Premiership Review (26th-27th Nov)

Alan Parry thinks Stoke City are unfairly maligned. He said as much on Saturday morning during their match with Blackburn (who played in an away kit designed to resemble a yellow five-a-side bib, as teams of workmates and drinking friends across the nation noted the comparison, wounded). I suspect that a lot of Stoke City fans would have sympathy with that view. After all, what further evidence do they need of the nation’s disdain for them beside the fact that Alan Parry, very much Sky’s ‘bits and pieces’ man, is a regular at their televised fixtures? Not just Parry, either, they always seem to get one of the lesser spotted summarisers, the ones they seem to turn to only after several others have discovered, with dubious haste, arrangements they simply can’t break.

Don Goodman was the pundit. His crimes ranged from the minor if irritating old favourites- who, by now, doesn’t know that the ball touching an opposition player on its way through the striker is not enough to play the striker onside?- to the slightly more unusual: imploring Scott Dann to get forward near the end of the first forty five minutes rather seemed to suggest that he had forgotten altogether about the second half. I don’t think anybody who still considers the second half something of a staple will be accused of being a stick in the mud, even by Sky Sports. Yet, perhaps hopefully, Goodman seemed to believe that he could be outside with the heating warming the car up as soon as he’d said his goodbyes and remembered where he’d put his coat. And, yes, if somebody were to tell you they forgot entirely the second half from the Stoke/Blackburn game, you would hardly be surprised. But that’s five minutes to twenty four hours after it ended, not before it even starts. It’s no wonder Stoke fans think nobody likes them.

One of the reasons nobody likes them could be deduced from Parry’s reference to what is tactfully being known as “some towel business.” Stoke are fated to be being regarded as the type of club liable to get involved in some towel business. A few weeks ago Newcastle United, calling their bluff, had insisted on equal access to the towels, and this had led to Pulis scraping the service all together for both home and away players. As such, Rory Delap was forced to use his shirt to wipe the ball down before throwing it back in to touch. Parry noted that this was a practice unlikely to please the “laundry lady.” Back in the day, of course, the single laundry lady would most likely have been charged with seeing to both the towels and the shirts, and, as such, largely unmoved about which was being used to get rid of the dew and the errant grass on a Nike Total 90. Stoke, though, are learning that with European qualification, and with it the increased wash load, a rotatable and flexible squad of laundry ladies is a necessity.

There was controversy at Old Trafford and Stamford Bridge. Alex Ferguson’s infantile bleating over a poor penalty call was thrown in to sharp perspective by Sunday’s awful news (*), and, at Stamford Bridge, John Terry was accused of inviting a booking, his fifth of the season, to ‘waste’ his suspension during Tuesday’s Carling Cup tie. Booked for dawdling with the ball at a throw in for what seemed like over a minute, several Chelsea fans have since defended their captain on account of that’s genuinely how slow and ponderous he is these days.

(* Nobody who watched Gary Speed stride through Newcastle United’s 2002-2003 Champions’ League campaign needs to be told what a good player he was. What shines through the tributes is how popular and liked he was off the pitch by pretty much everybody. I never met him, but a friend did in a service station only a month or so ago. Mr. Speed chatted amiably about football with him for about ten minutes- roughly ten minutes longer than I have ever managed to chat amiably about football with that particular friend. A small act of decency, warmth and politeness that Speed most likely never thought anything else about ever again, but a small testament, among much larger ones, to the type of human being he was. RIP.)

I 8 You 2

Defending the performance of his team during their defeat at Manchester United on Sunday, Arsene Wenger stated his case thus: “That was not an 8-2 game.”

The implication was obvious: the game’s annals are littered with games of that very score-line and whatever we deduce ordinarily from it was, on this one, not the way to go.

Was he right? Here, we study the circumstances of some of the more famous 8-2 games and see what patterns emerge.

Real Madrid 2-Brazil 8

A little like the game on Sunday, Real Madrid could argue that a missed penalty in this one changed their fortunes. They perhaps had more reason to feel aggrieved about its non-conversion given that it was taken by their mate Gary as they were out the front paying the pizza bloke.

Returning to the Xbox, and resolutely un-amused by the developments, they were further incensed by Brazil’s offer to ‘let them score’, which they deemed a huge insult. This was possibly on their mind when they spurned a glorious opening to level things, presented after uncharacteristic dalliance in the Brazilian backline, which the away team swore was down to temporarily switching their slice of pizza from left to right hand and nothing untoward.

Ill discipline crept in during a second half dominated by threats to abandon the game and a warning that they wouldn’t be pausing if Brazil needed to use the toilet, as they should have thought of that. A shameful evening in the club’s otherwise grand history was capped by a post match interview which centred solely on when they could expect to collect the money from everybody else for the pizza, not to mention the crate of larger they had all been happy to pilfer from.

Overly Keen Dad 8- His Bored Son 2

Making impressive use of the landing’s cramped surface, the home team raced in to an early lead against opponents who only began to settle in to game after a swapping of sides allowed them a better view in to the living room where the television had been left on as a condition of the game going ahead in the first place.

At times a cagey affair, the game sprung in to life during the thrilling period when six of the victor’s eight goals were scored, though some
were left wondering why the rule that dictated shots off the door handle counting double was only introduced after the feat was managed three times in five frantic second half minutes.

Marseille 8- Manchester United 2 (Monaco, 2011)

Despite being on the right end of it on Sunday, even Manchester United have fallen victim to this most famous of score-lines. You will remember the fall out and recriminations. Indeed, Fabien Barthez has not been spotted near a Manchester United shirt since appearing in
goal during this defeat. Admittedly, he hadn’t been spotted near one for the eight years previous to this defeat either. But the continued selection of David De Gea since the season started still feels like a very public snubbing for the Frenchman.

Frankie’s Brother’s and his Mates 2-8 Frankie and his Mates

As Frankie pointed out in his post match remarks, five-a-side only meant the amount of players on each side, not the amount of goals they
shared. And, as his brother countered, it didn’t mean that either, given the two players who had turned up ten minutes in and joined Frankie’s team on the basis that they didn’t know his brother that well.

Accrington F.C 8- 2 Wolverhampton Wanderers F.C

This is the earliest recorded 8-2 in English professional football, and, until Sunday, was also the most recent. The following day’s Times were surprisingly limited in their coverage of the game- contrast with the media’s reaction to the weekend’s events at Old Trafford- though that may have been due to the outbreak of hostilities. As the teams left the pitch at the end of the game, the word was already coming through of the fighting taking place in Cape Colony which was to spark the beginning of The Boer War.

Scunthorpe 1 2 Newcastle United

Watching Newcastle United being described as ‘giants’ during a cup game against lower league opposition on Sky Sports is, I suspect, the closest most of us will ever get to being wolf whistled. Which is to say that any sleazy urges to be flattered are overwhelmed by the awareness of the proponents’ deeper-lying impure motives. As Alan Pardew pointed out during his pre match interview, the broadcasters wouldn’t have been there in the first place if they hadn’t sensed blood.

