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.