The Difference Between What Is Said & What Is Heard

Recently I took the time to re-watch the evidence of Newcastle throttling the life out of sunland during our latest mismatch. Entrusted with The Mag’s report I was keen not to make even more of a knob of myself than usual. Years ago I got the names of the Roker Park stands muddled up in a recollection of a game and one reader took this as irrefutable proof, that not only had I never been to the match in question, but that I had more than likely never been to a sporting encounter featuring Newcastle United in my life, that I regularly tried to molest hens and deserved to be shot in the neck with a cabbage for telling fibs – or at least that’s what I thought he said.

Anyhoo. The boss-eyed inbreeds had a tatty banner that they had made at home with their crayons and had brought along for us all to enjoy. Something about how they would “love it” if they beat us – an obviously feeble attempt at mocking Kevin Keegan for nearly winning the League while they were….. what were they doing at the time? Sitting in a pool of their own p*ss would be a fair bet.

Now you will remember Kevin Keegan doing the “Luv it” thing at Leeds because it has become part of Premiership folklore. At the time we fans thought it was wonderful, a call to arms yes but the crucial bit was about Manchester United having to go to Middlesbrough “and get something.” The Honourable Lord Beardsley will tell you that before and after that interview Keegan was a picture of serenity. So this outburst, far from being our manager getting tipped over the edge by Ferguson’s “mind games” was more than likely a calculated attempt to shock Boro into trying. It didn’t work, Boro lost 3-0, but my friend who was at the game said the Teesiders had a right go.

However the “Luv it” speech is now used as a stick to beat Keegan, it seems what other people witnessed were the cracks visibly appearing in a paranoid man buckling under pressure. It is too late to do anything about it this opinion, OK but how many of you noticed Alex Ferguson criticising Bolton’s players for going out 6 days before their crucial game with Chelsea. The manic ramblings of swivel-eyed lunatic drowning in his own mouth froth or was it seen as Sir Alex being crafty?

Kevin Keegan is a shrewd man who has been misquoted and had things thrown back at him so often that he generally makes his point with sub-clauses and denials tied into them. (“No offence to…” here and “I’m not saying that…” there) And often what he might be saying gets trampled on or lost when you pluck a single sentence out of what he is saying – for example he said “people in Newcastle go to football the same way people in the south might go to the theatre” which I took to mean “when people go to a football match in Newcastle they are paying to be entertained and excited ahead of anything else” But for the sake of comedy purposes can mean “Well Upton Park was virtually empty the night Liza Minneli trod the boards as Banquo’s Ghost in “Miss Saigon.” You see people in the south don’t understand football because they are all painted cocktail-sipping whoopsies.”

Saying what you mean is a dangerous game in modern football: for example a club coming out and announcing that it has got £50 million to spend may well encourage Cleatus to take his claw out of his filthy trousers long enough to buy a new season ticket for the Stadium Of Light but Nicky Hunt ( born for sunland; nasty gobshite and away from the pitch dresses like there’s a wedding at the campsite. In 1974) and (please) Damien Duff and Alan Smith have just doubled in price.

Consequently we’ve got a problem with Keegan’s “millions of miles away from the top four” speech after we lost to Chelsea because of now it will be used against him rather than for the perfectly sensible points he was actually trying to make.

Chelsea had hundreds of millions of pounds worth of players not even in their starting eleven to call on – while our options from the bench were a blonde-poppet striker who never scores and a lad who has just come back from a less than explosive loan deal at Preston North End. Very frustrating especially added to Modric excepting less wages to join bloody Tottenham.

Or was Kevin trying to squeeze an oversized check out of Mike Ashley.

Judging by the performance at Everton our players took their manager to be quoting Homer Simpson’s “Can’t win, don’t try” mantra before ringing their friends at Aston Villa to check on the wage structure. Or was Kevin dampening his fans traditional enthusiasm for a close-season spending spree? If so, it worked, I was so dispirited that I instantly started looking forward to a summer of drinking in the garden whilst not thinking about Newcastle United and watching Casey Stoner falling off his Ducatti. I already doubt I can remember the way to the SJP box office when it comes time to pay for my season ticket.

