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.