The Impossible Dream

 Newcastle United won a game of football on Sunday, which was nice....

There have been 6 Newcastle United games since I last wrote about the club, during which time we’ve won 2 and lost 2 in the league, as well as seeing our involvement in both cup competitions come to an end. On the surface, it appears to have been a fairly average few weeks with little to get excited about. Well, no, actually; that’s not the case at all, as this period has seen a combination of some of the most depressing lows of recent times, due to both form and fitness issues, as well as disciplinary indiscretions. However, it has also seen the single greatest moment in the 52 years I’ve followed the club, and I, like thousands of others, can state that I will now die happy, on account of the fact we’ve actually won something tangible. Something real. Something shiny.

Setting aside the Inter Toto Cup triumph of 2007 for a moment, I was only 4 going on 5 when the Fairs Cup was secured in Budapest on a balmy June evening in 1969. I had no recollection of it. The blessed March 16th, 2025 was different. Obviously I wasn’t there to see the trophy lifted at Wembley, but that was a choice I made in 2009 when I binned the 3 season tickets we used to hold. And, even in the afterglow of this glorious triumph, I can honestly state I have never subsequently regretted abandoning regular match attendance for one second. Instead on taking an expensive pew in the National Stadium, I sat stone cold sober on the sofa with Shelley and watched us not only beat but completely outplay the current best team in England, with a bare minimum of fuss and, barring the usual hairy moments at the end of stoppage time, I observed that we did so to the extent that the final score of 2-1 does not tell the full story of our complete control over the events of that Sunday afternoon. The fact this was the first time Mo Saleh has played a full 90 minutes and not had a single effort on goal or created a chance for someone else, shows it was as one sided as the 3-0 dismantling Liverpool handed out to us in the FA Cup final on May 4th, 1974, which I sat watching through floods of tears as a distraught 9-year-old. This time, I cried with pride as two lifelong Newcastle fans, Dan Burn and Jacob Murphy, each produced headers as fine as Jackie Milburn’s in the 1955 final; the first was as great a set-piece goal as I can remember, certainly since Ben Watson’s won the Cup for Wigan in 2013, and the second as fine a knock down as you’ll ever see. Isak’s finish wasn’t bad either, to be fair.

Let’s be honest though, the lead up to the final wasn’t the most confidence-building set of circumstances we’ve ever had, was it? Following on from the comfortable victory over Arsenal in the Carabao Cup semi-final, we headed to Man City, who tore us a new one. After the Bournemouth humbling, I pointed out that if you’re going to get beat, you may as well have a real coating, so there’s no sense of injustice over what could have been. This hammering was certainly that and the kind of performance where blame was shared equally among the whole squad, so there was no point in looking for a scapegoat. Next up was the curate’s egg of Forest at home. In the wake of the 4-0 hammering at the Etihad, Dubravka was unfairly left out for Pope, who showed he was back in the usual routine by making a terrible hash of the opening goal, provoking the #AnnounceTrafford hashtag all over social media. Of course, this was forgotten about as we then put in a scintillating attacking performance that saw us go in 4-1 ahead at the break and justifiably so. Straight after the restart it could have been more, as Schar hit the post with a header. Then, unaccountably, we went back in our shells and invited Forest on to us, allowing the loathsome Ryan Yates to grab a goal back. Howe rolled the dice and brought on Tonali, who was magnificent and Wilson who, as in all of his cameos this season, was appalling. Never mind, we got the win and showed some attacking intent, even if the defence was looking frighteningly wobbly, with the small matter of a trip to Anfield next.

In his interview after the final, Howe claimed that we almost gave up on the Liverpool away game, to keep our tactics for the final under wraps. I’m not sure he was telling the whole truth, but going into this one without Botman, Isak and Joelinton, I knew we were beaten before kick-off. Wilson was in from the start and blazed our only two presentable opportunities high and wide. Nobody else looked like scoring and, though we never gave up, we were simply cuffed aside, as most of us had expected, which started the pre-Wembley jitters for real, after the kind of performance you would have more likely associated with a Bruce team than a Howe one.

Now, if you felt bad after that loss, what state were you in after the Brighton cup tie? Not only were we dumped out of the FA Cup, after thinking Schar had scored a wonder goal to win the tie, but we learned both Botman and Hall were ruled out for the rest of the season and, the cherry on the top, Gordon was banned for the final after his daft indiscretion copped him a red card and an attendant 3-game ban. It may just have been mood music in the wake of such a loss, but the social media jungle drums kept insisting Bruno and Isak both looked woefully under par and potentially struggling with injuries. The whole thing was a train wreck, and, at this point, it seemed as if even turning up at Wembley would be a fool’s errand as we looked nailed on to be crushed 4-0 or similar.

Around the same time, True Faith (who else?), started questioning the ownership of the club, claiming we were being forced to endure an “Ashleyesque” wall of silence about ground developments and a similar lack of investment, where PSR was simply an excuse for keeping the chequebook under lock and key. Their accusation was the PIF had totally lost interest in our “project,” as they’d neglected the team in a way similar to the previous ownership and would no doubt be looking to make money from the sales of Bruno, Isak and Tonali at the end of the season, before cutting and running. Supposedly murmurs about a new ground or fresh signings were just titbits fed to a gullible fanbase, who were still lapping up the Saudis simply for not being Mike Ashley. 

Well, they say the darkest hour is the one before dawn and, against all probability, streaks of daylight became visible in the sky over London Stadium as, six days, before the final, we strolled to an untroubled win against a desperately uninspired West Ham side. In future years, this seemingly insignificant victory, courtesy of Bruno’s 63rd minute close range finish, will assume mythical proportions. It was there we learned to play without Gordon and Hall and, same as in the Arsenal semi-final, where Kieran Trippier showed again why he is possibly the most crucial signing of the whole post-Ashley era. Mad Dog Tindall is a brilliant showman, but Howe and Graeme Jones, know exactly what they are doing tactics wise. In terms of a dry run for the final, the West Ham game was a perfect dress rehearsal. I kept it to myself, but my confidence began to grow after this game and, even if I didn’t say it out loud, I believed we would win at Wembley for the first time in 70 years.

And guess what? We did!! Let’s be frank about this; we didn’t win the cup for me, but we did it for The Undertaker and Liam, as well as his lovely dad Barry and for daft old Cliffy Ahmed, none of whom are still with us. Bruno, Trippier and Lascelles lifted the trophy for the dads of my mates Big Gary and Dave, lifelong fans who remember 1955 as if it were yesterday, who passed away either side of Christmas and just missed this triumph. We did it for my lad Ben and his 30 mates, none of whom had a sniff of a ticket, who were 10 pints deep at Anarchy Brewery at full time but still went down to SJP to drink cans until they physically couldn’t drink any more. And, most of all, we did for those diehard fans who have been there, week in and week out, for 4, 5 or 6 decades, seeing loss after loss. Ray Clarke. Bobby Shinton. Pat Heard. You know the score. They suffered it week after week, year after year, which makes this success so much sweeter. Let’s raise a glass to Glenn Wallace, Mike Bolam, Alan Candlish, The Fink and his crew. To Gary and Barbara Jefferson. To you all. Savour it. Drink it in. You never know if it will ever happen again. And to Dan Burn, the King of Northumberland, I am more grateful to you than I could ever hope to express.

Finally, a message to Mike Ashley and Steve Bruce… fuck off.

P.S. I’ve just found out Shelley & I have got tickets for the Brentford game. Canny eh?

The Marble Index

Elgin City 0 The Spartans 2 on a drenched, bitterly cold Tuesday evening in the Highlands. The closest thing to football heaved I could imagine....

