As Good As It Gets

Ask anyone for a list of seminal moments in the Premier League era and you´d be hard pushed to find one that didn´t feature Kevin Keegan´s finger-jabbing outburst in the spring of 1996 as Manchester United slowly but surely eroded Newcastle´s seemingly insurmountable lead to take the title to Old Trafford.

While Manchester United have had some worthy adversaries in the intervening years, it is a testament to how close Newcastle ran their title rivals that year that Sir Alex Ferguson pulled off a positively Keeganesque masterstroke last summer to ensure that Manchester City´s first Premier League success would be a one-off.

Rewind to July 1996 and Kevin Keegan is sitting alongside Alan Shearer at a press conference to announce the return of Tyneside´s prodigal son in a world record £15 million transfer from Blackburn Rovers. Shearer´s arrival was intended to ensure that a front-line boasting Ferdinand, Beardsley and Asprilla would become even more irresistible and guarantee that the near-miss of the previous season would not be repeated the following May.



The popular public perception of Keegan´s ´Entertainers´ was that they were thrilling in attack but lax at the back and more than happy to accept the challenge of outscoring opponents rather than aiming to shut them out through defensive solidity. However, while there´s an element of truth to that, time has helped to exaggerate and perpetuate the myth. The reality is that Ferguson´s men scored 73 goals that season (seven more than Newcastle managed) and conceded 35 (while Newcastle´s notoriously ´leaky´ defence only let in two more goals).

Faced with the challenge of taking his team onto the next level, Keegan pre-empted one of Frasier Crane’s most classic lines by subscribing to the notion that “if less is more, just think how much more ‘more’ will be!” There was no subtle tweaking of tactics to tighten up at the back - the idea was simply to blow everybody else out of the water.

Unfortunately, however, it’s too simplistic to say that the team who scores the most goals (or, indeed, concedes the fewest) will win the league – the reality lies somewhere in the middle. So, while it would be bordering on sacrilege to suggest that Newcastle should never have signed Shearer, with the benefit of hindsight, we’re entitled to wonder whether a top class defender may have been a more shrewd purchase and provided the steeliness and resolve that was sadly lacking as Stan Collymore, Graham Fenton, Ian Woan and other Geordie nemeses dashed our title dreams.

The Premier League, of course, has moved on since the heady days of the mid-90s; tactics are now more nuanced and intricate, many teams advocate a more cautious, possession-based style of play and few teams play in the free-flowing cavalier style that Keegan employed. All of which made it so surprising that Sir Alex Ferguson decided not to address the relative lack of quality midfield options he has at his disposal and chose to bring Robin Van Persie to Old Trafford instead.



It’s plain to see that he has been the difference between the two Manchester sides this season and it’s both frustrating and refreshing to realise that, for all the criticism he has endured over the years, Keegan may well have been right all along. Attack truly is the best form of defence and very few opponents can withstand a constant bombardment from world class opponents for 90 minutes. Keegan was so close to achieving footballing perfection with the players that he had at his disposal – they may not have received detailed notes on the opposition before every game or studied different tactical permutations but Newcastle were absolutely scintillating when Shearer, Ferdinand, Beardsley, Ginola and co. clicked and the 5-0 destruction of Manchester United was one of the greatest performances in the club’s history.

Now, nearly 20 years on, despite successive owners having ploughed hundreds of millions of pounds into the club, we haven’t even come close to mounting another title challenge and while Sir Bobby’s team were wonderful at times, they never replicated the style and ruthlessness of Keegan’s men.

Sure, Keegan didn’t win us a trophy but, in many ways, his legacy is much greater than that. We played to win and, more often than not, we not only won but we won in style. Now, as we limply struggle towards the finish line after a campaign of abject failure, it’s thoroughly depressing to think that we will never reach those heights again. What if that was as good as it gets?