Our season in The Championship threw this tie in to further confusion, casting dubious light on Sky’s David & Goliath angle. We were actually beat at this ground in 2009, on a night when certain fans took exception to Kevin Nolan’s overegged celebration of an equalising goal. Funny old thing, football. If you had told some complaining that night that Nolan’s over zealousness would be replaced in two year’s time by a French Championship winning international they would most likely not have opined that we would miss desperately Nolan’s leadership and grit. Because that night we were opposed to that type of thing, we considered it ostentatious and put on and plain tacky. Fans often look at a result first and branch out their complaints from there and we’re a remarkably resourceful bunch when it comes to things about which to be unhappy. And none of the complaints or sources of unhappiness truly make sense until you conclude how little they actually matter.

I was broadly in favour of the Nolan sale, and opposed to the Barton one (insomuch as you could always justify his presence in the team- I found his supposedly anguished tweets on it during the last days hugely boring, and there’s a certain relief he’s taking his drama queen act elsewhere), but what arguing about both does is serve to ignore the wider issue, and I’m concerned pointless veneration of either will help assist the club in their campaign of lies and misinformation, when in reality any dispute between the parties is self serving and childish on all their parts and of no material benefit to us and what we need. Because the thing is, the club can claim, with some justice, to be in the right on the Barton issue. And as long as they have a moral high ground they will abuse it and use it to distract from something they can actually do something about while we all squabble with each other to no meaningful conclusion.

So Barton’s gone. Thanks for playing well from the middle of August until the middle of February last season. Whatever. We need a striker. Failing that, we need Nicklas Bendtner. We created lots during this game; ignoring Gosling and taking it from Vuckic’s introduction, we have a midfield which is mobile and adroit and shrewd. But Best, hardworking and likeable but grossly limited, and Lovenkrands- lamentable- wasted each and every chance given them through timidly, bad decision making and that awful bit at the end of ninety minutes where Lovenkrands stood and watched a stinging low cross pass between him and the goalkeeper, presumably temporarily confused with a game
of heads and volleys where any goals hit from crosses played along the ground mean the goal scorer has to take over in goal.

The highlight was the kids. Vuckic simply oozes class, granite jawed and broad he looks straight out of one of our 1950s cup winning teams, and Sammi Ameobi is direct and purposeful and, weirdly, looks a bit brilliant. As much as everybody is L-O-Ling at the prospect of the surname Ameobi for another ten years, I can’t help but fear that’s wildly optimistic. In fact, that’s the nagging thought about the whippersnappers: for years Newcastle have produced pretty much nothing in terms of home grown, or at least home nurtured, stars. Now, when you can pretty much guarantee they’ll be gone to the highest bidder at the earliest possible junction, we apparently have an unending stream of the bastards.

On that note, with Manchester United surely considering their goalkeeping options, it can’t only be me hoping that Tim Krul managers to throw one in on Sunday against Fulham? Not to the detriment of the final result, obviously, but I have a feeling that the final nasty surprise of the transfer window is still to be unleashed upon us.

Theo's Restaurant Corner

“At dinner the other night I was the oldest one”- Theo Walcott

I was joined at dinner by two colleagues. As much as the ambiance, the drink, and of course the food, I have long been of the belief that a good meal is defined by your company. Many times has a mediocre desert tray been rescued by lively discourse. This is not to say that a restaurant should be given an easy reviewing ride simply because of rewarding companionship. Instead their task has become a more nuanced one: they are now charged with ensuring that not only your own spirits, but also the spirits of your fellow diners, are kept in thorough and fine fettle. Put simply: we didn’t want any more tantrums from Emmanuel because they had ran out of Last Airbender toys in the Happy Meals.

When we arrived the staff were attentive and brisk; we hadn’t been sat down five minutes before a lady with an industrial mop told us we would have to get what we wanted ourselves and that the milkshake machine wasn’t working. We had been planning on sampling a few different milkshakes as the night went on and so, as Aaron removed his bib disappointedly, there was a gloomy feeling that the night had already been soured. Theirs more than mine, I must confess: in the back of my mind I was relieved that they wouldn’t be taking hands sticky with congealed sugar and syrup back to the car with them.

Beginning with a chicken nugget starter, finished in Barbeque sauce (once I got theirs open for them), there was a moment of high excitement when Emmanuel told us that he had one shaped exactly like a beak. As somebody who values presentation, I nevertheless wonder about such gimmickry. It may be an interesting quirk giving the diner “the full and visceral experience of eating a chicken”- as a staff member explained it while wiping up the juice spilt by Aaron- but novelty crutches like these lead me to wonder if the sanest path for the restaurant isn’t the one more commonly wandered. It didn’t end at the nuggets either. I was forced to complain when I found a hair in my coffee. As I pointed out to the staff, chickens don’t have hair, they have contour and down feathers.

Waiting on the main course, which Emmanuel has gone to the till to order on the condition of being timed, I reflected on our surroundings. Though the ceilings are high and the artwork- abstract and sparsely coloured drawings of Ronald McDonald and The Ham Burgular presumably on loan from the nearby Tate Modern- challenging, it’s a slightly cramped and less than relaxing venue for dining. The seating arrangements don’t help, with barely enough room for Aaron to swing backwards on his, and, in an era of fast food sushi and affordable dining for all, it feels almost like a throwback to the type of place one might have visited with friends during summers gone by way of a last resort. I mentioned my thoughts to Aaron and Emmanuel but they’d never heard of Wimpy.

As the Big Macs and Fish Fillets arrived, the table has subdued a little and we ate our meals in thoughtful silence, a silence only punctured by Aaron’s occasional claims that Emmanuel got more fries than him. The mellow mood suited the dish, even if I did get more to chew on from the fish than from the conversation.

Over After Eight McFlurrys things picked up slightly, the previous lull presumably being missed bedtimes based and nothing to do with the sogginess of the fries. (They hadn’t been prepared wrongly- Aaron had spilt his juice again.) Chatting about this and that as one does waiting for the bill, it suddenly occurred that the last time we saw a member of staff was sometime before Aaron began on that mega random thing he had watched on the tele the night before, roughly forty five minutes earlier. Furthermore, the mops had been stored away, the lights switched off and, most damningly of all, both doors bolted shut. In the distance, as we peered out the window, smoke rose from the heels of the departing staff. It wasn’t the ideal circumstances in which to enjoy a desert.

Still. It’s not all bad. I’m looking forward to sampling the pancakes and Mcmuffins

Sunderland & Howard Webb 0 1 Newcastle United

Things Sunderland fans will say this week and how you should reply.

We battered you in the first half.
You were perhaps more fluid than us in the first half and this, coupled with a home crowd who initially seemed up for it, probably made it feel as though we were creaking under pressure. I imagine this feeling was enhanced if you were actually in the stadium. Funny old places to watch games of football, stadiums- particularly if you’re not used to them. In the cold light of day, though, you created very little. In many ways your team gave a performance which reflected your support’s during the summer time: all bluster and energy, little substance. Certainly, you failed to capitalise on Larsson’s cheating, and as the half went on it was clear your team had ran out of ideas which neatly complemented our intelligent game plan. You seem a bright enough young fellow, even if this conversation did begin with you asking me which is the metro stop with all the trains in it, and I trust you won’t be swallowing your manager’s nonsense about “dominance”

We never heard a peep from your fans until you scored (they always try this one).
Can I first propose a realignment of priorities? Trying to gain an upper hand on an intangible and wholly subjective concept like a singing contest when others are attempting to analyse the game of football that has taken place is a little like judging an X Factor contestant on the quality of their back stage keepie-ups. Secondly, have you considered that, what with sound waves and acoustics and the person next to you tapping away on their annoyingly loud mobile phone keys, the Newcastle fans may have made a peep to which you were not immediately privy, given you were sat at the other end of the stadium surrounded by forty five thousand Sunderland fans? I was happy to eventually defer to you on your other argument - and yes, looking again, you’re right to say the colour of the cornflakes in your beard matches your tie- but I’m afraid I can’t let this one go unchallenged.