Despite the fact ScotRail still haven’t adequately responded to my complaint about the farcical events surrounding my aborted trip home from Aberdeen the other week, I entrusted them with my safe passage to and from The Highlands as I availed myself of the opportunity presented by a rearranged SPFL L2 game at Borough Briggs to tick off my 37th Scottish ground when Elgin City hosted The Spartans. One of the few good things about my advanced age is that I can get the odd reduction on account of being over 60; certainly a mere £47for the return rail fare from Newcastle to Elgin is a bonus, especially when the outward leg afforded me the chance to use 4 trains, changing at Edinburgh, Perth and Inverness, as well as arriving spot on time. The fella pushing the drinks trolley on the Perth to Inverness leg looked like David Thomas from Pere Ubu and spoke in a barely audible whisper. I refrained from asking for a gin and dystonic though, while noting the presence of distilleries every 5 miles or so. 

On the way I passed by Easter Road, Meadowbank, Swinecastle, Nairn County and Forres Mechanics (massive stand!!), as well as going through Birnham, though I didn’t see the wood on its way to Dunsinane. At Inverness, I recalled the legendary words of late 70s schoolkid punkers The Prats -:

Scenery is quite good.

All the people, they are rude.

Inverness! Inverness!

What a mess! What a mess!

I didn’t see any Stenhousemuir Warriors en route to their game against Inverness Caledonian Thistle which, considering they got battered 4-1, is perhaps just as well. Of course, I must return to Inverness with Caley and nearby Ross County still to be ticked off. 

Obviously a journey of the magnitude I undertook for a midweek game necessitated an overnight stay, so I booked a room at the very comfortable Moray guesthouse, which I’d recommend if you're ever in those parts, on account of the warm welcome and grand breakfast for a very reasonable £35. Indeed I thought long and hard about staying a second night so I could take in Forres Mechanics 0 Huntly 5, but decided I couldn’t justify such insanity. I did note on my journey home, which was via Aberdeen, that the local Highland League derby Keith v Huntly is possibly the only football game that sounds like the name of a painter and decorator…

I’d been to Elgin briefly in the 1981 family holiday I referenced last time. I remember it being a bustling and orderly place. It’s still the same, with a surprising number of English residents, no doubt related to the nearby Lossiemouth RAF base. The weather was considerably better on that August day in 81, when I recall listening to Ian Botham flaying the Australian attack all around Old Trafford on Test Match Special. From the second I stepped off the train, there was biting wind, driving rain, sleet flurries and even the odd hailstone shower. This didn’t detract from my enjoyment however, as I’d properly wrapped up. Also, I found places such as The Drouthy Cobbler and The Granary that sold my favourite Scottish ale, Joker IPA. However, in the friendly and well-appointed Elgin City supporters’ bar, it was Tennents all the way, as is proper in such locations and circumstances. Even better, entrance to the ground was only £5 as I qualified as an old timer, as I took my place among the 456 hardy souls on the terraces and in the stand. You can’t say fairer than that, though I was sad they didn’t have any fridge magnets to add to Shelley’s expanding collection.

Scottish League 2 is a remarkably open competition. Forfar Athletic, having appeared marooned at the bottom, won successive away games at Stranraer and Elgin to move above Bonnyrigg Rose, who drop to the foot of the table on account of their 6 point deduction, imposed for having a slope on the pitch beyond the tolerance allowed by the SPFL. Meanwhile East Fife seem a knocking bet for promotion, but the play-off spots get ever tighter with a quarter of the season to go. Elgin’s game in hand was crucial; if they won, they’d have a nice gap on those below, but if they lost then The Spartans would go level on points with them. 

Borough Briggs is an absolute treasure of a ground. Definitely one of my top 5 in Scotland. The entrance brings you in at the corner flag at the bottom end, where a few steps of terracing lead on to the covered stand that straddles the halfway line. Behind both goals are large semi-circular standing spaces, including grass banks at each end, with the far side being a covered shed that stretches the whole touchline and houses the most voluble supporters. I watched the game from adjacent to the corner flag on both sides of the pitch, a half at each and enjoyed a compelling and exciting game, but perhaps not so much as the dozen or so fans who’d trekked up from Edinburgh to support the visitors, who somehow stole the points courtesy of a 2-0 victory.

The statistics show Elgin had a dozen attempts on goal to Spartans’ two and 10 corners to the opposition’s none, but a smart header from a cleverly whipped-in free kick in the first half and a rapid break that resulted in a tap in after 75 minutes, saw the points head back down to the capital. It was a shame, as was the fact Elgin ran out to ELP’s Fanfare for the Common Man and not Marbles by the Tindersticks. Though, on the positive side, while I may see life as a series of complicated dance steps, I wasn’t at any time pushed down curved stairs by men with bland, expressionless faces in suits, and black shiny shoes, moving in, kicking, stamping, so when I got home Shelley didn’t open the door to see my face bruised and swollen. Instead I went to see Liverpool lose on penalties to PSG in The Granary for a final Joker IPA.

Next morning was a late and great breakfast, train one Elgin to Aberdeen, quick wander down Union Street, then train two Aberdeen to Newcastle. Back in the house for 8pm. Long, tiring day’s travel, but a rewarding time and now there are only 5 grounds to go; Stranraer, Ross County, Inverness CT, Cove Rangers and Peterhead. 

Granite Shocker

Aberdeen 2 Dundee United 2, but wait until I tell you what happened on the way home....

In Kurt Vonnegut’s wonderful novel Cat’s Cradle, the supreme deity of the mythical religion Bokononism opines to adherents that “peculiar travel suggestions are dancing lessons from God.” I’d never really seen the wisdom of that statement, until I found myself stranded in the lounge bar of Sleeperz motel in Dundee at 9pm on a Sunday night, having missed Call the Midwife, with 8% phone battery and no deodorant. Such is the joy to be found in trying to complete the Scottish 42. Yet it had all seemed so much better only a couple of hours before as I gorged myself on deep lungfuls of fine fresh Aberdonian air, as the home side came back from a seemingly hopeless 2-0 deficit to snatch a point in injury time against Dundee United.

Being honest, the whole day was great. Up early and presented with a sturdy bacon sandwich by Shelley, who had amazingly backed my insane desire to tick off Pittodrie on a Sunday, I caught the 09.13 train with no hassle at all. In fact, it was a completely stress-free journey up there, with an almost empty connection from Waverley to Dundee, before picking up the Queen Street to Aberdeen Inter City. Arriving at 2.20, it was clear we’d been behind the overwhelming mass of travelling Arabs as I stepped off the train in the Granite City, to find the station almost deserted and the few folk that were around showing zero interest in the football that was about to take place.

I’d been to Aberdeen once before, in August 1981. Aged 16, this was to be my last family holiday where, for no apparent reason, my parents had hired us a cottage in the small, if not insignificant, Banffshire town of Keith, located halfway between Inverness and Aberdeen. Looking back, it would have been an ideal location from which to explore the rest of Scottish grounds I still need to visit, even if at that time only Aberdeen were members of the SPL. Keith, frankly, is a no horse town, even if they are in the Highland League. There really wasn’t anything to do there, other than read books and swat away midges. I did get some classic records from shops in Aberdeen and Inverness though: “Release the Bats” 7” by The Birthday Party and from an incredible closing down sale, I harvested Beat Rhythm News (Waddle Ya Play?) by Essential Logic, Wall of Noise by Doctor Mix & The Remix, who were once Metal Urbain, and Public Image’s Metal Box in vinyl form, as Second Edition. The whole lot for a fiver. Amazing eh? Still got them as well.

