Newcastle United 2 Nottingham Forest 0

Some weeks ago two Newcastle United players- both of whom have represented England in the past- were heavily alleged to have been involved in a fight that left one of them with a broken jaw. An unsavoury incident and one which, knowing our football club, seemed perfectly capable of derailing our promotion chances- which given the two characters involved, and the stories emerging about both of them, was about as much concern as most could muster about the incident.

Faced with this dilemma, Chris Hughton, a man only managing Newcastle United himself because of a series of unsavoury and otherwise alleged incidents, responded with consideration and tact, refusing to answer questions on the subject, generally being professional and calm in the face of sneaky muck raking, the type of muck raking which, in the past, has seen our managers fall gormlessly into the hands of the press and their various agendas, and served to exacerbate the drama, leading to all manner of recriminations and raised voices and loud, slamming doors. So, well played Chris...

...Except, no, not according to everybody. Louise Taylor, of the Guardian and formally of the official Sunderland AFC magazine, has been taking tedious issue with our manager ever since, almost as if she has her own reasons for wishing to denigrate and undermine Newcastle United’s promotion push. Having watched the Sunderland game on Sunday- with Turner, Cana and Richardson putting an interesting spin on the concept of playing football, almost using it as an abstract concept and a starting point for something else completely- I simply can’t imagine what those reasons may be.

If her plan was to disrupt our players’ confidence and unity then her spiteful campaign was a hugely visible failure. As evidenced by the mass pile on that greeted our second goal- Enrique’s first ever for the club- our players only ever read the Guardian for Ben Goldacre’s science columns, and Polly Toynbee on a Tuesday. And the first, Ameobi’s spin and finish from just inside the area, was the result of a concentrated and composed seventy minutes of patient approach play- pass and move, give and go- that aligned with a vocal, passionate and fully united home crowd was always likely to yield something against a mobile and pretty, but ultimately toothless, Forest side.

Two wins needed, now, or we could be up by Saturday if Bristol City go and do us a favour. Danny Baker has been talking all season about the perils of declaring ‘nothing can go wrong now’ during football matches. So I won’t be doing that just yet. But considering what would have to go wrong to deny us promotion and that party on the last day at Loftus Road (I think, knowing how much us thick Geordies love one, the theme should be ‘messiahs’- I’ll be in the robes and thorns, being lectured by somebody dressed as Richards Dawkings), you would have to conclude that it’s all over bar the shouting and bar me being asked to leave the pub nearest Shepherd’s Bush for trying to perform a Cuban Cha Cha with a nearby pool cue.

Nobody expected this when we were getting beaten 6-1 at Orient in Pre Season. (Hey, serious question as I was avoiding the sports press at that time for obvious reasons: did anybody use punning Agatha Christie reference in the write ups of that game? Missed a trick if they didn’t.) And before the inevitable shit storm next season, we should take a second to recognise the job that Chris Hughton has done all season in the face of some incredible asks.

I did notice that, with the crowd signing his name on Monday, he gave it the full hands clasped together, arms raised salute in response. Compared to his reticent, almost forced, acknowledgement of the fans when he heard his name chanted earlier in the season, it felt like a nice moment for him and for us. And knowing how irked it would have left Louise Taylor made it feel all the nicer.

Wag Weekly...Kimberley Mills

Almost all of the online literature dedicated to her seems to regard Kimberley Mills as the only Wag yet to “cash in on her boyfriend’s fame.” Thought about logically for a moment, taking a second to estimate how many professional footballers there are in the country and how likely any of these players are likely to be celibate, this line is absolute nonsense. But one thing you learn reading these sites is how keen we are to damn Wags with feint, and often patronising, praise. For my part, I should probably point out that I think Mills has lovely hair. Very shiny.

Shy of publicity as she is, she has restricted her appearances to procedural ones- the Royal occasions it would have been impolite, and detrimental to the nation’s spirits, to have avoided. So, naturally, we were able to catch a glimpse of her on Nuts TV’s ‘Real Footballers’ Wives’. What I love best about that is the title of the show suggesting, as it seems to, that an overly cautious producer somewhere has done their best to ensure no confusion. Always nice when television types think to make the distinction between fiction and non-fiction for their viewers, and put it right up there in the opening credits.

