Who's That Team We All Abhor?

NUFC over the last while....

I didn’t write this piece immediately after the Brentford game. I couldn’t, because I was too angry about another pathetic, clueless performance on the road to express anything other than inarticulate rage. A week later I’m still furious and we remain two points above the drop zone, but I think I can provide a more measured perspective on events between the last two international breaks than I would have done on Sunday 9^th November. This is the third pause we’ve had so far this season, and each one has been heralded by the outpouring of vastly differing emotions. The break in September came as a relief as the Isak transfer debacle was finally concluded, after we’d unnecessarily thrown away the chance of 9 possible points in the opening games in an atmosphere of utter chaos. The October break was frustrating as we were finally looking like an outfit who had sussed a new style of play, confidently dispatching an admittedly woeful Forest side before everything ground to a competitive halt. The arrival of this November ceasefire has been greeted with unbridled relief as we’ve been so dismal on the road, it beggars belief.

Let me say this now. Eddie Howe is still the right man for the job of Newcastle United manager. There are if, buts and all manner of caveats attached to that statement, not least because our next three league games are the daunting prospect of Man City (H), Everton (A) and Spurs (H), which I’ll come on to later. One of the most blatantly obvious reasons for retaining his services is that, as far I can see, there are no viable, realistic candidates to replace him. Iraola has his advocates, but he hardly did his cause much good with that mauling at Villa Park the other week. Roberto Mancini has been mentioned, but he’s another yesterday man from my perspective. In all honesty, I am still grateful for everything Howe has done for the club since he arrived and you don’t need me to tell you that avoiding the drop in his first season, two CL qualifications and the small matter of a Sunday in Wembley back in March put him head and shoulders above every other manager we’ve had in my lifetime, Keegan and Robson included. But he needs to do better, as do the players, and that crucial improvement needs to happen fast. The fixture list isn’t promising, but everyone plays each other twice a season and we just have to get on with it.

Ideally, Howe does his best work where he has previously proved himself to be an outstanding coach. On the training ground. Developing tactics and drilling them into the players. Anthony Gordon suspended for the Carabao Cup final? No problem. Here’s Plan B; we’ll win the game in midfield rather than down the flanks. Guess what? We did. Recently there hasn’t been a Plan A, other than kick offs being deliberately launched into touch by the opposition corner flag, like a nostalgic reboot of John Beck’s tactics at Cambridge United, circa 1991. What we need, and this is where the injuries to Pope, Gordon, Livramento and Hall should benefit us during this international break, is some solid hard work on defending set pieces and a clear idea what to do when we go forward. Yes, there are players away on international duty and well done to Thiaw, the one uniformly bright spot in a terrible league season so far, for his call up by Germany, but Howe and Jones can, should and hopefully will do what is necessary to make us look competent and competitive again, before the season really goes over the cliff edge.

So, how did we get to this bizarre situation where we sit 14^th in the Premier League and 6^th in a 36-team Champions League, with an eminently winnable League Cup quarter final tie at home? To sum up, we’ve been shit away and done the necessary at home, without ever really hitting top gear. Before the Brighton game that kicked off this recent set of fixtures, we appointed someone called Ross Wilson as Sporting Director, whatever that means. There are so many walk-on, walk-off appointments to a series of meaningless job titles in the club that I lose track and pine for the days when Russell Cushing and Tony Toward just used to divvy the admin work up between them. To prove the point Peter Silverstone, the club’s Chief Commercial Officer has just slung his hook, after tying up a major Saudi sponsorship deal with Visa. I’m a Barclays customer and don’t particularly feel comfortable that they’re throwing money at NUFC and not giving me better interest on my ISAs, but there you go. Rather more seriously, the promise of freebie corporates to high-end clients in Saudi Arabia rather undercuts the valiant work NUST (and fair play to them for getting David Stonehouse on the board) are attempting regarding ticketing transparency. Then again the anodyne response from Hoppy, the Man in the Suit, to their requests for open dialogue probably tells you all you need to know about the PIF and their underlings’ attitude to Mags who stump up their hard-earned cash, not just to buy tickets, but to throw cash away on the Membership tombola farce, ostensibly to give them a chance to buy tickets. It’s all about the money, honey. There’s a new training ground and revamped SJP to fund you know. Possibly. Trust the process, as the Dubai chronophiles say.