No time for record shopping today, but I did pass the seminal gig venue The Lemon Tree in my taxi to the ground. I did remember that Pittodrie was basically at the end of the road by the sea, but didn’t know the distance, so I erred on the side of profligate caution. Walking back, as ever, I realised it wasn’t so far, certainly once the one-way system was excluded from the equation. A quick browse round the club shop showed me there were no fridge magnets available, so I settled for some branded air fresheners for Shelley, before taking my seat in the ground. I was in the last seat in Block A of the Main Stand. Unfortunately, Block B was right next to it, in the middle of the row, so I was fairly hemmed in. Not to worry; Pittodrie is a bloody nice-looking ground. Perhaps a little shabby and in need of a quick makeover, but as good as Rugby Park or Fir Park, as well as being considerably fuller than either of those. Dundee United, whose noisy fans impressed me both at home against St Mirren last August and away to Kilmarnock in the cup about 3 years back, had sold their allocation and kept up the volume all game, despite their side virtually capitulating after the break.

The Dons fans were less voluble, but very nicely spoken as is their accent in these parts. Swearing also wasn’t a common theme. Perhaps it was being in the Main Stand. Perhaps it was the Sabbath. Perhaps it’s because their team were woeful in the first half, going in 2-0 down from two preventable close-range headers. They just didn’t say much at all. There was another Arab effort disallowed for a tight offside call as well, meaning the loudest part of the early afternoon was the storm of ferocious booing that greeted the half time whistle. Dons’ manager Jimmy Thelin must have given a miraculous team talk as his side absolutely obliterated Dundee United after the break. Scott Nisbet, ex Hibs and on loan from Millwall, has been in poor form of late, but he pulled one back on 75 minutes with a delightful finish. The Arabs retreated further and further back, their boots almost scraping the sand behind the Beach End, but looked like holding out, until Nisbet pounced in injury time to give the Dons a deserved share of the spoils from an excellent, fast-paced encounter. Though part of me wishes I’d been at Easter Road seeing the Hibees crushing the Jambos again, restoring the natural order so to speak.

At full time I enjoyed the walk back into town which was almost geometric in its use of very straight roads. I caught the 17.45 to Glasgow Queen Street with ease, full as it was with both sets of fans, though there wasn’t a cross word exchanged between them all. I changed at Dundee for the 19.13 to Waverley and that’s where the fun really began. On alighting I had a theoretical 18 minutes until my connection, so I went to TESCO for some refreshments (8 cans of Tennents). On returning to the station, I was met by a teeming multitude streaming away from the trains. A ScotRail employee informed me “there are no more trains south of Dundee tonight.” This was an extremely troubling situation for me, as the connections I’d booked were the only ones that would allow me to get to home, that night.  Subsequently, I became aware that staff sickness in the Fife area caused this disruption, however this was not communicated to any of us, who were also physically prevented from accessing the help point on the platform. The ScotRail gadge informed a restive knot of unhappy travellers that the company would not be running replacement buses “for hours” and that it was each and every passenger’s personal responsibility to make their own onward arrangements. In retrospect, had I known, I could have stayed on the Aberdeen to Glasgow train, changed at Perth and made my connection, but news of the delay wasn’t communicated to me.

The situation in the station was chaotic. There was no information. Staff were unhelpful. Someone called the Police. The two world weary Cops who attended were very helpful and informed me and a couple of others headed south of the border that we were probably stuck in Dundee. I didn’t know where to get a bus from. I even thought of a taxi to Edinburgh, but the Uber app stated I wouldn’t arrive in Edinburgh until after my train had departed. The Police suggested we ought to book rooms in a hotel and stay in Dundee overnight. This was as a cheaper option than going to Edinburgh and getting a room there. Thus, I booked a room as Sleeperz, which cost £37.40 and bought snacks and toiletries from TESCO amounting to £6.75, as I had not been expecting an overnight stay. 

And then I got hammered in the lounge bar of Sleeperz, unable to leave the place because of my flat phone being on a charger I borrowed from reception, before snoozing through Calendar Girls and snapping back awake to watch Sportscene and the glorious events from Easter Road. On Monday morning, shaking off a hangover and breakfasting on sachet coffee and complimentary shortbread, I entered Dundee station and managed to get to speak to the station manager, someone called Simon. He performed heroics and got me on to the 11.09 direct LNER service to Newcastle, arriving at 14.00 and allowing me to stagger in the door an hour after that. I’m currently in negotiations with ScotRail about compensation, as well as looking forward to heading to Elgin City v Spartans next Tuesday, March 11th. 

Lumbar Regions

Music & Books in 2025...

MUSIC:

I suppose at some point I’m going to have to accept that I’m too old to go to gigs. Well, big ones at least. Not that I am suggesting I’m at that stage in life yet, but there are questions that need to be addressed about age and infirmity and the risks to personal safety caused by attendance at live events. The reason I’m thinking about this is that I went to see live music on three successive nights the other week: Orange Claw Hammer with Peony at a TQ soiree at The Globe on Thursday 20th, Rumours of Fleetwood Mac at The Exchange the night after and then Mogwai at Leeds O2 on Saturday 22nd. If I’d had the energy, I’d even have considered heading off to see Shovel Dance Collective in York on the Sunday. It probably won’t surprise regular readers to learn that Mogwai was the best night out, on account of the fact that live they are absolutely impeccable and that the new album, The Bad Fire, is a stunning piece of work, but we’ll come to that.

Those of you who know the work of Don Van Vliet, the late, great Captain Beefheart, will be aware that Orange Claw Hammer took their name from a track from his seminal work of weirded-out jazzy blues, swamp stomp Trout Mask Replica. They aren’t just a rip off covers band, though they are directly influenced by the great man and do reworkings of loads of his stuff. Their website expresses it better than I ever could; Orange Claw Hammer take the music of Captain Beefheart & the Magic Band and bend it into shape for the 21st century. Founded in 2011, the band's sax driven, mostly instrumental, reworkings of Don Van Vliet’s back catalogue highlight the blues, jazz and experimental roots of this music. A million miles from being a tribute act, Orange Claw Hammer take classics of Avant-rock from the 60s through to the 80s and use them as vehicles for improvisation and re-invention for contemporary sensibilities.

They’ve a couple of CDs available, Cooks the Beef and New Beef Dreams, that cover stuff from Clear Spot to Doc at the Radar Station, showing respect for the whole gamut of Van Vliet’s work. In their two sets, there was still time for the odd crowd pleaser, with events being brought to a close by “Big Eyed Beans from Venus” and a raucous “Willie the Pimp.” Expert musicianship and a great stage presence. I enjoyed them immensely, as I did Peony. It’s the third time I’ve seen them in 18 months and the opening new song raised the fear level as it appeared they’d gone mainstream, but it was only a temporary detour for the jumpsuit-clad grandchildren of the Pink Fairies who were as loud, louche and artistic as ever. This duo really must go further.

Another act I’ve high hopes for are Isolated Community. My old pal Richard Dunn gave me a copy of their latest CD with There Are No Birds Here, of experimental found sounds from abandoned WWII gun emplacements from the Northumberland and Norfolk coasts, we are the Wreckage of our Former Selves. It is a beguiling, almost hypnotic piece that always avoids lulling you into any sense of security, by the regular hints of menace that drift on the eerie soundscape. A tremendously affecting album and as good as anything else I’ve heard this year, apart from Mogwai of course. It is similar, though far superior to, Dead Dimension by Spacelab, from 2021, which I was given just before the turn of the year and have only recently got round to listening to. I’m not sure why, but the absence of found sounds makes it sound a mite too emotionally cold for me. I’m not a connoisseur of ambient and drone by any measure, and this is perhaps too specialised for my ears. Not unpleasant, but not exciting either. The final one of my freebie gifts was from Spinners’ editor Roaul Galloway, when sent me a copy of Celestial Skies by the hitherto unknown to me Randy Mundy. It’s an absolutely glorious slice of mid 70s Nashville Country Rock. Born in 1952, I’m not sure if Randy is still with us, as his website lists the only upcoming show as 3rd August 2012 River Woods Gazebo in Provo, Utah with the Mundy Mourning Band. Make of that what you will. Nice relaxing album though.