I like Roy Keane. There I’ve said it. I like the way he goes through life looking like he hates everybody. And he’s much more fun to have around the Premier League than most lower placed managers, an interchangeable mob of dreary bullshitters droning on about poor decisions and “plugging away”. Keane doesn’t seem to care what people think about him and seems to dislike the same things about football that proper fans do; corporate spectators, spoiled players, people not trying, managers moaning about refs – I would go so far as to say that if Roy promised to make Ashley Cole eat his own shit at gunpoint he would be the most popular manager in the country. Keane was also complimentary about Keegan when it was very unfashionable to be so.

Roy Keane could give sunderland a whole new dynamic – where they actually have some self-respect and don’t live their lives fussing about what they do in comparison to Newcastle ahead of anything else – but he won’t. He won’t because of the mentality of the snaggle-toothed, semi-evolved pigf****ers following his team. Turning up here dressed in off-white and inflammation-red, like mobile acne with a silly accent, one collective thought in their filthy skulls; that a point at Newcastle will make sunderland better than Newcastle, a better place with identity, transport links, culture and decent gigs. A place where the highlight of their non-football lives isn’t Mickey Rooney driving around their grotty little bottle shop in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

Another good thing about Roy Keane is he’s not really doing very well. He’s spent £40 million and what has he got to show for it, a half decent ‘keeper and Kenwyn Jones? Jones seems to be a grotesque hybrid of Shola Ameobi and Tigger (bouncing all over the place with a disarming smile and little idea or interest in direction or purpose) and he represented sunderland’s only realistic threat. The rest of the team seems to be made up of the same kind of faceless grafters and hackers we’ve been annoyed by then forgotten for a hundred years.

For the 48 hours going up to this game Newcastle fans all seemed to be saying the same thing: “The only thing that worries me about this game is that I’m not worried, which worries me.”

As we hopped up the steps into the Leazes End (determined not to look up and right) I shivered briefly. Was it the unseasonable chill, nerves, excitement or the giddy thrill of DJ Rob playing The Ruts “Staring At The Rude Boys”? Who cares? We live for this shit and as “a voice in the crowd” shouts, “We’ll Never Surrender!”

The atmosphere was brilliantly cranked up by the club putting out black and white cards which turned the ground into a sea of beautiful stripes and by Graeme Danby singing “The Blaydon Races.” This seemed like a damn silly idea but worked a charm – opera singers at football overdress and over do it but Graeme was just a big bloke in a Toon top with a flag on a pole. All be it a big bloke in a Toon top with a flag on a pole who can sing like a Viking God. Three verses, three chorus – the last of which was performed with the flag held rampant in front of the unwashed before stamping off with some “TOON TOON”s leaving the, by now, fevered home fans to shake Valhalla with the “Black and White Army”s.

Our blood was up and cluster bombs of exhilaration shook into one apocalyptic roar and instead of tailing off on the whistle as all too often in recent years it went on. McShane took out Owen within seconds and the volume hit eleven with demands for justice. Two minutes in, far too early to ever score in a derby, Geremi bent a ball in from the right of centre and Owen was suddenly behind the last defender and heading the ball expertly into the Gallowgate End net. There was a pause of about a tenth of a second while we took in the enormity of what we were watching then the crowd went thermo-nuclear.

After this the game took on a pattern all too familiar; Newcastle try to play some football while sunderland hurtle around diving into challenges, kicking people spitefully then lying about playing the ball, closing down space then (and they have done this 5 times in every game they have ever played, I swear it) one of their players will have the ball at his feet with a moment to compose himself, he’ll look up, set himself – and kick the ball into the crowd - “Wa-hey!” we cheer, because like when the Harlem Globetrotters throw the bucket of paper, you never tire of the classics.