We have more class.
This, as I’m sure you’re aware deep down, is a laughable argument (and I don’t say that to imply anything about you personally, you strike me as the type that could get quite paranoid about that type of thing). On Saturday your fans cheered the award of a corner kick when Larsson got away with cheating, and then applauded Phil Bardsley off for attempting to break a better player’s leg. Meanwhile, study our captain’s reaction to the non-award of the penalty: a puffed out cheek, a call for calm, and an immediate intent to get back on with the game. As far as I can see this entire class idea comes from the fact that Niall Quinn talks in a soft Irish lilt during press appearances.

You just handled the occasion better.
Indeed we did: the occasion being a football match.

What hurts is that the Mags were so awful and still beat us. (They always try this one too.)
As a Sunderland supporter you are in the fortunate position of having seen your team defeated by Newcastle United teams of all shapes and sizes. With that has came a keenness to cast an eye on our relative weaknesses compared to years past. The problem with this is that- yes, don’t worry, I’ll tell you when it’s your stop- for all your post match arguments about our failings remain consistent, so too does the outcome of the match. This leaves any rumination from you on our team ring exceedingly hollow. Besides which, the best performance I’ve ever seen from Sunderland against Newcastle- the 3-2 in 2005- came from one of the country’s worst ever teams, which goes to show such judgements are pointless and mere distractions.

I’m glad- that result will paper over the cracks.

Well being that enough cracks papered over in a manner which leads to three points should see us safe from relegation, I fear Newcastle fans are rather stuck for a few years with papered over cracks. Still, as papered over cracks go it was a bit of a superb one, you have to admit. Lines about cracks being papered over is an attempt to not treat the derby game as an end, retroactively pretending to view it as a means. After months of giddy hysteria about the prospect of what you were going to do to us now you have added genuine class like Wes Brown and Craig Gardner to your squad, this is very poor, cowardly even, backtracking. Don’t try similar at the station- you’ll put someone’s eye out with your holdall.

Newcastle United 0 0 Arsenal

The problem with attempting to defend Joey Barton these days is that by the time you try to he’s already done it for himself on Twitter. There was certainly some dissatisfaction on Sky’s ghastly Sunday Supplement shout-a-thon about Barton’s medium of choice, with the argument that him stating his case on Twitter only allows for messages of “140 characters or fewer” put forward. And there we were again, at the dawn of a new season, with that oft-preached lament about modern football and its lack of characters.

There’s no doubting that, aside from a character limit that allows only double the amount of words one would ordinarily expect to hear from a footballer in a post match interview, Joseph’s online activities have been the cause of some concern over summer: I was as disappointed as anybody to discover he follows Piers Morgan. Apart from that, though, his Twitter stuff is largely harmless (does anybody believe he and the owners wouldn't have eventually found some way to clash over his new contract without Twitter- using mesenger pigeons if necessary?). And, like Eric Cantona taking a sip of water to conceal his laughter during a crucial bit in his ‘seagulls follow the trawler’ press conference, pompous journalists who can’t work out that he is clearly taking the piss with the Orwell and Nietzsche quotes are succeeding only in making themselves look stupid.

Over the weekend, he got in to an argument on there with Jack Wilshere. The fact that Wilshere (whom Barton has in the past showered with fulsome praise) instigated the argument was largely lost on everybody, which is odd. If somebody with a recent history of drinking to excess is picking fights with a teetotaller on Saturday night, one would ordinarily expect the doorman to remove to former, not chastise the latter. (The comparison of the British press and the nation’s bouncers is not a spurious one- anybody who has ever been a subject of Pubwatch will tell you that they both posses pretty nifty surveillance equipment.) Yet here the roles seemed confused in the mind of the media. Strange.

As for Saturday on the pitch? He’s probably explained already, but, for the record: there is a huge difference between diving following non-existent contact to unfairly alter the course of the game and going to ground softly to alert the referee to a genuine offence, and though the latter is dubious practice, it is understandable when the officials have previously missed a malicious stamp on the back of your leg, and certainly not comparable with the first example of genuine cheating. There is nothing people feel as smug about as pointing out supposed hypocrisory in others, which might explain why so many people rush to do it when it isn’t actually appparant in the contrasting words and actions of their subject, but in drawing attention to Gervinho’s red card offence, Barton was not cheating or conning anybody: he was aiding a referee who had displayed myopia in a previous incident. Barton- and Taylor’s- reaction is irrelevant: Gervinho was a goner anyway. And if not, if the referee is basing his calls on the reaction and behaviour of the players, then he is not doing his job correctly, and that’s nothing to do with Joey Barton.

But enough of that nonsense, what of the debutants? Ba was unlucky to get taken off before Ameobi, Cabaye struggled to impose in a game clearly not made for him, Obertan showed some promising flashes, and in my new seat in the East Stand I was immense. Obviously, pre-match nerves had been marked (I had began my previous tenure, in the Gallowgate End at the start of the 09/10 season, by attempting small talk about the new design of the metro tickets to blank embarrsment and from there never really recovered), but I put them to one side and gave a masterful display in close control- not correcting the gentleman behind me when he mistook Ameobi for Ba- and enterprising flank play- running quickly down the stairs to see the replay of the Barton/Gervinho incident and reporting straight back.

An impressive start, but nobody is getting carried away. It’s easy to get plaudits against Arsenal; will I be as well received on a cold Wednesday night in December against West Bromich Albion when the shirt lettering is frazzled and the stairways are slippery? It’s a long season and the real challenges still lie ahead.

(Incidentally, the Arsenal fans that ended their day screaming for their manager to “spend some money” had begun it by telling the home fans that they “pay [our] benefits.” There’s symmetry there, I think, and both songs manage to neatly capture an attitude of greed, entitlement and crass, finance obsessed superciliousness which contributed towards many of their city’s residents finally losing their patience last week in one of the most horrible ways imaginable. I’m not saying that Arsene Wegner’s spending policy helped cause the London riots. But, with those riots as a backdrop, the bunch of charmers in the Arsenal support may want to consider their song selection a little more carefully.)

What to do when you like your left back

"I keep looking at him and smiling...he smiles back"- Alan Pardew on Jose Enrique


The venue where we spend the majority of our waking life, our place of work is an ideal place to form bonds and meet people. Many a glorious coupling began at the photo copy machine, and of course a great many ended there too. However, given the close and involved nature of the working environment, it’s best to take precautions and not rush in to anything. It may seem like a good idea to declare your feelings after three gin and tonics at the Christmas party, but try to keep in mind that you will have to see the object of your affection again. There is nothing quite as awkward as the moment when, as manager of Newcastle United, you run in to an old crush in the Players’ Lounge at Anfield.