You certainly can’t say that about my other purchase this year; A New Form of Beauty, parts I-IV by The Virgin Prunes. Forty-five years on, the crazed, anarchic post-punk doodling of these madcap Irish troubadours still bridges the gap between an apolitical Crass and a more intense Pere Ubu, with a splash of a less than tolerant Here & Now included. Gavin Friday’s hectoring bellows lead the group down to the centre of the earth in a way only perhaps The Birthday Party were capable of doing at the same time. If you like “Release the Bats,” then try “Come to Daddy” on for size. A howling, disturbing, discordant miasma that still makes me laugh and try to dance at the same time. Why did I wait so long to buy this?

After the TQ night out, I was delighted to scrounge a lift home from Martin Donkin of Shunyata Improvisation Group, who are now down to a trio (like Rush or Take That after Robbie left) and who I’m hoping to see at Cullercoats Watch House on Friday 11th April. The lift was important, not only because it was quicker than public transport, but also so I could rest my aching bones. One of the effects of growing old is severe pain in my lower back and calves if I stand up for too long. This is why I lean against barriers at the football, when ever possible and take a seat in pubs. While I still prefer standing gigs, I have occasionally sat on the floor when lumbar pain has become too much. I was a little worried about going to see Rumours of Fleetwood Mac at Shields Exchange, because I knew it was sold out. Shelley and I had been a fortnight previously for my first gig of the year, Lindisfarne, who were brilliant in a three-quarters full hall of longtime fans and attentive devotees of the band. It was the first time I’d heard this iteration of the band in the flesh, which did miss the mandolin and harmonica of Ray Jackson, especially on a wizened, truncated “We Can Swing Together,” but who produced an otherwise storming set of material from the whole back catalogue, masterfully steered by Rod Clements and Dave Hull Denholm. 

The main problems with Rumours of Fleetwood Mac, and it won’t spoil any surprises by saying Shelley and I left at the interval, was not the fact the place was packed, which it was, but the absolutely abysmal sound and the extraordinarily ignorant behaviour of a good 50% of the audience. If you’re going to do a faithful take on latter period Fleetwood Mac, I’d suggest you don’t open your set with a cursory, limp version of “Dreams” that you don’t even announce to the audience, who may not have been aware that the event had started because the house lights were still on. Not that most of the coked-up, half-pissed, entitled me-me-me generation tosspots in attendance were interested in anything other than the sound of their own braying voices. I don’t know what was worse, the inane chatter of bourgeois pricks or the anodyne apology for a band on stage. The guitar was as absent as the vocals, while it appeared that the drums were being handled by the reincarnations of John Bonham, Keith Moon and Philthy Animal Taylor at the same time. It got no better as the set drew on and so we made a choice to write of nigh on £80 in tickets and do one at the break, along with a good 50 or so other disappointed punters, who all cited bad sound and worse behaviour as their reasons to walk. Probably a good hundred or so were ensconced in the bar, showing no desire to subject themselves to one of the worst live experiences I’ve had in years.

In contrast, Ben, Dave and I had a spellbinding, transcendental experience seeing Mogwai in Leeds. Heading down after Percy Main’s magnificent win away to Stobswood, we arrived for around 6.45, which meant we’d already missed support act Cloth, who had gone on at 6.15, because of the insane 9.30 curfew for this gig. That was a bit of a damper before we’d even got in the place and things got worse when trying to deal with the pre-entry searches by Showsec, that were seemingly modelled on the kind of human rights abuses you’d normally associate with the IDF. Luckily enough, the headliners absolutely blew the roof off the place in a staggering show of power, grace and imagination. Ben and Dave took their spot behind the sound desk, as that’s the optimum for oral pleasure but I, slightly spooked by the enormity of the crowd, took myself off to a side nook, right at the front, on a slightly raised bit at the side of the hall. It meant I could lean backwards to support my lumbar region, while still being deafened. Of course, it meant all I saw of Stuart Braithwaite, in the main, was the peak of his baseball cap, but it didn’t matter once the soundstorm started hitting.

The Bad Fire, like every new Mogwai release, is a heralded event; one where the listener is met with challenges and intimidation at every point. Yes, they somehow manage to raise the bar yet higher in terms of punishing volume and cerebral dissonance, while all the times forging objects of celestial beauty from the belching flames of their sonic furnace.  Spread cutely across 3 sides of a double album, six of the tracks made up half the set, from the charming robotic pop of “God Gets You Back” to the aural assault of “Fanzine Made of Flesh” and “Lion Rumpus,” this was a spellbinding event. However, as you could only expect, the truly cathartic explosions of emotional noise were to be found in unsurpassable versions of “Christmas Steps,” “New Paths to Helicon” and the closing “Like Herod.” This was a special evening in the company of a very special band who continue to evolve. Like John Peel said of The Fall; “always different; always the same.”

BOOKS:

I’ve not read much this year, I’m sorry to say, but I am still trying to plug gaps in my literary knowledge. This is why I asked for books for Christmas and was pleased to receive two volumes by James Baldwin. I adored his slim selection of essays from the 1960s and 1970s, Dark Days, that tell much about the position of the Black intellectual in US society at that time, in the same way that CLR James explained what it was like to be a Black Marxist in the Caribbean and England from the 1930s onwards in Beyond a Boundary. I really must put Angela Davis on my next reading list. Another James Baldwin book was 50 Famous Stories, a rewrite of historically apocryphal events for children. This was by a very different James Baldwin, but it was nice to reacquaint myself with the legend of Rip van Winkle at least…

I have started reading The Guardian’s obituaries more assiduously and taking prompts from them about who I should read. Last year, I came across the name of Robert Coover, an American writer, generally considered to specialise in the recondite genres of fabulation and metafiction. He became a proponent of electronic literature, was a founder of the Electronic Literature Organization and died last October. Santa gave me a copy of Gerald's Party, his fourth novel, published in 1986. The book encompasses a single night at a party given by the title character and narrator. Though the murder of a beautiful actress at the party is central to the plot, Coover's text has little in common with a traditional murder mystery. He appears to be approaching the murder mystery genre with the goal of subverting/exhausting its possibilities. It certainly exhausted this reader as it took me almost 6 weeks to plough through the unforgiving 350 pages of text. 

As Gerald tries to describe the things around him in painstaking detail, he recounts simultaneous conversations and events as they happen. After describing a small part of a situation or a conversation, he moves on to a small part of a different conversation, then returns to the first conversation, or maybe moves on to a third or a fourth, returning each time to try to be as accurate as possible while recording the events. There are also graphic depictions of various bodily functions, including different types of sexual intercourse. Gerald, speaking in what could be described as stream-of-consciousness, often appears unaffected by the decadent and orgiastic events that surround him, and, in addition, he comes across as an unreliable narrator. And I’ve absolutely no idea who committed the murder.

Bertrand Blier was a French film director, who died in January aged 85. As well as making pretentious, unwatchable movies, he wrote borderline pornography as a side hustle, getting right on the nerves of devotees of le nouvelle roman. His debut novel, Les Valseuses, which translates as The Waltzers, is also French slang for testicles. Published in 1972 and in English the year after as Making It, it was turned into a film, called Les Valseuses that was rendered as Going Places in English. Confused? No need to be. I’ve not seen Going Places, but I have read Making It, and it is brutally funny in a way was guaranteed to epatez les bourgeoises. Two yobboes Jean-Claude and Pierrot graduate from stealing cars to crimes of violence, sexual assault and eventually murder. However, it is written in such an offhand, matter-of-fact manner that it doesn’t glorify these terrible deeds, all the time adding to the sense of cultural deracination the main characters feel. They fall in with a bored nymphomaniac Marie-Ange and all die simultaneously in a car accident when a wheel falls off their stolen vehicle. It’s a strange read, but I enjoyed it.