She is engaged (possibly- nobody seems sure) to David Bently, widely regarded as a sort of rubbish version of David Beckham (even his name sounds vaguely like a store’s own brand knock off), which, since about 2007 and his move to L.A Galaxy, has made two of them.

The A-Z of 5-a-side Football (Part 1)

‘Aaaaaargh’: Noise of frustration made by a player who has just over hit a pass, or put a shot wide. Usually exclaimed by the player in the Barcelona Messi shirt, it is done to suggest that the previous passage of play was deeply uncharacteristic, and that his shirt doesn’t usually look this ironic.

‘Back’: With the ball at your feet, your natural inclination will be to take it on a bending run, leaving floundering defenders in your wake, and riffling it into the top corner. Teammates with a clearer view of how the game’s developing may suggest a more pragmatic approach: a humbling shifting of momentum and a dreary rolled pass backwards. The even more hurtful suggestion of ‘back to keeper’ is usually followed up with the base covering caveat ‘if you need it’. The subtext: you do.

Celebrating: Strictly forbidden in the five a side arena. The psychology of this works on a similar basis to the idea that suggests people will think you have done more sexually if you talk about it less. This should not be a new experience for you, and the proper way to acknowledge a goal is to trudge back with your eyes downward, periodically raising your head to display your unsmiling face. Some squinting is permissible, but not so much that it becomes excessive.

Defending: Easier to feign than attacking, and such is the chaotic pace of the game, sticking a lethargic foot out as an opposition player approaches you may actually see you emerge with possession. No sliding tackles allowed, as if you were planning on one anyway.

Edge of the box: A starkly defined area of the court, players being forbidden from entering the box at the risk of conceding a penalty, or, judging by the desperate lengths some go to in order to avoid it, opening the gates of hell, letting loose the evil powers from within and becoming the subject of an oft regurgitated internet urban legend. Drawn as a semi circle, which means defenders have to make daintily curved runs around it, watching their steps like a shot putter and generally feeling a bit silly.

Five: The number of players meant to be on each side- a nice conceit but one usually thrown into turmoil when Spuggsy bring his little brother with him, and Jamie’s mates from last week show up again. Finding space becomes a problem, with angry 50-50 clashes breaking out all over the place, and that’s just queuing for a drink at the vending machine beforehand. The game itself is less a fast paced exercise in short passing and ball control, and more a mass of flailing limbs and sharp, elbowed points. Teammates tackle each other, strangers- referring to each other solely through generic terms like ‘mate’ and ‘bud’- find themselves paired up together in central defence. It’s as near an experience to playing for West Ham United you’re going to get for twenty five quid, a booking fee and a deposit. The fact that the game only lasts sixty minutes, and not ninety, means it’s the closest you’re going to get to storming out of Upton Park early too.

Goalkeeper: Outside of Nike’s Zoom T-7 indoor trainers, and a pair of ankle guards, the most desirable piece of equipment on the five a side court is a goalkeeper- you should probably be able to find a decent second hand one on Ebay- or, failing that, at Portsmouth- and it’s certainly a worthwhile investment. Sans Goalkeeper, your team will be forced to operate a hectically organised rolling system, each member taking it in stroppy turns to mind nets, only freed from responsibility on the concession of a goal. Such a system is pervious to corruption, of course, and every goal will be greeted with dark suspicion and accusatory glances from team mates not altogether convinced that you aren’t in devious cahoots with the opposition to limit your time on the centre provided crash mats.

Head Height: A rule designed to encourage ball control and fast play, although usually pettily used to punish a player who deflects the ball somewhere above the knee area. One problem with the head height rule is nobody is ever sure which head to use as the benchmark height, nor what would happen should the player selected choose to perform a cunning handstand with an opposition striker bearing down on goal. Appealing for enforcement of the rule is generally regarded as bad form and should be left to your team’s captain. (I.E, the member of your team who remembered to book the court this week.)

Wag Weekly....Yulia Arshavin

People not at work during the day for whatever reason- maybe they’re unemployed, or students or Liverpool’s Albert Riera- have two options to help them waste away the hours: Sky Sports News or double bills on the Paramount comedy channel. You can watch one, or the other, but to watch both would feel vaguely perverse. And as you’re all football fans, it seems likely that any reference to Dharma and Gregg- a show designed with the daytime television watcher in mind, almost hypnotic in its capability to generate a hollowed out self loathing in the soul of the viewer- would be largely lost on you. So you’re just going to have to take my word for it when I say that Mr and Mrs Arshavan are truly the Dharma and Greg of The footballer and their Wags world.

