An Estate agent working in Pompeii when the city’s walls came tumbling down upon the heads of its residents as the nearby Vesuvius spilled its volcanic guts, would surely have empathised with the feelings of any Newcastle United fan last Saturday as their title hopes came cruelly down about their ears in an onslaught of red. The texts I received from Man United fans throughout the game (former friends) beeped predictably on my Nokia with about the same regularity as the scoreboard changed upwards in the Manc’s favour. I had barely a text reply sent back chastising them or promising a speedy turnaround from the Toon than I was watching Shay with hands on hips in disbelief as his defence capitulated again and again. Those early fires of optimism when Jermaine Jenas blew the back of Barthez’s net out with an incredible volley were soon extinguished with a salvo of goals that took us from pointing and singing at the away fans, to sitting with heads in hands wanting it all to end. It felt like we had put our heads above the parapet and fired one shot from the Jermaine Jenas pistol only to receive a rain of JDAM tank busters for the remainder of the battle, us cowering meekly in our trench wondering when the devastation would end. And I think that we would all agree the battles that Newcastle United fought so well at St. James’ all year for Premiership supremacy must now be acknowledged as over. But if we can take any positives from the season past (and there are many) it should be that a lot will have been learned and next year should bring renewed and possibly more realistic hopes of silverware. But try telling that to any of the players last Saturday. Which, er, as it happens, I did.

I flew SleazyJet from Belfast International to Newcastle (more of them later) on the Friday night and could only manage a short conversation with Shay by mobile as we were chauffeured (by another brother Marcus) from Newcastle airport back to his crib for late night beers and a side order of match optimism. Shay’s mood was excellent. I opened with ‘I hope this is a recorded voice I’m hearing and that you’re safely tucked up in bed soaking up the Zs’. He was in the bedroom all right but only sleeping pills could let someone sleep like logs the night before a game like this. Shay informed us that they’d all be up at 9am eating chicken and broccoli because of the early kick-off and the very the thought of it made me queasy. That said, I have an iron constitution when it comes to food and have been known to quaff such items as kangaroo (like a really lean steak), snails (not dissimilar to mushrooms) and most entertainingly, especially when freaking young cousins, a nice stir-fried helping of camel. It’s a bit stringy since you ask. And why I would have any issues with a 9am start on chicken and broccoli is anyone’s guess but I believe certain food at certain times of the day. You wouldn’t eat (like one of my mate’s here at work did the other Saturday) a Lamb Bhuna with Pilau rice at 8.30am would you? Then again, maybe you would, and I’m the one who isn’t normal.

Saturday morning’s food for us was the more traditional button buster approach. A feed of sausages, soda farls, scrambled egg and beans, washed down with a good ‘ole pot of Tetleys. Mmmm. Fattening. You would’ve had to winch me onto the pitch if you’d wanted me to play. Looking at the shambles that unfolded later on that day perhaps I should sign some papers with Bobby. At least I could entertain the crowd with a few gags and some readings from the Chronicles. I guarantee you, they’d have enjoyed that more than what they ended up watching.

One thing that never ceases to amaze me in life are feats of human engineering. This may be because I’ve tried my hand at basic DIY and believe me, when you’ve struggled to arrange a row of wall tiles with a spirit level you cannot but be impressed by seeing something like the Egyptian pyramids or the Eiffel tower staring down at you. In a similar vein I would imagine the uninitiated visitor to St. James’ Park cannot but be impressed by a lingering glance round the top tiers of the stadium, with its white comb of iron fingers towering above the skyline that broods beneath the slow roll of the clouds. On the ground the atmosphere is no less exhilarating before the game. Crowds of black and white bedecked fans milled around doing various things. Collecting tickets, quaffing steak & kidney pies like hippos after a Lenten fast, streaming in and out of the shop where, amazingly, on sale are the bobble dolls featuring Shay and the other players featured on the site last week. A snip at around 12 notes. We were generally agreed that Shay’s is not an amazing likeness bar the humorously sized gloves, but ones that were pretty convincing included Shola Ameobi, Hugo Viana and Alan Shearer.
For this game we were struggling for Player’s Lounge passes getting only one in the pre-match ritual of the opening of the Oscar envelope. Undeterred myself and Michael decided to play ‘Blag the security guard’ and get a pre-match lager. The time being 11.45 approximately. The security guard acquiesced to our insistence that we would not try and get in on just one ticket after the game (which we did, natch) and we were therefore able to nail a couple of Bud in the Lounge and be out of there in about 15 minutes to ascend the Jackie Milburn stand (all 14 flights) to the nosebleed tiers on top that afford the greatest view of both the stadium’s interior and the Newcastle city skyline beyond it. I’m not kidding about the climb. We met guys at different levels who had stopped just to let their heart rates get back under the legal speed limit. At the top though the climb is worth it. And you begin to appreciate just how impressive a stadium this is. For at least 100 feet out above you heads stretch the glass roof that runs three quarters of the way round the stadium, ensuring spectator comfort for the inclement English winters. And the view of the stadium around you to the pitch below, to the cityscape beyond is postcard perfect. And all of it washed in April sunshine. I cannot ever recall wearing sunglasses watching Newcastle United play but today was a day where exceptions to the rules abounded. To what extent I hadn’t yet realised. And this seasonally affected mood was buoyed further by the pre-match build-up.