I didn’t enjoy Slow Vision by Maxwell Bodenheim that much. Bodenheim was a crazy, drunken proto-Bukowski of the Depression, who was shot dead with his hooker girlfriend by a mentally deranged dishwasher in a flophouse. Slow Vision tells the story of the starving and skint trying to make ends meet in the Bowery in 1932, against a backdrop of Red agitation. Strangely little, if anything, happens “on stage,” with the major events mentioned in passing. It’s a curiously unappealing read, with little to recommend it in terms of character, plot or prose style.

Kelly's Bye

Can there be life after Lloyd Kelly? I doubt it...

I last wrote about Newcastle United in the wake of the hugely enjoyable and near life-affirming win over Bromley in the FA Cup third round. Since then it has been, as we have all come to expect with this club, a series of euphoric highs and crushing lows that have seen the club progress to the Carabao Cup final, the last 16 of the FA Cup and now sit sixth in the Premier League. However, to balance that, we have to contend with the already small squad being further depleted by the return to Atlanta United of Miguel Almiron, for who we will always be grateful for that insane period of brilliance in the Autumn of 2022, and the David Rozenhal of the PFI era, Lloyd Kelly, who has somehow ended up at Juventus on a deal whereby La Vecchia Signora are obliged to give us £20m for his services in the Summer. Considering we had six years of Miggy for a net amortisation of £10m, those deals represent extraordinarily good value. Though on the obverse, not only are we now denuded of the services of two definite FA Cup starters, but we head to the artists formerly known as Manchester City on Saturday with worries over the fitness of Botman, Burn and Gordon, with Barnes, Joelinton and Lascelles definitely missing. Still, at least Callum Wilson was fit enough to play an hour last week, eh? Let’s cherish these moments, which are as rare as Halley’s Comet flaming overhead.

Anyway, let’s rewind a month to the Wolves game. Unlike the Arsenal first leg that seemed to creep up on me, I was highly impatient for this one to come around. It was all I could think about all day, as I fancied we’d get a good result. Ironically, I hadn’t realised it was a 7.30 kick off, so nearly missed the start. I just got onto the sofa as proceedings got underway, while Ben had made the climb to Level 7 for his seat. For the first half an hour, it was really tight as Wolves appeared to have an admirable defensive solidity we were unable to puncture. However, once Isak had put us ahead with a deflected goal, their one tactic of keeping us out fell to pieces, despite the belated introduction of the impressive Cunha. Despite them creating a couple of chances, including one blinding save by Dubravka, their shambolic back line shipped a couple of goals to give us an unassailable 3-0 lead. As is his wont, Howe made the requisite 5 changes to see the game out, but with an attitude typified by the arriving Trippier barking “no goals” at the rest of the defence. The real cameo was Tonali, in the 93rd minute, sprinting back 40 yards to whip the ball from a Wolves attacker with a tackle as clean as a whistle. At full time we sat fourth on merit and things were looking bright.

I’ve long believed that if you’re going to get beat, you may as well endure a right hammering, so there can be no sense of injustice at the result. Bournemouth, who looked like the best side we’d faced all season, certainly gave us that. I’d not heard of Iraola before he pitched up at Dean Court but hats off to the bloke for assembling a fast-paced, fluid, creative side who gave us a lesson in pressing, breaking and passing at speed in this one. Frankly though, we didn’t help ourselves as only Dubravka, blameless despite conceding 4 and the tireless Tonali, acquitted themselves at an adequate level. The rest were so far below par it was untrue. In the team’s defence, they never gave up, didn’t hide or throw in the towel, but when you concede two goals in injury time, you know it has been a lousy day at the office. As the Cherries swarmed all over us, our harried defence, especially The Paper Lads at full back, were forced into an endless series of mistakes. Despite the usual hysterical social media noise in the aftermath of this chasing, the real question was how we would respond to this setback. I’ve seen us lose at home to Bournemouth before; MacLaren’s last game in the 2016 relegation season was so bad as to be comical. I’ve also seen us bounce back from hammerings, showing passion and resilience, so there was no need to show True Faith style tears of rage at this loss, if we came back from it.

We did, after a fashion and after conceding a soft opening goal, away to this season’s Premier League crash test dummies, Southampton. After watching Percy Main lose 4-2 at home to Rutherford, I headed to Ben’s to watch the rest of the game, before embarking on the Ouseburn Lambic Trail. By the time I got to his, Tonali had scored a sublime goal to ensure the points were safe, bar the obligatory 5 minutes in VAR purgatory before they had one ruled out. As per the usual routine, Howe made his subs once the points were safe, the away section had a jolly singsong, said a fond farewell to Miggy and time was run down. It wasn’t a classic performance, but it got the job done and it showed a degree of resilience after the hammering of the week before.

Unfortunately, the script was wildly deviated from and the wheels came off again when Fulham came to town. Obviously most of the crowd found it hard to watch this one through the floods of tears caused by Kelly’s imminent departure, but what was clear was that this defeat, our fourth at home, was akin to the Brighton loss rather than the Bournemouth one. I’d had a hankering for a 3-3 draw as that would have meant our home and away records were identical, and the hill I’ll die on was that this should have seen us grab a draw, but we didn’t, partly because a few players are seemingly out of form. No names. No pack drill. However, we went on that amazing winning run because everyone played to the best of their ability in almost every game. Realistically, that isn’t sustainable and sometimes you lose games you shouldn’t have. I suppose I should also pay tribute to that odious narcissist Marco Silva for some wise substitutions, but the words to stick in my throat. The very worst thing about this game was the offensive series of racist social media posts by some cretinous gambler who held Joe Willock responsible for the loss. I hope he gets the book thrown at him, if they can locate the prick from behind his VPN firewall. Upset like that and the sight of Arsenal dismantling City 5-1 on the Sunday were the last things we needed before the Carabao Cup semi final second leg. Being rational, a 2-0 lead should be enough, if we play professionally and with intelligence, but an early goal could kill us, especially with the current emotionally fraught state of the crowd.

Things got worse before they got better. Joelinton was out and we went for a back 5. That scared me, though I was pleased to see Trippier and his experience in for Livramento. In the end, the real question should be just what the hell were we worrying for? We got about them from the opening seconds when Isak had a goal disallowed for a fractional offside and, bar Odegaard’s chance, they offered absolutely nothing. As soon as Jacob Murphy acrobatically turned home the rebound from Isak’s astonishing effort that had smacked the goal frame, we were almost there. Howe’s tactical masterclass absolutely destroyed Arsenal. If you don’t believe me, watch Fabian Schar harrying Declan Rice into a grotesque mistake from a short goal kick that allowed Gordon, so unlucky with a speculative lob only seconds before, to roll in our second. From then on, it was party time, not Partey’s time.

What I sincerely hope is that we do ourselves justice in the final on March 16th, after a meek showing two years back. In a way, I’m glad it is Liverpool and not Spurs we’re playing. Firstly, allowing for a percentage of armchair based arseholes who won’t be there in any case, I could handle losing to Liverpool because their fans know the game inside out. Also, they are probably the best team in Europe currently, Plymouth result notwithstanding. Finally, my irrational hatred of James Maddison makes me rejoice at the fact the odious little twerp won’t get a medal. 

And so to the Birmingham game. It really made my weekend. Hibs had won on the Friday night away to Ayr in the Scottish Cup. Percy Main had thumped Seaton Delaval 4-1 at their place and finally, Newcastle made it through to the fifth round of the cup. What a calamitous start though, conceding a goal in the first minute, before Willock’s dubious equaliser and Wilson’s finish after Osula’s incredible miss from on the line, then their equaliser that VAR would have ruled out for an obvious offside. At that point, we had to go out as we were seeing Lindisfarne at the Exchange in Shields. They were brilliant by the way. Just as the taxi pulled up, Willock got the winner, and we squeaked through against the Digbeth Kick Boxing XI. As a result, we’ve got Brighton (the club and city Newcastle have so much more in common with than Liverpool) at home in the next round, on the day I’m at Aberdeen v Dundee United. Hope my team wins.