Andrei plays the Greg role, all straight laced and old fashioned conservatism, he is on record as saying that all women should be banned from driving “because they are too dangerous.” (As opposed, presumably, to professional footballers, whose collective road safety record is unblemished.) Yulie is Dharma: baggy clothing and sass, she thinks that the English are “too reserved.” Well, when the choice is that or being put out on loan at Bolton Wanderers or Mk Dons you can hardly blame us, dear. She also thinks the country is “dull,” and the food “sub-standard.” (In fairness, when I first read that quote I assumed she was talking about a ham and turkey six incher, all the salad and on traditional Italian white- so she might have a point on the issue of our unimaginative pallets.)

An avid blogger, Arshavin has since “prohibited his wife from talking about England.” It’s strange, because I remember watching his performance against Holland in 2008 and declaring him my favourite ever footballer- I handed over my season ticket renewal form at St. James’ Park later that week with a quip about hoping the money would be getting put towards signing him. (In a moment that has since proven symbolically, and horrifyingly, apt, the ticket office lady had never heard of him.) But technology has caught up with us once again, it seems, and just as they say you should never meet your heroes, nor it would appear, to be on the safe side, should you ever read their blog either.

P.Alace

To a generation of rap listeners P.Diddy is just an attention seeking irritant, one who cravenly latches on to more talented artists, appearing in their videos and peppering their songs with distracting ad-libs in a cheap bid to further his own profile and massage his own ego. But to others...no, come to think about it, he’s probably that to most generations of rap listeners. And some non-rap listeners too.

To this date his sole achievement is his close relationship with the late Notorious B.I.G. It’s certainly easy to see why the pair got along: Biggie was witty, verbose, multi-talented, and liked Versace sunglasses. Puffy, too, liked Versace sunglasses. Together, the pair were at the forefront of the mid nineties bling era-an era that stood largely true to the ‘two turntables and a mic’ ethos, but also threw in, for good measure, some diamond encrusted shiny suits, an indoor swimming pool and, more often than not, a remix featuring Jodeci.

To this sole achievement, could we be set to add another? Certainly, few could have expected Crystal Palace to find, so soon, an owner even more annoying than Simon Jordan.

His interest in the club, which was confirmed by his ‘people’ in the week, seemed to come as a surprise to many of the country’s sporting press, maybe shocked he was prepared to personally invest in something that is so obviously a lost cause. They were obviously unaware of his producing and marketing duties on the upcoming Joaquin Phoenix rap album. (“As yet unreleased,” notes Wikipedia, with a hearting air of optimism.) This is not a music mogul easily deterred by what others think, nor one cursed with overly sensitive critical facilities.

Besides which, was the Diddy/Palace alliance not forever destined, written even? Not written by the same team of ghostwriters that penned for Diddy such hits as ‘I'll Be Missing You’ (for my money- and, knowing Puffy, a large slice of my publishing and royalties too- the single worst song ever made) and the other one, That One with Usher in the Video. But, rather, written by the stars and the fates.

Consider: the year is 1995, and Puff, in attendance at that year’s Source award, is called out in everything but name by West coast music head, and owner of Death Row records, Suge Knight, sparking a bicoastal rivalry that will span over two years, ending in the tragically early demise of two of the industry’s brightest talents, 2pac and Biggie Smalls. At the same time, as part of a bit of a shake up to accommodate smaller numbers the following season, Palace become the fourth team to be relegated from that year’s Premiership. To paraphrase Chris Rock: Malcolm X got assassinated, 2pac and Biggie got shot, and Alan Smith got invited to leave Selhurst Park and pursue the recently vacated managerial spot at Wycombe Wanderers.

Some years later, and with the millennium approaching, Palace bring back Steve Coppell, who does a fine job in keeping the cash strapped club away from the reaches of further demotion. Meanwhile, over in New York, Diddy, along with his girlfriend Jennifer Lopez, is involved in an altercation in a night club, leading to a shooting for which his artist, Shyne, is eventually found guilty of instigating and sentenced to ten years in a maximum security penitentiary for. The trouble allegedly started when a club goer threw money at Puffy’s feet, in an ostentatious display of wealth- “we’ve all got money,” he is reported to have said.