These began with a splendidly self-indulgent parading of the match’s Guest of Honour Phillip Albert in front of the standing ovation of the Toon fans, his lifetime adulation assured by the lob he famously executed over Peter Schmeichel in Newcastle’s infamous 5-0 win over Man U some years previously. How he must have felt at half time when he was re-paraded with us being 4-1 down is anyone’s guess. He probably entertained the notion of warming up and grabbing a jersey.
This was followed up with the now mandatory children’s ring of hands in the centre circle as the PA blasted out the sound of the triumphalist Sky Sports music signifying the players emergence from the tunnel, the music competed for only by the roaring voices of the armies of supporters, both home and away, cheering for the last time, in unison.

The songs that Away supporters sing, providing they’re in front like, are usually aimed to be as cutting as humanly possible to the home supporters and they generally of the ilk that no thought is spared for the listening ears of children, infirmed or the elderly. I have been guilty of this myself in the past I am ashamed to say having l once fervently castigated Liverpool fans at Anfield with the despicable (in retrospect) “We don’t sign no dole cheques, We don’t sign no dole cheques, La La La La!”
I know. I know. I’m not proud. But you do get swept up in the euphoria. And last Saturday Man U’s fans, despite widely circulated reports of their monotony, were no different in this regard. And they knew how to rub it in all right. The songs titles we were subjected to by the entirety of Man U’s away section (to our left off the Milburn), included the following (and based on their enthusiasm these guys must meet up twice a week round their village Hall to rehearse);
“Shearer for Sunderland”
“Alan Shearer, what’s the score” (Alan was a particular target)
“You’re gonna win <insert swear word> all!”
“There’s only one United”
And when Roy Keane was taken off towards the end, to utterly compound our misery:
“We’ve only got ten men”, quickly followed by “We only need ten men.”
And based on our team performance there were, sadly, elements of truth in this.
In contrast, there was an Alan Smith (Leeds) look-alike just 2 rows in front of us who was very animated and angry about being in moderately close proximity to the Away supporters and who, as a result, responded in person to very chant they threw out, shouting back over at them until he was red in the face and the veins throbbed in his neck. In fairness to him, he had some good ones. My two favourites were:
“We support out local team” and,
“Taxi for London”
There is certainly some truth in the latter. Growing up in Ireland almost everyone became either a Manchester United fan or Liverpool fan because, more than any other reason, the local Sports shops (typically 3 donkey rides and a rickshaw away - unless you lived in Dublin) would only stock either team’s replica kits. Walk in there and ask Seamus, the owner, for a Patrick Thistle away strip and time yourself until you’re landed on the pavement outside. But c’mon. Manchester United fans must surely acknowledge that there has been an unnatural rise in the amount of support the club has reaped since they only began to come good in the late eighties. It’s undoubtedly a security thing. Safety in numbers. Afraid to be unpopular. A ride on the bandwagon beats hitching with the rest of us. But take it from me that every one of them will cross their hearts and hope to die that they spilled from their Mother’s wombs, and before the birth certificate was even signed, had completed their MUFC supporters club application form. It’s a sad truth. A friend of mine once said to me (following Manchester United’s exit last year from the Champion’s League tournament) that “Manchester United fans will today be waking up, wherever they are, knowing the dream is over. In their homes In Tokyo, Bangkok, Istanbul, Johannesburg, etc, etc.” I always smile at that one.

A big thanks to the 'Bear' for his time and effort in writing these Chronicles.
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