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.
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