As for Brighton, the best you can say is that The Amex is becoming the new Dell and Danny Welbeck a reincarnation of Le Tissier, without the swivel-eyed chemtrails conspiracy lunacy. The famed midfield shattered from long haul international fortnight flights, all 4 wingers woefully out of form, second choice ageing, clumsy full backs and a hitherto impressive centre back pairing unaccountably baffled by straight balls into the box. We all wanted to call it a blip, rather than the new normal. Ah, but then came Benfica. What a second half that was, eh?  Not only that, but Mourinho showed a great deal of class in his remarks about the club. I’ve always had a soft spot for the curmudgeonly contrarian, not that I’d ever want him in the home dug out.

Admittedly, their right winger caused us a few problems early on and we might have taken the lead slightly against the run of play, but once Gordon got us ahead, it was a relatively straightforward evening. Indeed, it was great to see 75% of our wingers putting in quality shifts. Sadly, I didn’t get a ticket, but I met with John, over from Ireland, and Ben who had in The Town Mouse before kick-off and when they walked to the ground, I made my way to The Bodega, listening to the stirring sound of the crowd, feeling the anticipation in the air and cursing the ballot system. It’s 16 years since I threw in my season tickets, but there are times when you wish you could have been a part of it, and this was one of them. Mind, I put in a disciplined performance, restricting myself to a pint per half. Indeed, the only blight on the night was the last 38 not showing up and having to get an Uber home.

On the day of the Fulham game, I got to see Newcastle win (Independent), draw (University) and lose (East End), but I didn’t see United. Instead, I got back from some Alliance games just in time to watch the last bit of the day’s unfolding action on Sky Sports. I punched the air when Bruno got the winner, then within the hour saw detailed highlights on line. Despite the narrowness of the scoreline and lateness of the goal, this was a well-deserved win, spoiled only by poor finishing. Frankly, we should have been 3-0 up at the break, but no matter, we took the points, had won two in a row and moved on to the Spurs League Cup game in a better frame of mind. That said, I was a trifle concerned that under Frank, Tottenham wouldn’t be the soft-centred cowards they’ve often been in these parts. I needn’t have worried as they barely laid a glove on us. Tonali won the game in midfield singlehandedly and a pair of undefended headers from unchallenged crosses saw us safely through to the last 8, where we’ve been paired with Fulham at home. At this stage of the competition, you couldn’t ask for much more than that.

And then we went to West Ham. Took the lead in 4 minutes and completely disintegrated. Some social media hot heads were calling this the worst game in Howe’s reign. Obviously they didn’t see the FA Cup games against Cambridge or Sheffield Wednesday. I suppose what they really meant was that it was the worst game they’d seen since we last lost, because according to Twitter, every game we lose, regardless of circumstances, is the worst game under Eddie Howe. That, of course, is nonsense, though this was a dreadful performance. In the search for scapegoats, Pope was the one in the cyber stocks for this result, though how on earth you contend with ill-fortune like Botman’s own goal is beyond me. Although I have to say I am at a loss to explain why we’re so bad away from home and what we can do about it. Perhaps we could bring Tommy Gibb out of retirement as he always preferred to play away rather be tormented at SJP by our own “supporters.” I suppose this proves that supporting the team has always involved the right to moan, abuse and slag off anyone in black and white, regardless of their merit.

I’m a good dad me you know. John managed to get me a Bilbao ticket on the Monday before and I gave it to Ben. Of course I paid. Having taken Ben to Bilbao and enjoyed a tour of the original San Mames, I thought this was the correct thing to do. After all, I was at the 1994 UEFA Cup game when the bonds of friendship were forged between the two clubs. From mid-afternoon, even from in the house, I could feel the atmosphere build. Fireworks helped I suppose. Photos and videos on social media made me nostalgic and almost tearful. I watched the game with Big Gary and a squad of his pals in The Sun. Was Dan Burn’s banana header even better than his Cup final goal. I think it was, but obviously not so important. Joelinton’s was probably even easier than Woltemade’s against Spurs. Job done. I know Bilbao were weak and understrength, but we did a very professional job, proving conclusively, whatever Denver and his Fifth Columnist pals may contend, that corporate ownership of football clubs rather than the tired, outmoded socio formula in the way forward. Money makes meritocrats.