You can’t help but feel, though, that the display would have been even more effective as a fiscally wasteful gesture had the club goer thought, as Palace had earlier in the year, to bring Terry Venables in as manager in a heavily publicised appointment. Though it’s probably fair to guess the point was to demonstrate that, no matter how much money any one of us may have, we’re all in a metaphorical gutter staring at the stars- and that’s not an argument the necessarily caters for the extra stresses brought about by administration and point deductions, nor the understandable concerns regarding Terry Venables and having to put with him.

Undeniable, though, surely, that the two were always, somehow, intrinsically and spiritually, linked. And now, fingers crossed, financially. What can Palace fans, and new manager Paul Hart, expect? We wait in hushed expectation. The first move will be to invite Diddy to join us in our hushed expectation, with the emphasis, ideally, very much on the ‘hushed’ bit.

Atrophied Success

When Middlesbrough supporters hold a big flag with an arrow pointing to Newcastle United supporters underneath the slogan ‘Trophy Virgins’, what, exactly, are they trying to imply? That neither I, nor any of my fellow supporters, have ever attempted to engage in the act of copulation with one? Well, frankly, I should hope not. You know, they do ask for those things back at the end of the year.

This is not to say that trophy presentations wouldn’t be spruced up if, instead of the traditional arms aloft pose, the winning captain was invited to engage with the trinket on a more intimate basis; the type of basis that is usually precipitated by two and half bottles of shared wine and concluded with a flimsy and perfunctory text correspondence. Even so, though, I’m not sure any majesty would be lent to Cup final day if Gary Lineker was forced to hand over to the presentations only after a clear NSFW warning. And I imagine those ribbons get everywhere. If this is a radical shape up to the handing out of silverware being proposed then I’m afraid I will have to be lending a dissenting voice.

Crafty buggers, they may simply have been trading on that old schoolyard trick of saying the word ‘virgin’ and waiting to see who squirmed first. Certainly, my first response on seeing the banner was to go over, again, the night when my sister’s friend- who was well fit but who left for London with her family the next day meaning that neither I nor anybody else would ever see her again- came in to my bedroom in the middle of the night and we must have been at it for at least eight hours, and she was gasping and everything and then she let me touch her boobs and I’ve definitely done it now, so just shut up about it right?

An effective form of banter, to be sure: evoking childhood trauma (or in my case, evoking memories of saucy first time romps with the friends of my sister), in the hope of psyching us out. Next time we meet- will we ever again?- they should devise something around the theme of suspicious wet patches and that time we called the teacher ‘mam’.

What they surely can not have been suggesting, contrary to what has been claimed by some unkind souls, is that Newcastle United have never won a trophy. We have won far more than most clubs, and most of those clubs have won far more than Middlesbrough. They have won precisely one, a League Cup following a 2004 victory against Bolton Wanderers. You’ll have heard the stories from elderly relatives, I’m sure: the flat caps, the urchins smiling toothily, the almost full stadium. You can probably access the Pathe newsreel coverage at the National museum of football. In some circles, it’s still referred to as ‘The Joseph Desire Job final’. Usually, clarification is sought from the other parties in the conversation as to what ‘The Joseph Desire Job final’ is in reference to. But once that administrative matter is smoothed, the reminiscing begins and just as anybody of a certain age can remember where they were when Kennedy was killed, so too can we all remember what we were watching on the other side when Middlesbrough won the league cup.

One Middlesbrough final I did watch was their 2006 Uefa Cup one against Sevillia. I even missed The Apprentice so I could catch the last twelve, goal packed, minutes. I remember being disappointed as I like to see all the North East clubs doing well- even the ones from outside the North East. But, hey, guys, nobody’s judging. They’re difficult, those ones, aren’t they, the European ones? Only the truly top clubs achieve anything in those, the likes of AC Milan and Newcastle United.

Things to do in summer when you're dropped...

After a disappointing display against Egypt, one which met the visible disapproval of coach Fabio Capello, Arsenal’s Theo Walcott may be concerned that this summer, far from the coming of age narrative he had planned to be involved with in South Africa, will, in fact, be a bit of a washout spent bumming around the house. But the youngsters today have so many more options than we did when we weren’t selected to play for our country at the highest possible level at that age- and instead spent our summers idly frolicking with chums long in to the night, before going home and downloading the new Green Day and Eminem albums from Napster- and Theo has all manner of activities to be keeping himself busy with as the days get longer and the nights shorter.