Before you do anything, it’s best to deduce whether your feelings will be reciprocated. Never an open and shut thing, there are nevertheless signs that indicate whether pursuing your interest will be welcomed by the source of it. And once you have spotted these signals, you can
best decide on a sensible course of action conducive to a healthy, long term relationship which leaves you both satisfied. Here we do our best to guide you through the dos and don’ts of the early, often stressful but always thrilling, stages of the workplace wooing of your first choice left back.

*Study body language. Does he smile a teeth showing smile if you use the word ‘we’ when outlining your hopes for the coming season? Does he appear to be giggling with friends whenever you look over during a briefing on defending corners? Is he paying particular attention to his hair- shampooing it when you try to go through his new contract offer, for example? These are known as ‘cues’- or ‘tells’ if you’re a
poker player- and largely involuntary indicators of attraction. (This may also help explain why the team appear so reluctant to have you over for poker nights.)

Be warned that a lot of players give off these cues without particular concern for their coach, so, before assuming anything try and study how he acts with other managers when he’s chatting with them and his agent over coffee in the training ground’s canteen.

*Establish communication. Initial attraction is one thing, but few people are likely to act solely on piqued curiosity. A rapport needs to be formed. Introduce yourself- explain who the hell you are and what the fuck happened to the last guy. It may feel like you’re being a little forward, but remember that most footballers are used to being approached by a new Newcastle United manager and are unlikely to view it as big a deal as you do. Tease and make him laugh- a self-deprecating quip about your time at Charlton should loosen things up nicely.

*A lot of people wonder about the more traditional gesture and whether or not it is appropriate. While caution is advised, a little romance never hurt, and offering to carry his wash bag and boots is a perfectly harmless and charming way to forge closer contact and impress with your chivalrousness. It’s crucial to not be seen as a pushover, though, politely refuse any request to give him your back a minute so he can tie his laces.

*Be yourself. More accurately: be yourself as stipulated by the exact terms of your contract leaving no room for deviation, repetition or hesitation.

*Be seen with other full backs. While being careful to not mislead anybody, it would serve a certain purpose for the full back you harbour thoughts for to see you communicating in a relaxed manner with as many other full backs as possible. This theory is known as ‘peer approval’ and any hurt feelings on James Perch’s part when he realises the nature of your scheme will most likely be softened by his relief at his presence in at least one of your plans for the season.

Be careful to avoid the trap fallen in to by characters in American teen sitcoms when seeking advice from the plain girl on how to
attract the bombshell- which is to say, don’t suddenly realise that it’s James Perch you’ve wanted all along when it’s too late and he’s already going to the prom with somebody from his after school science club. That wouldn't be fair on James Perch.

Derek Llambias's Guide to Summer Spending

The Newcastle United M.D has had a busy summer of shopping. Here he explains how, registered to the right mystery shoopping agency, a typically stress filled experience can instead be fun, productive and profitable.

•Changes to the system in recent years have lead to some people panicking, but I am from a school of philosophy that dictates one should never rush through purchases. In fact, I have even marked down till assistants for that very practice.

I had been charged with buying a breakfast to the value of £5.00, excluding the price of a hot drink which I was also required to sample, from Gosforth Asda during their busy morning period. The young lady behind the till put through my order without first confirming each item, as staff are required to in case of allergies or fussy preferences, and seemed more concerned with tending to the bags under her eyes than with acknowledging my presence (and if that done enough to hint at a heavy session the night beforehand, the overheard reference to “up all night being sick” surely confirmed it). I would love to name and shame her right here but, in a further affront, she was sans name badge. As I pointed out in the further comments section of the online feedback form: I was wearing mine; why wasn’t she wearing hers?

•Balance is everything. And in pursuit of balance things can something be sacrificed: that’s just the way of life. Like when I was asked to take a guest to the Pacific Bar Cafe in the city centre with their famously wonky tables. It wasn’t ideal having to ask a member of staff to stand by us as we ate with his foot wedged underneath the shorter leg, but in the long term interests of the table’s stability it was the best thing for everybody. Apart from the young gentleman himself, conceded. But he was amply rewarded with a toilet break- during which time a beer coaster was forced to suffice- and the staff themselves were given a generous six out of ten for their ‘helpfulness and overall demeanour’ (having lost some marks for smirking when I ordered a sex on the beach cocktail).

•Keep deadlines in mind. Submitting your findings after the twenty four hour cut off point is no good to anybody, and as well as details being naturally forgotten one may find oneself tempted to exaggerate or take liberties with the truth- overcompensating and reflecting their overall feeling for the place rather than reporting the bare facts, doing what some may refer to as ‘lying’. Strangely, this is something the agency is
particularly concerned about with me. I remember on one occasion they actually sent somebody to secretly monitor me as I in turn secretly monitored the level of service at the Apple Store in Eldon Square. It’s not long until a situation like that turns farcical, as you can probably imagine. For me it was when his recording equipment interfered with the iPod touch I was trying out- as he bent down to retrieve his dislodged lapel mic he inadvertently unplugged the Beats by Dre headphones we were sharing.

•Keep your feedback concise. In these days of palm piloted social networking it can feel like you’re the centre of your own customised universe, a constantly buzzing environment wherein friends, family and loved ones are at permanent hand to reinforce and validate. But when mystery shopping you have to drop the ego and you can’t value verbosity. For that reason I have set some very strict limits on my own online communication- nobody ever ‘likes’ my status updates on Facebook and my only followers on Twitter are mobile phone spam companies represented in their profile picture by Eastern European girls biting their little finger suggestively.

•Finally, as in any competitive industry, you have to remember that it’s dog eat dog out there. And sometimes to get ahead the dog eats dog food. That isn’t trite platitude. If I’m being asked to grade, say, Petwise on Elswick Road then I’m going to sample the wares. A lot of the others don’t, which is why I’m as well regarded as I am at this game.

Petwise always do well these days actually, always impressively prepared for my visits, almost as if they hear me coming before I get there. It's been a marked improvement, with their alertness on my last few visits in stark contrast to the chaos of my first and the saga of the chrome cat collar with affixed bell that they let me try on and that between us we’re yet to work out how to unfasten.

Barton's Eleven

With the first team squad still in America, Newcastle United’s reserves travelled to Amsterdam. Among them Joey Barton and Nile Ranger, both of whom were denied Visas to join the first team due to previous criminal convictions.

From the diary of Nile Ranger

Wednesday 20th July
We arrived separately. To ensure a smooth pass through customs, J.B had provided us with fake moustaches and a pair of Austin Powers glasses each. He had also had his passport guy knock us all off a counterfeit. J.B swears by the guy but as I’m regarded with suspicion by security I can’t help but wonder if our individual Merlin Premier League sticker with crude biro scribbled where the glasses and moustache are supposed to be was necessarily the best way to go photo identification wise. But I was wrong to doubt Joey. He’s always been a great dressing room influence, ready to put an arm around the younger lads, give us the benefit of his experience and knowhow, always happy to stay back after training and work with us on our lock picking. And one of the biggest lessons he ever taught me was that a plan is only ever as good as its flexibility. His words were proven typically astute as one sweaty handed guard inadvertently smudged the moustache on my passport photo before putting me through to the next check point.
“Why are you holding your hand over your mouth like that?” the guard at the next point asked.
“Like what?” I said.