Money also makes flags, and I was sickened to see the tiny, unrepresentative NUFC Against Sportswashing sect having a go at Wor Flags for not designing anti Saudi banners. Aside from the fact NUFC Against Sportswashing are Islamophobic in their abuse towards PIF and anti-Semitic in their criticism of the Rubens, why don’t they put their money where their mouth is and pay for a banner that displays their message? The real reason is that they’d have to find someone to hold it aloft inside SJP and since none of them attend games, the idea falls at the first hurdle.

Finally, we come back to Brentford and our second successive stuffing there. Once again, Newcastle United are in the business of ruining weekends, as we’ve been doing since 1892. I must admit I’d expected Lyle Lovatt to be a joke of a boss when he got the gig, but he’s proved me wrong. They’re a big, cumbersome, troubling team and they cuffed us aside after the break. Three days on from the glory of Bilbao, Dan Burn was a calamity until he was put out of his misery. I don’t think the one he conceded was a penalty, but I did think the one that was overturned should have been given. Pope was flapping at crosses like a punch drunk, blindfolded Brian London tribute act in a boxing booth at The Hoppings. Ramsdale is a more than adequate deputy, but Pope, these last 2 games aside, has been good this season. I’m glad I don’t have to make a decision as to who starts the next game.

This brings us up to date. Manchester City at home next and still some fans seem more concerned with the order of pre-match songs at SJP than events on the pitch. Obviously, if we get that right, and everything will fall into place. Right?

 

Journey's End

Queen's Park 2 Raith Rovers 1; my Scottish groundhopping adventures are done...

And so, a day I’d often thought about but had never really expected to happen finally came to pass. On Saturday 8^th November 2025, I completed my series of visits to every single SPFL ground, with a revisit of the oldest Scottish club Queen’s Park, at their restored Lesser Hampden home, in the shadow of the famous National Stadium, for the visit of Raith Rovers, in the company of Ben. Obviously, the trip had an element of doubt in the week leading up to it. A landslip between Oxenholme and Penrith on the Monday previous had caused all manner of disruption on the West Coast main line, so I’d rebooked our trip an hour earlier, as I like to err on the side of caution. In the event, everything ran incredibly smoothly, which meant we had an hour to spare in Carlisle, using it sensibly by getting a substantial bacon roll from a local café. Nice it was too.

The stiflingly hot Avanti train to Glasgow Central gave us a hassle-free ride, as did the connection on the Neilston circle to Mount Florida, which meant we arrived slightly before the turnstiles opened at 2pm. I’ve been to the National Stadium on several occasions, generally to see Hibs lose, but I did catch a Queen’s Park home game against Cowdenbeath in February 2020. With only 470 inside the ground, the vast swathes on empty seats and echoes of the players shouts made it an eerie experience, akin to watching Newcastle Reserves at SJP or Anderlecht Futures against RWDM at the King Baudoin Stadium in Brussels last year. Lesser Hampden, despite being open at both ends, as seems to be the wont in many if not all recently built or redeveloped Scottish grounds, is a far more sensible venue for Queen’s Park, even after the Spiders eschewed their 150-year tradition of amateurism and embraced the professional game. Indeed, there were 876 watching today, in a supposed capacity of 977.

We entered from the home turnstile and took the very last two seats in the home end, that were only across the aisle from where the raucous, rowdy and wildly profane away fans were housed in the final two blocks, enjoying a quality steak pie and Bovril lunch. The seats had plenty of leg room and afforded a perfect view of proceedings. There is another small stand opposite, but it appears to be a space reserved for dignitaries. Shame, because if we’d sat on that side, we wouldn’t have been blinded by the low sun setting in the first half. Although that misfortune wasn’t of any particular problem as the football on display was dire in the most part. Raith were the more direct, but failed to carve out any presentable opportunities, while Queen’s Park played a cautious possession-based game, where any risky attacking ball was ignored, in favour of retaining possession at all costs.

The best player on the pitch was Queen’s attacker Josh Fowler, and his two goals won the game for the home side. His first was courtesy of woeful miscommunication in the Raith defence, when he collected a loose ball and rammed home a low 20-yard finish after 14 minutes.  It was a quality finish, but the lead wasn’t to last long as Darragh O'Connor’s right footed shot from the left side of the six-yard box into the top left corner brought the teams level on 22 minutes. This is how it stayed until the break, which cheered me considerably as it meant I’d done every ground and not seen a single goalless draw.