Cinema pass

Of course, it’s not unknown for kids on their six weeks to bypass payment at the cinema all together and obtain access to films by making stealthy use of the life sized cardboard cut outs of Twilight characters and an elderly relative who works there taking tickets. Or, otherwise, taking advantage of the scraggly haired college student who works there taking tickets and probably regards the issue of people sneaking into cinema showings as he regards everything else in the world, with a sort of detached amusement (something which probably helps make that little torch he has to carry around with him a bit more bearable) and acts to counter in the same way he acts to do anything, with slouched inertia.

Kids that download films illegally off the internet and watch them alone in a darkened room are part of a thrilling media revolution and no doubt feted by their parents as technological whizz kids; kids that show cunning and adventure and go to see a film the way the director intended it to be seen are ‘antisocial’. What this says about society’s media consumption habits and eagerness to label is up for debate, but it seems a fair bet that neither group particularly enjoyed Avatar.

Sneaking in would be a bit of a stretch for Theo, who would, in keeping with his display last Wednesday, probably end up gormlessly running head down in to the popcorn stand. There’s also the risk of being spotted- unless the people doing the doors are the type of fair-weather football types that only watch world cups, then he should be fine. Regardless though, the price of a cinema mega pass should not represent too much of a problem, especially if his parents, as many do, up his pocket money in keeping with the additional spare time he finds himself with over the summer. Tenner a month, jobs a good ‘un and you’re laughing. Unless you take advantage of the offer to go and watch the new Will Farrell film, obviously, in which case you’re sitting in a stone faced silence punctured only by the occasional low groan of disgust. But the point stands.

Reminder: you will need to present your I.D before each showing, and notes from your parents or highly internationally acclaimed football coaches are not considered valid.

Go travelling

The gap year option, as favoured by many rich students who use the time spent travelling not taking advantage of drunk girls at full moon parties and attempting to eat their own face after taking some dodgy acid, trying to ‘find themselves’.

For Theo, this shouldn’t prove too hard a task, he’d be best advised to start by looking around the nearest substitute bench. Don’t forget though who’ll be looking for him: Theo himself, armed with his legendary lack of positional skill and general directionless. It seems that the young whip has unwittingly stumbled into something of an existential quandary relating to the nature of self. An unwitting stumble that will probably, like most of his unwitting stumbles tend to, see him surrender possession before looking peeved and more than a little hurt.

Music festivals

U2 are headlining this year’s Glastonbury which is a bit of a shame, obviously, but should also ensure tickets are a little easier to come by on Ebay, once people do the mathematics needed to deduce how irrational it is to want to see U2 in the face of being forced to plough around muddy marshland in dignity-stripping footwear and times that by the possibility of bumping in to Edith Bowman.

One thing the World Cup does have over music festivals, outside of its lack of Edith Bowman, is the bottled water situation: there won’t be the queues to get a bottle that there traditionally are at Glastonbury, and it’s most likely free, as opposed to ludicrously expensive. This has been subtlety branded over the years, like the rain and the paucity of toilet facilities, as ‘all part of the experience’, when, in actuality, crass corporate exploitation would appear to be the anathema of what the music festival experience should be. Theo can take heart in his right to reply: he can write a letter to NME which will draw a sarcastic and one line response from a smug ponce with a stupid haircut who spent the entire festival backstage sharing complimentary champagne and an air conditioner with Florence and the Machine.

Score against Burnley

Because it is hard, isn’t it, football. Except, crucially, when you’re playing against Burnley in which case it tends to become very, very easy. Arsenal ususally like to engage themselves in quasi-glamorous pre season 'occasions', extensively sponsored tournaments with portentous names and trophies handed out at the end of it to captains doing their best to look thrilled. But this year perhaps they can make an exception and give Burnley a few games in the name of Theo’s confidence and general all round mood? Failing that, maybe they can politely ask Barcelona or Ajax if they wouldn’t mind stepping aside and letting Brian Laws’ men having a crack at the ‘Emirates Tournament’ this year. Note: It might be an idea to run this idea past Sky or whichever station has provisionally agreed to televise it this year.