The High Rocky Road

On Saturday 1st February, I was supposed to be going to Stranraer v Spartans with Shelley, courtesy of Big Gary the Chauffeur. Sadly it has been postponed until Saturday 3rd May when Stranraer will host Bonnyrigg Rose. On Saturday 1st February, North Ferriby host Sheffield FC, when issue #25 of View from the Allotment End will be published, which includes this piece about my trip to St Johnstone versus Hibernian on Thursday 2nd January -:

Slowly but surely, I’m getting close to completing visits to all 42 Scottish league grounds. On New Year’s Day 2025, I had 8 left and on January 2nd, there were only 7, as I ticked off the last remaining ground accessible via a single day round trip on the train from Newcastle. A fresh, freezing Thursday saw me heading to Perth to take in St Johnstone v Hibs, with a 3pm kick off. They do things differently in Scotland and January 2nd is a Bank Holiday, as Hogmanay still holds greater sway than Christmas for celebrations, which is why so many of the shops I saw in Perth city centre advertised they were closed until Monday 6th January. Incidentally, St Johnstone are so titled as the former name of Perth was St John's Toun, until the 1600s. Perth is a pretty, orderly and almost prim place to visit. I’d guess it is one of the safest places in Scotland, which is just as well as I unintentionally got to see rather more of it than I intended.  

Geographically, Perth is further south than places I’ve recently visited such as Arbroath, Dundee and Montrose but, unlike the others I’ve mentioned which are all coastal settlements, inland Perth feels like it is the very end of urban Scotland. Seeing road signs for Crieff, Crianlarich and Aviemore, even if they are all a decent journey away by road, makes you aware this small city is the gateway to the Highlands.  

Regular readers of my Scottish adventures will know that my legendary inability to follow directions or read maps means getting lost is all part and parcel of the day out. The big problem with Perth is that McDiarmid Park, built on land donated to the club by local farmer Bruce McDiarmid to replace the decrepit Muirton Park, torn down to make way for an ASDA superstore in 1989, is more than 2 miles out of the city centre. Now, if you’re able to use Sat Nav on your phone or even decipher the Stagecoach app, that potential schlepp isn’t a problem, but it was for me. The further I walked from the station, from the closed shops, offices and public buildings of the city centre, through compact streets of tenement flats and on wide roads of detached mansions, the longer the distance to the ground became, according to my phone. In freezing temperatures, with no shops or pubs to call in at for help, I was trudged for over an hour and the distance to the ground had grown from 44 to 56 minutes. 

I tried to take remedial measures by cutting across a park and ended up at North Inch municipal golf course on the edge of the city. I attempted to retrace my steps and found myself at St Johnstone Social Club. This was no relief as the building had nothing to do with the football team, was nowhere near the ground and was shut anyway. Having spent almost 90 minutes aimlessly wandering, I tried to get an Uber. They don’t operate in Perth. Things were getting desperate.

On the verge of a panic attack, I phoned my partner Shelley, who was prepared to demand the Highlands Mountain Rescue helicopter was scrambled to find me. Luckily, a taxi drove by as we talked. I flagged him down and explained my plight. He said that ordinarily he couldn’t pick up without a pre-booking but figured from my anxious state, this was an emergency, or it would do until a real one arrived. He took me to the ground, through parts of Perth I’d obviously never seen before, and I tipped him generously for his troubles. Thank you Neil Bremner of Ace Taxis; you got me there just in time. 

Seconds after he dropped me off, a friendly PC from Perth plod, alerted by Shelley, called to inquire of my whereabouts. I reassured them that the panic was over and I was walking towards the turnstiles, then reflected on the fact that at my age and in the depths of winter, solo trips like this are perhaps pushing things a bit far in terms of adventure time. After I’ve ticked off Stranraer, which Big Gary is driving to and Shelley is accompanying us, I think I’ll need to do some hard thinking about planning my final 6 trips to Aberdeen, Cove, Elgin, Inverness, Peterhead and Ross County…

Unlike so many of my other Scottish trips, since visiting Airdrieonians at their former home of Broadwood Stadium in Cumbernauld to see Darren Jackson notch all 4 goals for the Hibees in a decisive away win back in May 1997, I was not visiting McDiarmid Park as a neutral observer. I was in Perth to support my team, Hibernian FC, in the first game of their 150th anniversary year, which is possibly why I did not take in as much about the actual design and ambience of the stadium as I have become accustomed to. That said, McDiarmid Park is both lovely and functional; it is a shame that it seems destined to host Championship football next season, rather than Tynecastle.

I’d bought my ticket in the Hibs section of the Main Stand from St Johnstone itself, when the Hibees were on a dismal run. However, a series of superb wins, including a Boxing Day triumph in the Derby at Tynecastle, saw the away following swell to an impressive 2,850. As well as the Main Stand, visiting fans, specifically the voluble and impressive Hibs Ultras, filled the North Stand. A great turnout, but it meant that the queue for hot drinks and pies was so consequently lengthy I had to abort my mission just before kick-off and half time was a no-go either, mainly because the kiosks were sold out of everything bar sweets and pop, which wasn’t what I needed in that climate. The reported attendance was 6,400, with the home fans in half the Main Stand and all the opposite East Stand. Sadly, the Willie Ormond Stand at the south end remained closed. Apparently it is only open when Celtic or Rangers come to town. Even then, it only accommodates visiting fans. 

Other than the endless chanting by the Hibs Ultras and a bit of a din created by the fresh-faced, high-pitched home zealots, the Fair City United Brigade, the game was watched in a very orderly fashion. In some ways this disappointed me as I’m a true connoisseur of intemperate, oath-edged talk from dyspeptic middle-aged Scotsmen, over such important matters as throw-ins or the speed at which substitutions are made. However, things did perk up in the indignation stakes when former Hearts man Jason Holt was shown a red card for a stamp on 38 minutes, though sadly Hibs did not capitalise on this dismissal. Instead, disaster showed its head. The enigmatic Rocky Bushiri, who veers between the brilliant (last second equalisers against Aberdeen at Rangers at Easter Road) and catastrophic (a ludicrous slice of an own goal at Tynecastle on Boxing Day), showed the latter, less stylish side of his game by performing an utterly unnecessary judo throw on Saints’ Nicky Clark at a corner, two minutes into injury time. The same player stuck the spot kick away, leaving Hibs a goal down at the break.

Without seeming biased, Hibs ought to have already won this game at a canter by the time I didn’t get a half time cuppa. They’d had one shot, from the spot, while we’d had 2 cleared off the line, missed a couple of good chances and hit the bar. Frustration intensified when Martin Boyle crashed in a superb equaliser on 55 minutes, only to be flagged offside. Thankfully, there was a saviour, in the shape of former Newcastle player Dwight Gayle who, fresh from notching the winner at Tynecastle, steered in a calm finish to rescue a point on 78 minutes. There were several late half chances for the Hibees as the Saints stuck everyone behind the ball and cleared their lines with gusto rather than finesse, but the game ended level. 

At full time, I walked stiff legged and starving to get a bus back into Perth. If I couldn’t navigate the place in daylight, I sure as hell wasn’t going to do so in the pitch black. Traffic was terrible and, unable to see through condensation smeared windows, I remained impervious to the delights outside, as it took us until almost 6pm to get back to the train station. With no shops open, I had to haul my grumbling guts onto the 18.14 back to Waverley without sustenance. Suffice to say, the Greggs I grabbed from Princes Street shopping mall, just as it was closing at 20.00, was the finest food I’d tasted in a long time. The 21.00 train was on time, and I gratefully stumbled into the house just before 11. Needless to say, Shelley had words to say about my adventures that day and I doubt I’ll be having many more Highland Flings before the clocks go forward.