After the break, Raith tried to up the ante and were twice denied by miraculous saves from the home keeper, Calum Ferrie, who is English, interestingly enough. He made his name with a penalty save at Ibrox last year, when Queen’s Park beat Glasgow’s newest club Sevco in the Scottish Cup. Mind he also let in 5 at Partick Thistle the week before today, so it isn’t all plain sailing. However, his important intervention gave the Spiders renewed hope and they grabbed all 3 points with another goal from Fowler on 78 minutes. He received the ball wide right in the box, checked, evaded a challenge and curled a delicious effort in off the post. There would be no dancing in the streets of Raith that night. The result moved Queen’s Park out of the relegation play-off place and up to 8^th, while the visitors stay 6^th.

If I were asked which parts of Scotland are the best (or worst) at swearing, I’d undoubtedly call a dead heat between Ayrshire and Lanarkshire, but the Kingdom of Fife run the two former coalmining heartlands in the west very close. Indeed, one tall young chap, sat directly to my right, spent all afternoon issuing semi-coherent volleys of the language of the snooker hall in the direction of officials, players and other spectators for the entire contest. The fact Queen’s Park won 2-1 didn’t lighten his mood, though I suspect if Raith had replicated their famous win over Celtic in the 1994 League Cup final in the adjoining arena, he still wouldn’t have been satisfied.

As we made our way through grumbling Fifers to Mount Florida, I realised just how thirsty I was, after the pie and Bovril, so it was just as well Ben and I were heading only 2 stops to Queen’s Park (ironically), to visit a pub we’d both had our eyes on for ages; Koelschip Yard, which is an absolute craft ale paradise. Without overstating things, the Kriek on tap was the finest I’ve tasted. We had a few scoops, met the biggest (and friendliest) dog in the world and I bought a £50 carry-out from the brilliant Wee Beer Shop opposite. An off licence so good and so friendly, I messaged the owner Niall on Insta the next day and got put on the mailing list. I tell you that’s where I’m getting my Christmas Cantillon and Kernel supplies from this year. Just a shame it’s the other side of the city from where we’re going to see My Bloody Valentine in a couple of weeks.

 As we were travelling back via Edinburgh, we got an Uber to Queen’s Street, where we saw the drunkest man in the world trying to buy 2 coffees on his card from Greggs, before running slap bang into Stephen from The Pastels, on his way home from a day’s work at Monorail no doubt. We shook hands and agreed to try and meet up at My Bloody Valentine, before we were away. On that train, I got talking to Keith a Queen of the South fan who’d been to the musical Hamilton with his missus that afternoon (though I’d presume he'd prefer to have been at Hamilton Accies instead) and had remarkably been at Spennymoor 0 Barrow 2 in the FA Cup the week before. After that, the timing of the train from Waverley was too tight to allow us a pint in Brew Dog, so we took our place with many well-served Scottish rugby fans who’d been to Murrayfield for the New Zealand game. We got back to Central on time, had an unnecessary last one in The Wobbly Duck and caught the last bus home. A splendid, splendid day and a fitting way to end my Scottish odyssey.

I must admit to having a feeling of sadness accompanying the sense of accomplishment. No longer will I look to fixtures long in the future, check travel logistics and anticipate the journey. I’ve never believed it is better to travel than arrive, but my final destination has been reached with a heavy heart. What is my next bucket list challenge? Let me think on that one…

 

 

Stairing with the Rude Boys

Stranraer 3 Forfar Athletic 1; Saturday 1st November 2025. Photos by Wallsend National Party PLC

While my team Percy Main Amateurs were losing 4-2 on penalties after a 2-2 draw in 90 minutes at home to Hazlerigg Victory in a Northumberland FA Senior Benevolent Bowl Round 1 tie, and my pal Big Gary’s side Newcastle Benfield were going down to a controversial 1-0 loss away to Easington Colliery in the Northern League Division 1, me and him were speeding the 163 miles from leafy NE7 to the furthest western outpost of Scottish League football. Our destination was Stranraer’s Stair Park for the tussle with Forfar Athletic, that constituted my 42^nd SPFL tick, though I still need to revisit Queen’s Park as they now play at Lesser Hampden, adjoining their former home at the Scottish National Stadium, to complete the set.