Tempting Fate

Published in The Mag on 13th April 2013

Alan Pardew’s post-match interview after our lucky last-minute defeat of Stoke in early March was a classic example of tempting fate. When asked about Newcastle’s involvement in the relegation battle, he replied: “to be honest, I think we are done” and while Newcastle aren’t quite in a precarious position yet, Pardew is surely wishing that he had kept his mouth shut.

This season has been nothing short of a disaster and the sooner it is over, the better. The old cliché goes that some teams are “too good to go down” and while that may genuinely seem to be the case as far as Newcastle are concerned, it is far from inconceivable that they could find themselves heading back down to the Championship by the time the final whistle blows after the Arsenal match on 19th May.

To be fair to Pardew, most of our defeats this season have been due to a lack of quality rather than a lack of effort and the level of performance, while not yielding many points, seems to suggest that he retains the trust of the players. Although, it is somewhat concerning that our meekest and most dispirited surrender so far this season came in our last league outing, against Man City, and hopefully it was just a blip rather than an ominous sign of things to come. While nobody realistically expected us to beat Man City in their own back yard and there were arguably mitigating circumstances for our defeat to Wigan, those two defeats have dragged us right back into the relegation scrap and arguably in an even worse situation than we found ourselves in when Reading had just left St James’ Park with all three points back in January.



However, while the spirit in the camp remains high, one battle that Pardew may well be losing is the one to keep the fans on-side. Despite the obvious toll that their Europa League exploits have taken on his team this season, Pardew’s optimism has grown as they have progressed and he has recently been trying to encourage the fans to believe that Newcastle can go all the way and win it. However, the unfortunate reality is that while progress has been steady, it has also been unconvincing and has come at a significant cost as injuries to Tim Krul, and, in particular, Hatem Ben Arfa, have had a hugely negative impact on our domestic campaign.

Nevertheless, some supporters have said that they would happily swallow the bitter pill that is relegation if winning the Europa League was the spoonful of sugar to help that particular medicine go down – although in recent weeks Newcastle have had the worst of both worlds as the defeat of Anji set up a very tricky tie with Benfica that will, in all likelihood, end the European dream before leaving a dejected Newcastle side facing into an uncomfortable relegation dogfight as the season draws to a close.

While there have been some very good performances and victories since January’s transfer dealings reinvigorated the club and brought new hope following a bleak mid-winter, we are now at the stage of the season where points need to be earned if we are to secure our Premier League status for the next campaign. While the French imports have settled in remarkably well and have undoubtedly raised the overall standard of both our starting XI and the squad in general, a survival scrap is a tough introduction to the Premier League for anybody – regardless of whether they are French internationals or not. Pardew has often shown himself to be tactically naïve and some of his substitutions often leave a lot to be desired (but that’s a discussion for another day). My point is that he is unlikely to have a tactical epiphany that will see everything click into gear and for us to suddenly start putting teams to the sword with decisive mastery – so, with so few games left, confidence will be key if Newcastle are to hold their nerve and ensure survival.

The match against Wigan was a genuine six-pointer that turned the tide in their favour and has given them momentum and confidence going into what has now become a consistently strong part of the season for them. Similarly, the upcoming derby at St James’ Park presents both sides with a massive opportunity to leave the other deeply mired in what Adrian Chiles would call “the brown stuff”.



Until the recent managerial upheaval on Wearside, I had complete faith that Newcastle would confidently sweep Sunderland aside but Martin O’Neill’s sacking has really thrown a cat amongst the pigeons and, despite his success with Swindon, Di Canio remains somewhat of an unknown entity as a manager and it is virtually impossible to predict what effect he will have in the remaining weeks of the season. A victory of any kind would, of course, be one to savour and may well have the added bonus of helping to sink The Good Ship Mackem but it’s vital that Newcastle don’t let the pressure and the emotion of the occasion put them off their stride and leave them vulnerable to yet another smash-and-grab home defeat in a game that they should really win.