Contingent Boys

I made it to SJP again, at last. I'm very glad I did.

I know I’ve only just written a blog about Newcastle United, but I really need to do another one after seeing them in the flesh for the first time since December 2023 (3-0 v Fulham), meaning that 2024 was the first year since 1972 when I didn’t set foot inside SJP. Because of some kindness and luck with the Bromley ballot, Ben and I ended up with a pair of East Stand Lower tickets, just over the halfway line towards the Gallowgate and I got to see a truly life-affirming game, which may not mean that much in the wider scheme of things for Newcastle or our fans, but I’m delighted I was there.

Of course these days, you can see every game on the telly if you want. Or at least you theoretically can, if you’re allowed, as I was booted out the house by Shelley when the Spurs away game was on, as she had her mates round for one of those semi-mythical girlie chats that I’m relieved I wasn’t privy to. Rather than complaining about me going to football, Shelley actually made me head to Newcastle Independent versus Newcastle East End on the 4G at Coach Lane on Saturday 4th January. It wasn’t my first choice of game. I actually went a bit further up the road to try and take in what ended up as being Chemfica Amateurs 1 Hexham 11, but the Longbenton Sports’ Ground was deserted, locked and barred, presumably as the game had been moved to Cochrane Park. Coach Lane was a good alternative, but I suspect the folks at East End are weary of seeing me at their place as they lost 3-2, again, to a late arriving Independent side who played with their usual swagger. East End rocked them back on their heels by taking an early lead, but the balance of the game shifted, and East End were undone, partly because of an extremely harsh decision to send Colin White off for a tackle on a longhaired youth, who yelped like a beaten dog when challenged.

Anyway, Coach Lane is a good place to be for Newcastle away games, as every time the Mags are away they win when I’m there, and so it proved once again, as an early concession at Spurs was counteracted by some strong play at the other end. Obviously the highlights must not have done the game justice as Postecoglu, with the desperation of a man clinging to his job like a drowning mariner scrabbling to control a piece of disintegrating driftwood, somehow claimed Spurs ought to have won. Yes, really. Well, it may not have been as comfortable as the wins at Old Trafford or Portman Road, but we did enough to edge a tough, tight game and really ought to have had a penalty for the bodycheck on Gordon.

So, we moved on from Saturday lunchtime in one part of North London to Tuesday evening in another, for the League Cup semi final first leg at Arsenal. Beforehand, I hadn’t given this one a great deal of thought, as it was a two-legged affair and I assumed there would be a degree of calculation required before acknowledging what was a satisfactory result, with the consensus seeming to be that a narrow loss wouldn’t be the worst outcome in the world. However, as you know, we won this one comfortably, on account of our ability to master the penny floaters they make you use in this competition, while Arteta confined himself to talking a load of hot air rather than teaching his players how to control that gas when it is inside a leather casing. However, and let’s get this straight, we are only at the halfway stage. A 2-0 lead is nice, but if we blow it at home in early February, the comedown will be appalling. That said, we were fucking brilliant weren’t we? In 9 days we’ve been to Old Trafford, Spurs and now Arsenal and thumped the three of them.  Alright, Arsenal were profligate in front of goal, but we weren’t, and we defended like titans to give Dubravka, who was again incredible, a deserved clean sheet. Isak. Gordon. Bruno. Tonali. Stellar talents. Hall. Livrimento. A full back pairing with breathtaking potential. Big Dan Burn. Geordie hero. And at the end, we returned to Bruceball, playing 5-5-0, but keeping the Gunners at arm’s length. Hats off to the whole lot of them, but remember it is only half time in the tie.

And so to the Bromley game. With the way we’ve been going in the League and the situation at the halfway stage of the League Cup semi-final, this was a game I was happy to lose. I said as much to my Bromley supporting mate, the literary giant and birthday boy Mike Head, while we were celebrating his 57th in the Mean Eyed Cat and Town Mouse on Friday night, with some superb ales. Kasteel Rouge Kriek anyone? So much for Dry January, but we had a fabulous time out with a fine contingent of fellas, who’d travelled from areas as disparate as Virginia and Scarborough to be at this one. 

The stupid train of thought that seeks to impose a hierarchy of support among football fans would have been destroyed by 10 minutes in our company. It doesn’t matter who you support, or at what level your team plays, nobody is intrinsically a better supporter than anyone else. Some may be a little more eccentric, including the two blokes who expressed an interest in taking in North Shields Athletic v Newcastle Independent on Saturday, but that was frozen off. It had been my intended game of choice, mainly because Shelley wanted some sun dried tomatoes from Morrisons’, but when the game was called off, I opted against either Benton v Morpeth or Newcastle East End v Haltwhistle and spent the afternoon on the sofa, rather like the 35,000 Mackems who were doing an emergency back shift at Nissan. Not because it was cold, but because I wanted to spend time with Shelley as I’d be out on Sunday. Still saw all the televised games mind.

Sadly, I didn’t get the chance to meet up with Mike and the rest of the Bromley Boys on Sunday, but I know they will have been proud of their team’s efforts. Nobody will ever be able to take away their euphoria at taking the lead with a fine, curling strike. Alright, so we won out in the end, but it was nip and tuck until we brought on Bruno and Gordon after the break. I knew we’d pick a much changed side; indeed, I called 9 of the starting 11, surprised only by seeing Dubravka and Joelinton, who was the only player along with Miley, to play well in the opening half. I did feel a bit out of the loop when it came to all the new songs, though I reckon I’ve got the Osula one off pat. It was reassuring to know I was back in the East Stand when some moaning old bastard behind us kept slating Almiron all game, even after he went off, but was generally referring to Trippier when he did so. The fact is, our players are so bloody good now that there’s no point in offering them any advice, as they know so much more about the game than we do.  Miley was superb and scored an absolute thunderbolt of an equaliser. So pleased to see him back. 

Let’s enjoy this one but move swiftly on to the upcoming pair of home games against Wolves and Bournemouth, before we visit Southampton and host Fulham in preparation for Birmingham away in the cup.

Tonali Wired

NUFC; 2024 is over & the Premier League has reached the halfway point...

We’re all familiar with the truism that the actual days of the week become somehow irrelevant between Christmas and New Year, with the only thing to anchor us to reality being FA Cup third round day on the first Saturday in January. Very true, but this year it is on the second weekend in January, with the 20th round of Premier League fixtures pencilled in for the weekend of Saturday 4th and the League Cup semi finals scheduled for the midweek after that. For Newcastle, this means a pair of trips to North London, for Spurs in the league and then Arsenal in the first leg of the cup. Fixtures don’t let up after that, with three home games off the belt: Bromley (FA Cup, Sunday 12th), Wolves (Wednesday 15th) and Bournemouth (Saturday 18th lunchtime). Bearing in mind that I’ve not written about the club since the November international break, which seems an age ago, I’d best rapidly scribble a few thoughts as the league campaign reaches the halfway point.

2024 was the first year since 1972 when I didn’t set foot inside St James Park. My last visit was the 3-0 thumping of Fulham in December 2023, and my next one will be the Bromley cup game, which I’m getting a mite giddy at the prospect of already. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves though; there are 9 games to reflect on since I last blogged my opinions. After a cracking pair of results at home against Chelsea in the cup and Arsenal in the league, none of us were keen on the unnecessary November international break, but still held a strong belief we’d put a labouring West Ham side to the sword when hostilities resumed on Monday 25th November. I was really ill that day, having picked up either a bug or some version of food poisoning, meaning I’d slept, shivered and sweated in rapid rotation for the 20 hours until kick off. I managed to drag myself from my sick bed to lie prone on the sofa for this one and frankly wish I hadn’t bothered. Perhaps all of our memories erase the good parts of all defeats, but I recall we started this one promisingly and on the front foot. However, atrocious finishing either side of their opening goal let us down badly. The second half saw an alarming dip in the quality of our play. While I was lucky enough to miss the second, killer goal, while throwing up in the bog, I saw the uncomfortable reality of much of Newcastle United’s support. There doesn’t seem to be much point in agitating for a massive new ground, or an extended current one, if the place is only half full after 75 minutes and most of those remaining are sat in sulky silence, ready to boo the team off at full time. Yes, it was a poor result and a disappointing performance, after the break, but there’s no need to flounce off in a strop. If you can’t handle getting beat, don’t follow football.

