticket holder. However, I was proud to pay for the 0-0 with
Swansea City, in memory of Gary Speed, which was a must attend. I watched that
from Level 7 with Ben and I’m glad I was there. I couldn’t say the same about
the 3-2 loss to West Brom that I’d won a ticket for by retweeting some bot, but
at least it was free. I swapped a copy of my Percy Main book for a Wolves
ticket, with a lad who was in Berlin for his stag do. Dave’s mate who had the
spare in the Milburn Paddock was now working in Spain, so I scored for his
tickets against Spurs, QPR, Villa, Norwich, Liverpool, Bolton and Man City; they
didn’t cost me a penny either. The other game I got to was Stoke, in the East
Stand, courtesy of Biffa from www.nufc.com; cheers mate,
appreciated. Get well soon.
So,
only 3 years after forswearing SJP and NUFC for good, I’d managed to attend almost
two thirds of the home games. It was even worse the year after. The pretence of
self-imposed economic sanctions went right out the window with those fabulous
£10 Europa League tickets, causing me to shell out for half a dozen glory
nights, when entertainment, or a version of it, came in ahead of principles:
Atromitos, Bordeaux, Bruges, Maritimo, Metalist Kharkov and Anji, though I
chose Whitley Bay v Dunston ahead of the Benfica quarter final game when they
reverted to £25 a pop. There were also
11 league games where I showed my face: Villa, Norwich, West Brom, West Ham, Southampton,
Man City, QPR, Fulham and Arsenal, courtesy of Dave’s mate, now permanently
domiciled in Spain, but asking £20 a game for a ticket. Luckily, I also picked
up freebies for Reading (Chris) and Stoke (Les), to offset against the highest
net spend I’d made since 2008/2009.
Perhaps
such semi-regular attendance meant I’d sickened myself of the whole NUFC
experience (Ashley, Pardew and all), as my appearances at SJP were far less
frequent the next year. I won a competition for a Fulham ticket, which I passed
on to Ben in August and we both attended the predictable League Cup loss to Man
City in October. My mate Janine was working on Boxing Day, so I saw the
hilarious debacle that was the 5-1 thumping of Stoke City from high up in the
Leazes. I shelled out in the Milburn Paddock for Dad and Lad to see the last
second win over Villa, which made the money worthwhile, before sitting through
a dire 3-0 loss to Everton from my pal Gary’s seat in the East Stand. Finally,
when true faith trashed the 69th
minute walkout against Cardiff, I turned up to show my opinions and saw the
last 2 goals in a 3-0 win. Take that Ashley!
So
now, the season before relegation; the one when Pardew was replaced by (and I
still can’t believe I’m typing this) John Carver. Bizarrely, the campaign began
against Basque opposition, in the shape of Real Sociedad. Freebies in the
Platinum Club took me to that one. I wasn’t back again until Ben and I did the
back to back festive games against Everton, Pardew’s last, and Burnley, Carver’s
first. That latter game was the straw that broke Gary’s back; he’s never been
back since. Consequently, I had the use of his unwanted ticket against Stoke,
Spurs and Swansea. Goodness, we were terrible; it was a clear premonition of
things to come.
With
Dave’s mate living la vida loca and
Gary refusing to throw good money after bad, Tony Corcoran from the Irish
Centre was my next regular benefactor. Tickets for Southampton, Chelsea and the
utterly hilarious Keystone Kops defending in MacLaren’s Last Stand against
Bournemouth, came my way for his perch in the Gallowgate, with Arsenal seen
from the East Stand junction with the Gallowgate as Kat was on holiday, plus
finding myself in the Platinum Club for West Ham after some concerted Twitter begging, the same place for the
Mackems courtesy of my former GP (cheers Doc Julian) and a spare ticket in the
East Stand handed to me in the Irish Club pre-Spurs, from where I watched our
relegated anti-heroes dismantle the opposition 5-1.
For
2016/2017, the Championship was viewed with something approaching optimism,
rather than foreboding as in 2009/2010. Benitez may not have kept Newcastle up,
but the fact he’d stayed, almost certainly because of the reception he got at
the Spurs game, had everyone in high spirits. I was there against Reading, up
in the Gallowgate West on a freebie with Knaggsy, when a superb second half saw
the season really take off. I was also
there to hear the whines and grumbles when a freak late OG cost us a win against
QPR. The other two league games I was at were in the bottom tier of the Leazes
for a Dad and Lad Christmas treat against Forest and blagging my way into Level
7 on a kid’s ticket for the end of season Barnsley game. I also took advantage
of the £10 Platinum Club tickets for League Cup games with Cheltenham, Wolves
and Preston, as well as an FA Cup replay win over Birmingham City. To tell the
truth though, despite promotion, much of the football was as stilted as under
Carver. Despite the seemingly forced, if not compulsory, jollity and hero
worship in the stands, I just wasn’t getting as much out of the whole
Rafalution as nearly everyone else was.