Rule 2: Never concede any ground under interrogation. I’m in.

Thursday 21st July
Team meeting. J.B welcomed the new member of the group, a French fella. There’s was an immediately palpable undercurrent of mistrust in the room, and J.B seemed to sense it. Nobody doubts that foreign players have a lot to teach us, they have schools and academies over there which encourage them to focus on their technique at any early age and not just lump the recently liberated credit card in to the pin machine, mash the buttons and hope to get lucky. At the same time, doubts are always going to exist about their heart for the battle and their propensity for gabbing to authorities, and a few of the lads suggested as much when invited to share their views. Angered, J.B said that he didn’t want to hear any more nonsensical complaints based on dubious national stereotypes and laboured football puns. Besides which, he said, Y.C is on board to help with the escape plan and we all know how easily the Frenchies go to ground .

Friday 22nd July
The plan. J.B argued that we should look on America being off limits as an opportunity to expand our operation; in Amsterdam we’re unknowns, he pointed out, which can only work to our advantage. Look at Ocean’s 12, he said. “In so much as there was a plot, that was vaguely it.”
This set me thinking. Like Julia Roberts near the end, would we be expected to play ourselves? We do it all the time in training, obviously, but I felt it could get a bit complicated during a job. One lofted pass and, before you know it, you’ve triggered the laser alarm system. I made a quick note to clarify a few things with J.B later.

Saturday 23rd July
Because of what I asked J.B yesterday the lads have taken to calling me ‘Trigger’. It’s all good fun.

Sunday 24th July
Planning the jobs is always lively, and we got in a good session of it before an ice bath and a quiet afternoon back at the hotel. A pal had tipped me off about a scam he’s got with Amazon Kindle, starting to download the book before quickly cancelling the order, and I suggested it to J.B. He listened attentively but seemed rather downcast before I’d finished. “Why come all the way to Amsterdam to do something we could do anywhere?” he asked. “Besides which,” he continued, “surely they’ll realise what you’ve done and cancel your download before the book has finished.”
“That’s never been a problem for me,” I tell him.
“No, well, I wouldn’t have thought so,” he counters, cryptically.

Monday 25th July
The day had arrived, and frankly I still wasn’t quite sure what the plan was. As far as I could gauge it, Sammi was the safe man, Perchy was in charge of balancing delicately on various edges as the rest of us looked on in tense silence, the new French bloke was the smouldering charmer bound for a first act cheeky tryst and a third act meaningful moment with the bank manager’s disillusioned wife, Xisco was the mute one who eventually delivers an incongruous piece of dialogue at an inappropriate moment leading us to look at one another before looking back at him, Donno was accents and I had to ‘wait over there’.

Tuesday 26th July
An atmosphere of rancour was prevalent, with J.B in particular in bad spirits. Nobody likes to approach him when he’s in one of his moods but it was decided that the air needed clearing before the events of the night before could be properly dissected.
As he often is, J.B was right to point out that he had insisted on all phones being on silent as we crawled out through the intricately dug underground tunnels. It was also fair to say that if my phone not being on silent wasn’t damaging enough, the ringtone being set to the theme tune from The Great Escape really was asking for trouble. But that’s the use of being here with a pro like J.B: you’re always learning. I can only hope that the next seven to ten years will be in some ways as valuable an experience for him as I’m sure they are going to be for me.

A Word in Defence of Summer Football

There were hums of excitement and murmurs of surprise from the crowd at Fulham’s first game of the season. The news of a team-sheet containing a healthy amount of first teamers- indeed, eight of the eleven starters had played in the final in 2010- had been announced earlier, and those inside the stadium making their way to their seats tuned to one another and remarked, with breathless wonder, that it’s actually cooler inside than outside.

It didn’t end there. There was a real summer gala feel to the evening- which is to say that it was an enjoyable event in agreeable conditions and not that children looked bored and their parents fussed about forgetting to bring the sun lotion, though there was probably a bit of that too. Most importantly, though, the long road to the final began, with Fulham no doubt hoping for a significantly smoother journey than the majority of those journeys began in stifling sunshine; new boss Martin Jol no doubt taking heart in the fact that though this level of football throws up its fair share of testing games, few are as likely to be as testing as ones involving small children arguing from the back about the exact rules of Eye Spy.

Yes, summer football has often been the source of derision, but reading the newspaper reports of Fulham’s early start who didn’t feel the slightest tinge of envy? Always a thrilling moment the first game of the season, and what a curiously charged thrill in seeing your seating neighbour- ordinarily an amalgam of ticks and ambiguity, a strange fellow who exists solely in the context of your sitting by him at the football during long and cold winter months- in glorious sunshine? A moment of rare titillation marked all the more titillating for his wearing shorts and a sleeveless vest, one wagers.

It’s easy to act like we have better things to be getting on with football but, reciting things you heard John McEnroe say on Radio 5 in a bid to sound more knowledgeable about tennis than you are during Wimbledon fortnight aside, are we really such animals of varied interest? Watching cricket, going to the cinema and socialising with friends all sounds like something you would put under personal interests on a C.V- not stuff that you’re all that concerned about actually doing- and it’s worth noting, because it's never noted otherwise, that generous offers by most club for families in games like these actually means football represents a much cheaper recreational activity in summer than most others. Barbeques? Yes if you are in deepest Compton circa early nineties having a huge cookout with girls in swimwear and The D.O.C’s No One Can Do It Better blaring out a ghetto blaster. No if you’re going to be eating a crumbling slab of charcoal in your friend’s kitchen watching the rain fall forlornly and listening, through portable speakers, to his Now That’s What I Call Dance albums on shuffle.

And yet still those that opted to cover the match done so with a tone of sympathy for those souls from Fulham who had apparently negotiated one of the trickiest two handers the game can throw at you: managing both a Solero and a competitive European fixture in the same sitting. This, remember, as well, that this is a country apparently largely in favour of a winter break (a recent documentary on Radio 5 proposed that the lack of one was a contribution to last year’s World Cup disaster). Honestly, a nation that resents football in winter and mocks it in summer: we’re in danger of running out of seasons.

More Silverware in the North East

The fixture list released yesterday and, with it, some exciting new for fans of Newcastle United. We will be there to see the Best Behaved Fans trophy (traditionally presented at the first home game of the following season) paraded. Good news for the winners, Sunderland, too: they could not have handpicked a finer opposition for a game in which to showcase the very best behaviour of the best behaved supporters in the land.

Consider last year’s derby and somebody from the home end running on the pitch and grappling with Steve Harper. An apology was given to Harper, who didn’t take any further action (possibly aware of what it may have meant for the Best Behaved Fans Trophy- like the Sage and the Tall Ships, this type of thing is a boon for the entire region), but none was offered to those in the away end, who were expected to accept the heightened hostility the incident both spoke to and perpetuated as just one of those things. Similar, in fact, to when Niall Quinn and Roy Keane both excused the violence of the Sunderland fans in 2008 on account of it being such a long time since poor little Sunderland had won a home derby: an attitude perfectly fitting with a club who have a turned a blind eye to a pitch invasion every single time Sunderland have scored against Newcastle at the Stadium of Light. Now, Sunderland would argue that that doesn’t equal all that many pitch invasions in total. And they would be right. But how many clubs are aware that a luxury of a team unable to score against yours is the type of thing you have to ring down to reception in advance to secure, or even ask for at the time of booking to avoid disappointment? A club as courteous as theirs really should be advertising these services more clearly.