When Newcastle went to Palace, I went to Forfar Athletic v Stirling Albion in the Scotch FA Cup and had a brilliant day. Sadly, after a breathtaking 120 minutes had ended in a 3-3 draw, I had to leave before the penalties (Forfar won 4-2) in order to make my connections. Only when I was sat on the bus back to Dundee did I check on the Newcastle score as, with the amount of chaotic fun to be enjoyed at Station Park, I’d naively assumed we’d held on for a 1-0 win, courtesy of our former transfer target, the notoriously homophobic Marc Guehi. As you all know, this wasn’t the case and I have to say, watching the highlights, a draw seemed a fair result. Obviously, social media went into meltdown over the performance and the result, but nobody seemed keen on pointing the finger at who was responsible for their late equaliser; Nick Pope had a positional shocker for that goal and, sad to say, hasn’t looked all that brilliant the whole season through. With Isak limping off, I would imagine were rubbing their hands with glee at the thought of a trip to Tyneside and three easy points in midweek.

Before that game kicked off, I had two funerals to attend; the second of which on the Wednesday itself was my dear friend Gary’s dad, Colin. He’d been a lifelong Newcastle fan, and this game produced the kind of rip-roaring excitement and raise the roof atmosphere that was a fitting tribute to a great bloke. I loved how Newcastle got at them right from the off (what a goal by Isak eh?) and never allowed their heads to drop when Liverpool came back into it. In the end, I think shit refereeing did cost us as we definitely should have had a penalty for a foul on Isak, but I find it hard to get angry about the final whistle blowing when we were on the attack, as the laws of the game state the final whistle must be blown when the ball is in play. This was hardly Brazil v Sweden in 1978, was it?

By the time of the Brentford away game on the Saturday, the weather had taken a turn for the worse and the only game I could find was Benton 0 Hexham 6 at the NFA’s unfinished symphony to the local game at St Peter’s Fields. You’ve got to feel sorry for clubs who put on home games in terrible conditions and then get trounced, but at least it meant I got home, frozen and soaked, for the second half of the Brentford game. I wish I hadn’t bothered, as what unfolded, after a pretty even and exciting first period, was the kind of limp catastrophe akin to the abject surrender there under Bruce in the League Cup quarter finals back in 2020. Same as on that night, as soon as we went behind, it was game over. I honestly don’t recall us having an effort on goal worthy of the name in the whole second period. For the first time in years, we had a load of empty shirts picking up their wages for nothing. Bruno was the worst offender, but many others offered nothing tangible. The continued presence of Callum Wilson at this club is an outrage, with Mickail Antonio being more mobile and offering more of a threat while in an induced coma. The whole team were sluggish, utterly unable to force the pace and impotent in attack. Sadly, the buck has to stop with Howe. If the Saudi owners are serious about Newcastle United as a project, then the next home games against Leicester and Brentford in the cup, as well as the trip to Ipswich, were all must win games. In any normal circumstances, failure in that trio of fixtures would see the axe fall. However, I remain to be convinced that the PFI are that bothered about Newcastle United because of the irritating profit and sustainability restrictions. It’s all about the line of least resistance, I guess.

In the end, such speculation is worthless as well as imponderable, as Newcastle turned in 5 astonishing victories in a row, scoring 16 and conceding 1. In the league, the four wins off the belt were achieved with consecutive clean sheets. If success starts from the back, then the presence of a rejuvenated Martin Dubravka between the sticks has to be the bedrock of this upswing in form. The hesitant, fumbling mistake in waiting we saw last season has been transformed. Additionally, the Tonali and Guimaraes partnership has bloomed beautifully, while Isak has returned to the full-on assassin mode we saw when he first arrived. However, the real hero has been Jacob Murphy; a popular player, but one often derided for supposedly lack star quality, he has torn up the form book of late. I arrived back from another Percy Main loss about half an hour into the Leicester game, where all the commentators could talk about was how fabulous Newcastle had played, but were failing to turn this dominance into goals. Just then, Murphy put us ahead with an effortlessly beautiful strike from a Gordon assist. From that moment on, we held the game by the scruff of the neck, with Lewis Hall and Anthony Gordon displaying telepathic understanding down the left. In all honesty, a 4-0 win flattered them, and we moved on to the Brentford cup game in energy saving mode.

Brentford are great at home, but less impressive on their travels. This may have tilted the scales in our favour, but the real difference was Tonali, starting in place of the suspended Sean, who scored two blinding goals. He really is starting to pay us back for standing by him during his suspension last season. Brentford didn’t look interested until 3-0, when we made a raft of changes. Their late goal, which may have been called offside by VAR, spoiled Dubravka’s clean sheet, but it was important to get through to the semi-finals, though I think I would have preferred Spurs in the semis, not Arsenal.

Ipswich seem to be a reinvention of Swindon 1993/1994, playing pretty football, but too often a soft touch when up against quality. I recall a 4-0 win in September 2009 under Chris Hughton, which contrasted with an awful 3-1 loss in the next promotion campaign under El Fraudo. There was no chance of the latter being repeated, but every chance of the former, when Isak rifled us ahead after 24 seconds, though my notification said 4 minutes, allowing for the VAR check. In the end, a second successive 4-0 win in the league was achieved with the minimum of fuss, sending us into Christmas with a spring our step.

After a wonderful visit to Sam Smith’s Park to see Benfield win the local derby 1-0 over Blue Star, I eschewed an afternoon on the pop, for one on the sofa, as Amazon Prime broadcast the Villa game, which I enjoyed almost as much as Hibs restoring the natural order in Embra after trouncing the Bus Drivers at Swinecastle with a goal by NUFC legend Dwight Gayle. Let’s be honest, Aston Villa are a canny team and our 5-1 win at home last season was a bit of an outlier for both sides, so I didn’t dare dream we could make a repeat performance. We did though, tearing into them from the off, seeing Gordon smashing us into an early lead with a brilliant finish and then benefitting from Jhon Duran’s idiotic assault on Schar that was rightly punished with a red card. From that point on, we cruised to a win. Three disallowed efforts and an absolute pearler from Joelinton saw us move up to fifth, which we’d scarcely have dreamed possible only three weeks earlier.

But the easiest win was still to come. A facile, fatuous stroll in the park at Old Trafford, where a Manchester United team, far worse than the one that went down in 1974, lay down and died without a fight. We scored two simple, textbook goals from perfect crosses by Hall and Gordon, as the obvious weaknesses of the home side played right into our hands. If Tonali had scored instead of hitting the inside of the post, we could have given them a thumping for the ages, but why bother exhausting ourselves? When Tonali nutmegged the referee, I couldn’t stop laughing for about 10 minutes. The game was in the bag after 20 minutes and we didn’t need to exert ourselves further. Ignoring our opponents’ weaknesses, the game saw us end 2024 in 5th place. We’ve won 9, drawn 5 and lost 5 of the first set of fixtures, giving us 32 points thus far. If we continue to play with the tempo, flair and verve, we should be looking to improve on that and finish top 4, though I’d much rather we won the League Cup. Being selfish, I really want to see a good win against Bromley.

Can things go wrong? Injuries, loss of form or bad luck can derail our progress. I do seriously doubt we will be busy in the transfer market. Howe has already sought to dampen speculation about arrivals. At least if we do remain inactive, it will provide True Faith with something to twist their faces about, which will please them no end.