The
last times I went to St James’ Park were for an awful League Cup home loss to
Forest in August 2017 and a truly rancid 0-0 with Brighton in December of that
year. I said at full time after that game, I wouldn’t set foot in the ground
while Benitez remained manager, because that game was worse than a 0-0 at SJP
against the same opposition, with 12,282 there in early 1991. I had to draw a
line somewhere. Obviously, Ashley’s reluctance to spend more than the absolute
minimum left Benitez with no choice other than to play such stagnant,
safety-first dross. People excoriated and upbraided me for my opinions, but I
stuck to them. What possible use was my £30 or whatever a game, when Benitez
saw none of it and Ashley remained in situ?
I’ve
watched a few games on the telly since then and, fair’s fair, there’s been as
many diamonds as dog turds. In both 2017/2018 and 2018/2019, Benitez has spent
the first part of the season relentlessly downplaying the quality of the squad
and their chances of staying up. Almost as soon as Christmas is over, the team
starts to gel once the penny has dropped about tactics and formations, and
accordingly results pick up massively. It doesn’t excuse the first part of the
campaign, but it certainly puts a spring in the step of supporters. Last year,
Newcastle signed off by thrashing retiring Champions Chelsea 3-0, costing
Antonio Conte his job in the process. This year, the 4-0 obliteration of
Fulham, amidst the crazy scenes of the fans’ cruise along the Thames to Craven
Cottage, meant the season ended on a scarcely unbelievable high. Surely, the
pendulum had swung so far in Benitez’s direction that Ashley would give him the
deal he wanted.
And
then, things really went up a notch, from mild excitement to blind hysteria,
with the news that the Bin Zayed Group from Abu Dhabi, were apparently ready to
buy the club from Ashley, by meeting his £350m price tag. As you can imagine,
truth and any sense of proportion went out the window. Ashley may be an
old-style industrial despot, in the manner of Timothy West in Brass, but
I’m fairly confident he hasn’t conducted a genocidal campaign against gays, for
instance. None of this kind of detail matters to the majority of fans who
reacted like Kim il-Jung’s fan club on May Day. Adulation for people with
billions of pounds to spend was almost as high as for Benitez, though with even
less cause. Of course, like Amanda Staveley’s mythical bid, it’s all turned to
a hill of beans and Ashley remains the king of Newcastle. Shame, as it would
have been a right giggle to ask the lads in Rafferty’s how they felt
about NUFC being owned by Muslims.
The
usual wall of silence from the club about the takeover and Benitez’s future
endured for almost 7 weeks, other than the bland announcement that a deal had
been offered and talks were on-going. The first part of that statement was
true, but the second plainly wasn’t. Benitez kept his counsel, showing neither
a willingness to sign up or walk out. Meanwhile the Brighton, Celtic and
Chelsea jobs came and went, as did Juve. It seemed not to matter; the noises
were Benitez was looking for an excuse not to sign. Ashley’s utter
intransigence and refusal to discuss anything was that excuse. A week before
his contract ended and pre-season kicks off, the club put out a mealy-mouthed
statement saying Benitez wouldn’t be coming back. I’d heard strong rumours from
sources in NE28 and NE30 that the offer of a £12m job in China was a
smokescreen. El Jefe was leaving as he’d had enough after 3 and a half
years of glacial progress and minimal communication. Ashley, who doesn’t give
two fucks about anything other than money and anyone other than himself, will
doubtless be pleased at winning the staring contest with a bloke who is almost
the equal of him in terms of being a control freak. The big difference being
that the man who walked away had done more than any other human, bar perhaps
Chris Hughton, to keep the dysfunctional zombie farm that is Newcastle United
functioning as a football team, since Ashley walked in the door a dozen years
back; even before I had signed up to Farcebook in fact.
The
question now is; do I want to go back as Benitez has left? As ever, it’s a
complex one to answer, but I can’t be bothered to, because Ashley has finally
won; he’s left me worn out, broken and disenchanted by the whole thing. Giving
opinions, speaking your mind; it’s a dangerous thing to do these days. Social
media is policed and analysed; comments about football and politics can cause
rancour and dissent. Despite living in the end of times where that lethal
narcissist Boris Johnson, a kind of heterosexual Paul Gascoigne with A Level
Classics, appears ready to drive the UK Routemaster over the cliffs,
similar to the last episode of The Young Ones, I’m not supposed to say anything,
about a bi-polar, OCD-suffering, alcoholic and coke fiend in case it upsets
people. Just watch again that hideous video where his repressed sexuality,
couched in cloying, flirtatious behaviour and stereotypically racist social
attitudes, screams out at all those of us who know exactly what he needs to do
to save himself. But what’s the point in putting your head above the parapet?
Guilty, innocent or anywhere in between, they’ll still try and blow your brains
out.
In
future, let’s stick to cricket and music. New manager? Takeover? Protest? I
just can’t make myself care about NUFC any longer. The younger Newcastle United
fans must take on this fight; I have nothing left to give.
our
enemies comprehend only the language of blood…
the
time for the pen has passed and we enter the era of the sword…
words
are dead…
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