Visually, the Harper incident was very similar to the Lennon at Hearts one, which you have probably seen on the news this week alongside the story that new hate legislation is being introduced to prevent incidents like it ever happening again in Scotland. Obviously you have to consider the Lennon incident in a wider and more complicated context of bigotry, and for that reason the two incidents are not directly comparable, but for one to be a contributory factor to a change of law, and for the other to be ignored completely when rewarding the fans of the club responsible (or the club of the fans responsible) for their good behaviour is, at best, a mite irresponsible.

Now Quinn is asking the fans what they think the club should do with the twenty grand they’ve won. Suggestion: use the twenty grand to fund a small purchase in a corner shop. It doesn’t matter what you’re buying, you’re really only in it for the change you get back. Now take that change, and distribute it to supporters entering the Stadium of Light on the 20th August, encouraging them to hurl it as gaily as possible in to the away end at any moment they feel appropriate- concession of goal, scoring of a goal, stoppage in play due to injury- any time they want to put the eyesight of a human being at risk, basically, because, as Quinn would tell you, it was a bit of pisser when we played in Europe and they didn’t.

Also, last thing, remind them to keep a bit of it back for any Newcastle substitutes appearing at the touchline. We’ve all been there and boy is your face red: you’ve used all your change hurling it indiscriminately at the away end and clean forgot to keep any back to aim at substitutes warming up in the second half. It happens but it shouldn't, and if you want to retain this award, behaviour like that isn’t going to fly.

What Newcastle United need to do in 2011/2012

The Daily Mirror recently asked fans of clubs in the Premier League to suggest the key areas to adress in preparation of the upcoming season for use on their website. This is one of the entries they decided not to use.

THE THREE KEY AREAS FOR MY CLUB TO IMPROVE IN ARE
1. All season long I’ve been grumbling about disruption from the back, citing its lack of imagination and penetrative effect. Alas, the lady two rows behind me with the family sixed bag of Starbursts refuses to take the hint, still yet to offer me even one of the green tangy ones that nobody really likes.

2. Official DVD releases. Who decides on these? For example, they were happy to bring out one showing our home game against Arsenal, despite the first half being about as much fun to watch as The Human Centipede. They should have replaced the first half with that game with a half from somewhere else, say the second one at West Ham where we actually played quite well. Such unseemly splicing may attract criticism from the DVD purists, but it would at least go down well with the Human Centipede crowd.

3. Ticket Office. I would hire some people to work there.

HOW I’D IMPROVE OUR DEFENCE
By blunting everybody else’s attack. Tell Dudley Campbell a as he gets ready in the tunnel before going out to not worry about what everybody else says about him, because we think he’s great. Ask Stephen Fletcher as he bears down on goal ‘what’s the point when we’re all going to be dead some day?’ Go round to Robin Van Persie’s the night before the match and just sit there for ages, ignoring his hints about the time of the last bus and the raised voice of his partner emanating from the kitchen when they’re in there loading up the coffee maker. Pull Andy Carroll’s hair. Pull Wayne Rooney’s hair.

HOW I’D IMPROVE OUR MIDFIELD
Most will have their own thoughts on who best to bring in to shore things up in the middle. The name I keep coming back to is Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Admittedly, high kicking is liable to be punished by the fussier referees these days, and she would have to hand over any stakes to the fourth official before entering the field of play- or at least cover them up with a small plaster. In effect, I suppose, we wouldn’t be so much signing Buffy the Vampire Slayer as signing an ageing Sarah Michelle Geller. Still, it’s not like she’s in a position to turn the work down, and she has to be a better bet than Danny Guthrie.

HOW I’D IMPROVE OUR ATTACK
If the best form of defence is attack, than Newcastle United must currently have the worst defence in the country. He can do a job in the Championship but Leon Best does simply not have what it takes to makes the grade as a top class Premier League defender. Peter Lovenkrands has aged like wine- which is to say he only seems like a good idea if you’ve first got through lots of beer- and would be genuinely improved by a void, an absence of matter, which would at least be less likely to be caught offside to the detriment of promising attacks.

WHO WE NEED TO SACK AND/OR SELL IN THE SUMMER
The man who names the teams at the start of the match has to go; his work has been going progressively downhill since the nineties. He used to rouse himself to say names like Shearer and Ginola, and now it’s like his heart just isn’t in it. This year he started okay, I suppose, saying Andy Carroll’s name for a while, and then suddenly he stopped even doing that. He needs to start naming some genuinely international standard quality players; they can’t all have super injunctions.

WHO WE NEED TO BUY/HIRE OVER THE SUMMER

The people that make The Orange ads to remind people at St. James’ Park to keep their phones switched off. The problem with people texting at football isn’t their texting as such, it’s the innate curiosity that dictates that you must sneakily look over the texter’s shoulder to see what’s being written, distracting yourself from the match. And just as teams are most vulnerable to concession just after netting themselves, so you are most likely to miss a goal while in the process of reading about one that has just been scored. Of course then your only option becomes to continue staring at the mobile until the details of the next goal are typed. This is how people in 2011 watch a game on teletext.

HOW I’D IMPROVE THE MANAGER/COACHING STAFF
Bring in Michael Scott, recently departed of Scranton, in a consultancy role. Scott was the boss in the American version of The Office, which means that not only does he have crucial managerial experience, but he could help us be significantly better than the Ricky Gervais Newcastle United vehicle of the same name. Scott’s catchphrase is a chirping ‘that’s what she said!’ in response to the mildest of innuendo based provocation. And he’s likely to be as happy working with the lads sticking long ones in to the box as he is with those keeping it tight at the back.

Charity Sees The Need, Not The Koscielny

"Arsenal fans’ suffering, their wait, goes on”- Alan Parry

The following is a series of reports involving some of society’s most deprived and impoverished people- Arsenal fans. Those of a nervous disposition should be aware that, though not designed for this purpose, these real accounts of human suffering, misery and pain are liable to upset. Please only read on after considering the above. All donations welcomed.




This is Andy. When Andy was twenty two, Arsenal had just won the FA Cup and Andy was just about to graduate with a third in Digital Media and Animation from Nottingham Trent University. It felt like the beginning of something exciting for him. It has not worked out that way. “It started when the lead singer of our band, Toby, got a job handling deeds in a small Mortgage Brokers in Northampton and knocked the music on the head. Then I couldn’t find any work in animation so had to take a job in a call centre for a few months. It was actually a while before I got my footing. I lost both my parents too. It’s not much fun as a twenty six year old having to ask the lady with the microphone at the customer service stand in Tesco to put out an announcement about a missing child, but I had no choice with my dad having the car keys on him.”