Nobody has a God-given right to stay in the Premier League but while Pardew was somewhat premature in saying that Newcastle had pulled clear of trouble, he was right to suggest that his side should have too much quality to spend their weekends worrying about what’s going on below them. Hopefully the last couple of weeks have given both the players and staff the wake-up call they needed to ensure that they finish on a high and set themselves up to challenge at the right end of the table again next season.

The Romance Of The Cup

They say that success breeds success. While none of us are naïve enough to think that finally winning a trophy would ensure dazzling success for years to come, it is worth remembering that nobody starts out a stud – even the most confident and charismatic Casanova was once a shy and awkward virgin and the League Cup represents Newcastle’s best chance of popping their cherry and hopefully one day developing into a moderately successful club.

If not, however, if it were to simply be a fleeting romance, then we would revel in our wild night of debauchery and cherish the memories – memories to keep us warm on long and lonely winter nights. The likes of Blackburn, Middlesbrough and Birmingham have pulled in recent times, while we’ve returned home alone, drunk and deflated, wondering about what might have been.
So, watching Swansea sweep Bradford aside in League Cup Final left me with a familiar hollow feeling. They imposed their superiority on their plucky opponents with such ease that the game was over before it even got started and if anything the 5-0 scoreline ended up being a merciful and conservative reflection of the massive gulf in class between the two sides.

It got me thinking back on our two FA Cup Final appearances in 1998 and 1999 and how unlucky we were to come up against such devastatingly superior opposition in the form of a rampant double-winning Arsenal team and Manchester United’s swashbuckling treble-winners. Looking back, Newcastle were about as likely to win either of those finals as Bradford were to beat Swansea.
While even reaching the final was a laudable and incredible achievement for Bradford, my over-riding emotions were of frustration and jealousy. Sure, I could appreciate their remarkable giant-killing exploits as they somehow defeated three Premier League sides en route to Wembley but their heroics were a painful reminder that Newcastle consistently spurn their best opportunity to finally win some silverware by getting knocked out in the early stages.

Our interest in the competition was, of course, ended way back in September when an under-strength Newcastle team were inevitably beaten by a Manchester United side composed mainly of understudies and reserves.

Before the trip to Old Trafford, Alan Pardew indulged in the usual bland platitudes about winning a trophy before completely contradicting himself by openly admitting that the League Cup was bottom of his list of priorities and that a top 4 finish would constitute real success. Of course, in one way, he is absolutely spot-on and the fans would be delighted to finish in such a
lofty position in the league – although not as happy as the men in the boardroom.

Cup runs are great for fan morale but are nowhere near as lucrative as a Champions League campaign. So, while club owners and supporters may seem to be singing from the same hymn sheet, they are, in fact, not. Club owners want success, while the fans crave glory. Accordingly, the money men dictate that the league must always be the priority and it is this, rather than the fans’ dreams, that will inform the manager’s thinking.

Sure, we all want Newcastle United to be in safe hands and for sensible business practices to be put in place to ensure the financial stability of the club in the long term – but success off the pitch is kind of pointless unless it paves the way for success on the pitch too.

While some tricky ties and a lack of squad depth have often precluded us from having a genuine chance in either of the cups, the fact that teams place cup success so low down in their list of priorities baffles me. The prize money may be paltry compared to what’s on offer in the Premier League but this new-fangled notion of fourth place in the league being the top prize is ludicrous.
Surely the whole point of being in a competition is to try to win it. While it’s a foregone conclusion that the Premier League crown isn’t a realistic target for 17 or 18 of the top flight teams, it must also stand to reason that any team who qualifies for the Champions League by finishing fourth are also on a hiding to nothing. They aren’t particularly likely to go all the way and to lift the cup the following May.

Of course the ridiculous irony of football is that clubs are businesses and aim to make a profit, so while chairmen measure success in financial terms, fans don’t dream about seeing the club captain trudging up the steps in Wembley, bloodied and battle-scarred but still smiling, shaking hands with Prince William and accepting his medal before triumphantly raising a crisp, fresh balance sheet aloft.