This was actually my third attempt at visiting Stranraer. Firstly, back in February, Gary had to bail when a pal was visiting from Birkenhead and then at the start of October, a work trip for him to either the Shetlands or the Orkneys (I forget which) put paid to that plan. I did look at doing it by public transport (I’m a non-driver you see), but the journey would have been an ordeal, Leaving Newcastle at 08.06, taking two trains and a bus in either direction, before getting back at 23.34. Despite my Over 60s Railcard, this was just too much to cope with. Thus, the first day of November was set in stone and we left mine at 10.00, had a quick Costa stop on the outskirts of Dumfries, which is when I discovered I’d forgotten my phone and so couldn’t get any pictures of the day out and  eventually pulled into the free car park that was the derelict remains of the old Sealink ferry terminal loading bay, at 1.30 pm.

Back in the day, I’d journeyed the A74 numerous times, as I attended the University of Ulster in County Derry between 1983 and 1986, often travelling on the Stranraer to Larne ferry. Now that was a journey and a half. The only way to do it, courtesy of Lord Beeching tearing up the Dumfries to Stranraer train line, was to leave Newcastle at 02.52 and travel via Edinburgh and Glasgow, changing stations, then take the Ferry to Larne, train to Belfast, changing stations, onwards to Coleraine, arriving in Portrush at 18.13. Mind I was a lot younger in those days. The last time I’d done that trek was in Summer 1988, by National Express in point of fact, which was before the A74 upgrade that bypassed Dumfries, Newton Stewart, Creetown, Gatehouse of Fleet and Castle Kennedy. While it’s still a hell of a trek, it no longer feels like Chairman Mao’s long march. It’s quite a scenic trip along the Galloway coast and you do get to see Castle Cary Park, the home of Creetown FC, who were inactive the day we passed, being the spare side in the 11-team South of Scotland League.

Stranraer, from what I’d remembered, is hideous. Partly that was as a result of the PTSD engendered spending 9 hours in the freezing Ferry Terminal on Sunday 15^th January 1984, when our ferry was cancelled. That said, I did enjoy an idyllic family holiday in the nearby small resort of Portpatrick in 1974. No chance of visiting that old haunt today of course. No chance of a sociological saunter through Stranraer either. Instead, Gary and I left the car, surrounded by derelict caravans which may have been Stranraer’s take on Airbnb and struck back up the road to Stair Park, which is in a public park, also called Stair Park.

Stranraer were formed in 1870 and are Scotland’s third oldest club, and their history is proudly displayed on some interesting posters inside the ground, but they don’t make the most of any commercial opportunities that may come their way. Team sheets were given out free in the stiflingly hot clubhouse, but there were no programmes and the club shop was closed. I inquired and was given a vague promise that “someone would be along later” to open it up, but I just let that slide. We entered the ground (£15 adults and £10 for us codgers; cash only), where I bought a decent steak (brisket) pie, before we took our place at pitch side, from where we saw the home side prevail in a mainly comfortable 3-1 win.

Stair Park is a decent little ground. It reminded of Montrose or Cove Rangers. One end is completely open, but the other has a reasonable covered shed with about 8 steps of terracing. Each side has a stand that covers halfway, with other bits of terracing. We took in the first half from the main stand side and the second from the terracing by the entrance. Views are good from all angles, and we saw all the goals perfectly. Stranraer put lengthy highlights on YouTube and from viewing them the day after, I saw that what I had initially thought was a soft penalty for the home side was absolutely nailed on. They scored it to lead at the break. The football was honest, if a little too much of the lump it and hope variety, but the game improved greatly after the break.

This was partly because Forfar equalised. What those around us claimed was an offside goal, was a mile on according to the highlights, if against the run of play. It resulted in an absolute torrent of oath-edged personal invective directed at the assistant who failed to raise his flag. I felt sorry for this individual who suffered both male pattern baldness and a bizarre Mallen streak down the back of his head. While the supporters kept up a barrage of foul-mouthed abuse for the rest of the contest, the players forgot about the inaction of the tonsorially challenged one and set about winning the game, with a brace of good late goals. Firstly, Ryan Edgar powered in a great header and then substitutes, the magnificently named, Dominic Plank and Deryn Lang combined to win the game for the home side. All we were missing was an entry from the bench of the unfortunately-monikered Beejay Coll, to give us all a happy ending.

Being so far west, the game finished in the gloaming not darkness and we got away at 5.10. With no stops, Gary was dropping me off, to be reunited with my phone, by 7.45 after a great day out. Full speed ahead to Queen’s Park next Saturday then.