Andy maintains that, were it not for Arsenal’s inability to win a trophy since 2005 he would now be working in the animation room at Pixar. “It seems that everybody on my course who supported Chelsea or Man Utd went the Hollywood route. And a Portsmouth fan I sat next to in seminars before they started to clash with band practise is now storyboarding the new Winnie the Pooh film. It’s hard to not make the trophy connection.” There’s a tragic irony in Andy’s one word answer when asked to describe his memories of the cup final win: “Sketchy.”



This is Amy and James. They watched the Cup Final from the poolside bar at their five star honeymoon resort Marley’s Spa. “I remember spending the night sipping exotic cocktails, sampling wonderful local cuisine and being treat like royalty as attentive staff catered skilfully and unobtrusively to our every whim. Afterwards, the pair of us retired to our superbly appointed suite and made wild, yet uniquely tender and intimate, love,” says Amy. “Afterwards, James looked me in the eye and said than wherever we went physically, our souls would forever be as one together on this beautiful island.”

Six trophy-less years since and the couple have noticed a marked decline in their relationship. ”It’s like we’re more friends than anything else now,” says James, from his shed. “The sex gradually petered out. But it wasn’t just that: we would be driving and she would want to stop and ask for directions when I insisted on using a map; her mother would come around to visit. Numerous disputes over remote controls. Christmas is always particularly problematic. It’s like, of all the married people ever, we have been cursed.” He still retains fond memories of that win in 2005 and the night of bliss that followed it. He is convinced Amy does too, but doesn’t want to ask her when she’s in one of those funny moods she gets in.




This is John. Since that FA Cup win in 2005, John has found his perspective thinning noticeably, and now faces up to having lost it all together. “Obviously, it’s a big thing, to lose your perspective,” he said. “But it’s the process that bothers me most, you know? Like if somebody had came and just taken my perspective that afternoon, I would be over it by now. But it’s been gradually eroded. Every day I would wake up and find little bits of perspective on my pillow. The bathroom mirror became something to dread. I couldn’t look at myself without considering the increasing lack of perspective, and in turn I couldn’t consider my rapidly diminishing perspective without considering the wider implications of ageing and inevitable death. I tried to talk to the missus about it, but they don’t understand do they? She’s a Luton Town fan and they won the Football League Trophy the other year. This is an Arsenal thing.”

Niall Quinn On Tour

“Niall Quinn plans several meetings with fans across the region’s pubs to clarify his comments on fans watching foreign television”- The South Shields Gazette

Minutes of Meeting

Venue: Dawdon Miners Welfare Social Club

Attendees: Niall Quinn, Chairman. Steve Walton, Chief Executive. Selected fans. People watching events through choppy internet stream: not recorded.

*Quinn began the evening by thanking those who have attended and stating what an important issue he felt the one that they were here to discuss was. He stated his hope that those there agreed with him and would work with him in preserving the club's fortunes and making use of their grand potential. Though primarily here to discuss attendances at the Stadium of Light, Quinn welcomed the opportunity to expand any discussion in to a larger look at Sunderland’s place in modern day English football and hoped that the meeting would prove to be ultimately productive in steering the club towards a happier future.

*A patron of the pub entering through the back door asked if they were putting the Champions’ League on in here. Quinn suggested he tried the upstairs lounge.

*Quinn stated that since Ellis Short’s full takeover in 2009 crowds have not been to the level which he expected and proposed reasons why this might be. He believes one of the problems is the ease of accessing football through the internet, the effect of which will prove harmful in the long run.

*A fan suggested he protected against that possibility by installing a basic spyware package you can pick up for pennies nowadays. Another fan stated that he only goes on websites which don’t require you to fill in a survey before beginning to watch. Both fans agreed that My2p2 is probably your best bet going forward.

*Quinn suggested that it isn’t only people watching on the internet at home which are harming attendances. The amount of pubs in Wearside showing live Sunderland games is leading many to sacrifice going to games in favour of watching it at their local.

*Patron came back downstairs and confirmed that the match was being shown upstairs, but only on the little television. He asked how much longer this was going to take.

*Quinn stated that while Sunderland’s on pitch fortunes have been improving, the crowds off it have not been keeping up. This is obviously not a sustainable business model and if it continues the club may well be forced to sacrifice their big stars, such as Asamoah Gyan and Phil Bardsley. Quinn understands watching football can be expensive, but the club have offered all manner of offers for supporters to help them with the costs.

*A fan suggested that these initiatives aren’t publicised well enough. Quinn said that the
club’s website is constantly being updated with information of this nature. The fan said he can’t access the website after downloading a corrupted fileshare programme. Quinn suggested they try and avoid this avenue of conversation again.

*Patron wondered if it was possible to get any sort of service around here.

*A member of the floor wondered if it not just a simple case of fans enjoying going to the pub more than the game. He said he always likes having a pint at half time and to do that you have to leave your seat five minutes before half time, where you find you can’t even watch the game on the television. Quinn answered that this was a conscious decision on the club’s part to boost support to the team for the entire ninety minutes. The member of the floor stated that he hadn’t been talking about watching Sunderland’s game. Quinn vowed to look in to having Newcastle United games played on the televisions in the concourse but could make no promises.

*Patron asked if anybody had a light he could borrow. He also wanted to know if anybody else had heard a cheer from those upstairs watching the football and further ruminated on what implications that could have for the score line.

*A member of the floor asked Quinn if he ever paid himself in to football ground and, if he
hadn’t, whether this negated his self-appointed role of telling others how to spend their money. Quinn confirmed that he had been in conversations like this before and understood the anxieties of others. But stated that just as he believed sanctioning Roy Keane to spend 6.5 million pounds of the club’s money on George McCartney in 2008 had been the right thing to do and in the club's long term interests, so he feels are these meetings.

*Some sighing from the floor.

*Quinn thanked those there for the opportunity to speak to them and stated again how important he felt the region’s support is in helping Sunderland achieve the potential he believes is deep lying in the club and in danger of remaining dormant. He offered to take any further questions from the floor.

*Patron asked if he knew the Wi-Fi password so he could at least check the score. Quinn confirmed he didn’t. Member of floor could have sworn it ended in a ‘1234’. Another member said that that didn’t sound right.

*The meeting was adjourned.

Leave it out

Leaving early then, where do you stand? Not in the walkways, ideally, because it wouldn’t be fair to obstruct the views of others, and the last thing you need as you slink away in shame faced embarrassment is to induce a kerfuffle with the stewards. And don’t think you’re fooling anybody with your half-hearted positional play and intermittent bursts of pace, either. If your team are labouring in the last minutes of a game long lost, the intention is to leave early, not imitate them.

Of course, it isn’t possible to establish a true consensus on the best method for leaving before the end because so few will ever admit to actually doing it. People can just about imagine circumstances where it would be acceptable, a fire in your home, for example. But, even then, don’t you have neighbours with their own hose and bucket? It is a disdained practise and not only for its disloyalty- people baulk at the illogicality of the practise too. ‘Would you leave the cinema before the end?’ people ask, assuming your answer would be ‘no’ and not the infinitely more sensible answer that ‘yes, if I hadn’t realised that Kevin James was in the film before buying my ticket’.