McShane, distinguishable from the rest cos of his pasty skin and sandy thatch, had a nightmare. On ten minutes he headed a Newcastle corner into his own net that the ref seemed to disallow because he had had second thoughts about giving the corner because there was no foul in there. The ref was Mike Dean and he did well, he tried to let the game flow and didn’t try to even up the bookings which after persistent handballs and late tackles sunderland won 5-0. “Hasn’t he already been booked?” we kept asking each other because you couldn’t tell the useless f***ers apart.

Our lack of pace through the midfield was a problem especially as it was 5 against three in there. Afterwards the mackems would moan that Keane should have played two up front – but you are only allowed 11 on the pitch you bloody idiots and without the 5 in there Geremi, Butt and Barton would have taken the piss. All three played well especially Nicky Butt who was composed and masterful but sheer weight of numbers forced them all into mistakes.

But not as many mistakes as McShane was making. He was useless. A shame then that Oba had a bit of an off day. Martins twice got in behind his hapless marker in the first half, firstly he shot from an angle with Owen unmarked and secondly was blatantly flattened. When the chief of refs publicly apologised to Keane in the week leading up to this match you feared this would happen, obvious penalties waved away.

Yet, on half time Owen played into Viduka whose cheeky flick put Owen back in. Some jug-eared goon dived in as Owen tried to nip the ball past him and it hit jug-lugs on the hand. And up we all went.

Penalty.

Barton seemed to want it. Owen took the ball – we all remembered him taking some rotten penalties when at Liverpool. And this was a rotten penalty.

It took so long to squeeze under Gordon and make its way into the net that a large proportion of the ground thought it saved. But the explosion of arms and noise from the Gallowgate was instantly reflected in the Leazes.

A good time to score but as the halftime whistle went we were looking for a third.

The second half was long and poor as our technical players struggled for air amidst studs and sweat. In retrospect and on repeat viewing we were comfortable, our only risk being in our own galloping imaginations. All our defenders played well as did Harper. Jones was nullified and sunderland had nothing else except effort and the erratic unpredictability of the stupid. Kieron Richardson (as well as having an annoying cousin) has an England cap or two – he came on and instantly vanished.

The best chance of the half came when Jose Enrique Sanchez Diaz cut out a ball and eased it to Geremi who hit a 50 yard pass to Martins. Martins brought it down, twisted away and hit the advancing Owen who instantly put Oba in one on one with Gordon. Owen and Viduka were square but Martins blasted his shot straight at the keeper and Keegan was so cross he took Oba straight off. Duff came on and we went 4-4-2.

After a splendidly insipid free-kick from the edge of our area by them Viduka made way for Carroll who wasn’t far off with a chance crossed on the run by Owen. By now Owen was Man Of The Match by a mile. Even without his goals he was two classes above anything they had. As if to underline that fact, in the 80^th minute, Chops came on – I couldn’t bring myself to boo him. He isn’t good enough for us – he is good enough for them – I like that fact but I did join in with “4-1 even Chopra scored”.

By this point the mind is a battlefield. Don’t think we’ve won. They haven’t got time to score three. They are rubbish. Clear that ball. Bastard! Ref man. Don’t think we’ve won. They haven’t got time to score two. Would one hurt? Yes it f***ing would give them nothing. Don’t look at their fans. We are going to win – this is great. If they get one we’ll panic. I’m panicking now. Oh God this is going on forever. That clock has been on 86 for ten minutes. Run away. Stay and fight. Sing you bastard. This means everything so give everything. This is no time to be shy. Newcass –erl Newcass-erl Newcastle. Newcastle Newcastle Newcastle.

And as one we are on our feet and the ground is shaking and we are cheering everything and they are dead. Finally I glance up and right at level 7 and the acne are flat and f***ed and we’ve won and they know it and they can’t leave. This is so cool.

The whistle blows to end it and we are up and embracing, almost tearful. We shake hands and smile and slap each other on the back.