And football, like cinema, for want of a more post-modern take on narrative, tends to store its juiciest twists for the end, meaning there’s little surface value logic to leaving early. Just as, fittingly enough, there’s little surface value logic to the twists at the end of most films. At least sneaking out (as the parlance would have it) at the cinema saves you the confused conversation in the lobby afterwards centring on why he agreed to go along with the heist in the first place if he had known all along that the safe cracker was working undercover. Football can’t be said to present such complexities of plot- which is to say that, if asked the final score by the person behind the counter at the chip shop, being unable to answer with any degree of certainty is going to see them question whether your money set aside for weekend recreation couldn’t be better invested.

So why do folk do it? Well, in special cases- usually in the North East- there’s the element of protest to consider. For some, it’s only one element in a whole production of a protest, and they accentuate their performance by throwing their season ticket in the direction of their manager and dug out as they exit. (If you’re planning this yourself, it is probably worth remembering that this is a much grander gesture if it’s done near the start of the season, so its message is a clear indicator to the higher ups at your level of frustration at the club’s direction, and not in May, when the higher ups may assume there’s a wedding in a fortnight that you can’t get out of.) Also worth remembering that, in protest, your action when leaving the ground must be purposeful, dominated by long strides; no hanging back on the stairs just until the attack breaks down. Even rats deserting a sinking ship don’t stop off by the televisions in the concourse to see what happens with this corner.

And there is special dispensation for people who actually do have to leave early to get to work- on a Saturday evening this will naturally involve a lot of doormen, and they will reward the patience you extend them at this junction by being similarly accommodating of your attempts to enter their place of work later that same evening while still wearing your club’s replica shirt. And some people do have trains to catch, of course. Though, for us, the transport argument is a harder sale than the working one. It would stand to reason that people would have to get home from the football, and that some of them will have to do it at staggered periods. Just as it stands to reasons that, on occasion, somebody may be forced to travel through the night to visit a sick relative. That’s why crafty train manufacturers didn’t stop at one.

I must say, for all the reasons against it, the argument against leaving early that tugs hardest on the heartstrings is the one about it being unfair on the players. Because you do, don’t you… you do find yourself, on occasion and mostly at night, worrying about them? Their adorable little faces, their various sponsorship deals and their perfectly shaped girlfriends. And ninety minutes with us probably represents the longest and most meaningful relationship most of them have ever been involved in, even if there are fewer people in attendance at the match than the usual amount invited back to theirs from the nightclub. We should be careful around their feelings.

Consider, though, the fact that every ground in the country has their share of people leaving early and players, who remember spend most of their weekends in and around these stadiums (and no doubt occasionally catch the odd game on television too, provided it doesn’t clash with poker on the other side), have probably worked out to not take it too personally. We can always contribute double to the full time whip round for their tip at the next home game.

So never mind the players, the important person to worry about, be able to live with, is yourself. Guilt, self-loathing, shame, these are all the emotions you are going to be forced to endure after abandonment tantamount to dereliction of duty, desertion even; cowardice and fickleness the charges you will be forced to level in your own direction as you trudge homeward bound. On the plus side, at least you will have a good seat on the bus home from which to consider them.

Newcastle United 4 - 4 Arsenal

Even among the delirium, the wide grins and the expansive bear hugs that greeted the blowing of the final whistle on Saturday, there was an anxious tinge in the air that our goal scoring midfielder would only be ours for so long. It was a performance that surely screamed, even to somebody as stubborn as Arsenal's manager, that this is the man to firm up their midfield, provide the bite and charisma which could take them from a team full of precious talents to a team capable of challenging properly the game’s true elite. I suppose the question now becomes: what would Arsene Wegner have to do to prise Joey Barton away from St James’ Park?

I think, though he would fit right in with Wegner’s no alcohol policy, certain promises regarding discipline would have to be made to the tee-totalling midfielder. Bitching to referees in the mould of a Wilshire, spending the entire second period trying to get other players sent off in the mould of a Fabregas, or unprovoked violence in the mould of a Diabi…this is not the type of thing that is going to appeal to a lad who has all season long behaved himself, one minor incident for which he accepted his punishment aside, impeccably.

And Arsenal fans themselves would have to put behind them some pretty firm rules on aesthetics. Which isn’t to say that Barton’s range of passing and close control wouldn’t fit in with their team’s general style, but rather to say that their fans, who have apparently developed some quite stringent pointers on the attractiveness of footballers to judge from one laughably pompous blog post I read which placed Barton inexplicably alongside Lady Sovereign the Grime MC as rightful figures of class based scorn, would have to make do with Barton’s more roguish appearance. In a piece which surely marks the passing of Arsenal fans in to absurd self-parody, the writer in question makes copious references to Barton’s supposed ‘ugly’ looks, as though such appreciators of the game as themselves are unable to handle whatsoever any affront to their visual pallet. We can only hope he enjoys admiring Lionel Messi’s boy next door cuteness in the coming weeks as much as he must have in their two games with Barcelona last season.

Outside of Barton and Tiote and JESUS CHRIST DID YOU SEE THAT, the main post match conversation seemed to centre on at what point the thought of leaving had crossed your mind and why the urge had been resisted. For my part, a strange numbness had enveloped me as a superb Arsenal team sliced through us time and again in the first half. I have seen this type of performance from Newcastle hundreds of time- inert, inept, in turns timid and clumsy – and it always seemed to end the same way- a one or two goal defeat, at worst three or four, amid mediocre rancour from the stands. This felt like I was seeing what would finally happen when the other team showed up, which would be interesting at least, and it was all too plainly absurd to feel too emotionally attached to.

Besides which, this was also, one sensed as the cries of Chris Hughton and Kevin Keegan’s names rang out at the end of a week when we have lost our most promising player for a generation, to be the fiery culmination of everything bad, sour and rotten about the club, and the decision to stay almost felt like morbid curiosity as much as anything- just how bad could things get? Harsh, bitter laughter greeted Arsenal’s fourth and genuine overheard conversation at half time noted that at least another five goals for Arsenal would mean that Sunderland no longer held the record for our biggest ever defeat.

We wait and see which provided the better marker of our immediate future, the first or the second half. But if the price to pay for that second forty five minutes is ten relegations, that’s fair enough with me. The noise kept rising, almost as people were coming to the realisation that a come back was on in incremental periods and adding to the din accordingly, and the team kept going and then we were suddenly one behind with eight minutes left- two Barton penalties and a neat Best finish- and then Tiote’s goal and the single loudest roar I have ever heard inside a football stadium. A moment of such glorious catharsis that even my stuffy neighbour and I were able to put to one side the issue of that time he caught me having a sly look at his programme at half time of last season’s game against Swansea to embrace one another and garble screamed, indecipherable gibberish in each other's faces while jumping in the air like loons.

Incredibly, we could have won it from then. Nolan, at this point taking the piss like a back heeled goal at the Stadium of Light, ran on to a Ranger hold up, shaped perfectly and hit the ball sweetly. It was whistling in, just as it is whistling in every time I have watched the highlights since, yet somehow it eluded the far post. As horrible as it is each and every time to see it go the wrong side, I can’t look away for the sight of the lower tier of the Gallowgate as the shot comes in- one sprawled mass of excitable Geordie type people, each one stood, each one in a differing state of chaotic frenzy.