On The Wings Of Angels

The story of the season, as I see it from the bunker beneath Castle Furious, goes something like this:  That oaf Shepherd, in a final act of desperation, sold the footballing soul of this club to The Devil and The Dark Lord Of Anti-Football, Sam Allardyce, took charge. Then, for the first time ever in a case of soul selling, it was The Devil who said “Hang on I think this deal is a bit unfair,” appalled, he went on, “this soul is of no use to me and Allardyce is actually just a nit full of hot air and hokum so would anybody mind if we just pretended this never happened?” and The Devil dragged a crying Sam away by the ear whilst smacking his legs.

On the wings of angels Kevin Keegan came and our raggedy soul was cleansed.

Unfortunately some folk on this planet don’t take too kindly to those bringing a message of hope to the downtrodden (Jesus, William Wallace, Martin Luther King, Hong Kong Phooey) and evil men set about trying to mock, belittle and destroy that man and his message (I guess we should be grateful that Kevin hasn’t been nailed to a tree, drawn and quartered, shot or stuck in a filing cabinet). But it’s too late – we have remembered ourselves and who we are, we are mentally tougher and while we were down we were taking note of those kicking us.

Of course those keen to mock quickly change tack – I caught the back end of a discussion on 5 Live where a Newcastle fan said, “We look safe now, hopefully we can build in the summer and be stronger next year.” The journalist in the studio said straight away, “That’s the trouble with Newcastle fans; they win a couple of games and they think they are going to win the League.”

I don’t suppose me screaming, “he didn’t f***ing say that you c(bomb)” at the radio will have done more than scare the birds in the garden and make the people next door want to move out but I’m sick of us being judged by idiots who have no right to do so – people who take the moral high ground and look down their noses at us. Brian Woolnough said, “I didn’t agree with the appointment of Keegan” – really Brian and who do you work for mate? The Daily Star isn’t it hmm? Would that be the same Daily Star that has had to pay out substantial damages twice in the last month (The McCanns and Marco Matterazzi) for printing horribly offensive lies? We should worry about what you think should we? Henry Winter of the Daily Telegraph (humourless f***ing rag) said, “I feel sorry for Keegan, I would like to see the board at Newcastle relegated, that’s how not to run a football club” – compared to what Henry, the last lot? Or perhaps you mean other Premiership clubs in recent years with their extortionists, porn barons, and chairman spending tens of thousands of pounds on tropical fish. Recent reports claimed that Liverpool will be paying £40 million a year just to service their debt and that many Manchester United season tickets are expected to start coming in at over a thousand pounds each.

How is Mike Ashley getting so much stick? – if a year ago we in Newcastle had been told that our new owner would kick Shepherd and his lickspittles into the street, pay off our massive debt, accept bigger away allocations, not spout shite, look like he cares and offer to buy everybody in the ground a pint we would have had your f***ing arm off - talk about arriving on the wings of angels. I was going to list the things I want to happen in the summer, but apart from an electric blue and black away kit, everything seems to be in hand. Some of the people criticising Ashley can seamlessly move onto complaining about the influx of foreign owners without seeing the hypocrisy.

Neil Farrington of our Sunday Sun (who I have a lot of time for by the way) pointed out that Mike sat with Rob Beasley of the News Of The World for the Fulham game   Neil thought entertaining Beasley a bad idea. I thought it was a really positive thing – apart from the fact that Beasley is a shrewd and intelligent man he is also a big hitter in the white middle-aged gentlemen’s club that is the London press mob. If Mike proves he means business to Rob Beasley (and why else would he have him here) the constant insistence that our owner is only here for a quick buck goes away. I might be way off the mark but nothing Mike Ashley has done since he got here suggests that he is looking for a way out. Why employ somebody to head up youth development if you are going to be gone in the morning? We fans are so used to being bullshitted and robbed that when somebody turns up and does things properly we are suspicious.

Newcastle fan, Shaun Custis of The Sun says “Ashley has to come out and say….” – Shaun darling, he don’t has to say shit. Mike, like Kevin and Chris Mort and the players, isn’t going to be judged on what he says but on what he does – and, mug that I am, I’m looking forward to seeing it which is more than we have been used to.

Once again I must thank Gilaz for helping out. Yes mate, I do owe you more than one beer.