Yes, we want a well-run, successful club but we also want the glory of trips to Wembley, of cup finals and open top bus parades. We want to win trophies, to have stories to tell and to make memories that we can cherish in years to come. A trophy is just that - a bloody trophy! It’s not a pit-stop on the way to somewhere else, it’s the destination.

Ashley Keeps His Pards Close To His Chest

So, there we have it. January has come and gone and Alan Pardew remains in the hot-seat at St James’ Park despite overseeing a drastic and disastrous slump that has left Newcastle fighting for their lives.

Newcastle’s so-called ‘fickle fans’ have been remarkably understanding and supportive as they have witnessed the wheels come off in spectacular fashion this season after the heroics of the last campaign. The tide of public opinion was beginning to turn against the manager after the 2-1 reverse at home to Reading but the club’s swift and decisive transfer dealings since then have served to dissolve the negativity and pessimism that has been circling around Tyneside for the last few months.

In many ways, it’s a masterstroke by Mike Ashley. While mistakes were made last summer when the squad was not reinforced with some top-class signings, backing the manager so significantly during this transfer window has given Pardew a great platform to build on and has also silenced the critics who question Ashley’s dedication to the cause. Last season’s achievements notwithstanding, it’s fair to say that Ashley has shown remarkable restraint as, let’s face it, far greater managers have been sacked for less. I just hope that Pardew knows how lucky he is.



Fans are willing to absolve Pardew of some of the blame for this season’s woes after the calamity of last summer’s failure to strengthen the squad – after all, he plays little part in transfer dealings and is employed primarily as a coach, although that’s not to say that he is not to be held accountable for the disastrous season we’re having. While he may not be entirely culpable for the results (based on the shallow pool of resources he’s had at his disposal), the buck must stop with Pardew for the team’s performances; the one-dimensional play, the poor positioning, the ineffective set-pieces, the negative mindset, and, most worryingly, the lack of resilience. Regardless of the tools he has at his disposal, Pardew should be able to send out a team that is well-drilled, knows what it wants to do and plays with passion, pride and confidence and, sadly, that has become the exception rather than the rule.

The circumstances of his arrival on Tyneside remain unknown but, unlike Chris Hughton, who viewed the PR side of the job with a jaundiced eye, Pardew revels in his role as spokesman for the club and happily fields questions which would never even be directed his way if Llambias and Ashley conducted their business more transparently. He keeps his mouth shut, trots out the company line and gives media-friendly soundbites which reveal very little about what goes on behind closed doors at St James’ Park and that seems to be something that his superiors value greatly.

After a few interviews before the recent flurry of activity in this transfer window where he looked jaded and anxious, Pardew is back to spinning out the hackneyed lines about each remaining game being ‘like a cup final’ and players returning from injury being ‘like a new signing’, so it’s full steam ahead for the SS Bullshit.

Nevertheless, and despite Newcastle’s shocking recent league form, there have been enough flashes of brilliance amidst the dross of recent months to suggest that the spark remains and that Pardew retains the support and trust of his players but the soundbites are wearing thin and he has to put in the hard work on the training ground to ensure that he arrests the slide and turns the team’s fortunes around.



He must rediscover the defensive solidity that underpinned last season’s success as well as ensuring that he sends his charges out equipped with more ideas than the very basic ones contained in the hit best-seller ‘How To Skin A Cat’ by Shola Ameobi.

January’s arrivals also spared Pardew some backlash for his comments about the fans getting on the team’s back during the Reading defeat. While he was right in saying that the fans were negative and that it spread to the players on the pitch, he neglected to acknowledge the fact that his substitutions were the catalyst for the negativity in the first place. Pardew’s criticism of the players currently in the ‘development squad’ also had the potential to be divisive but, luckily, just when it seemed that his mouth was about to get him into trouble, Ashley intervened and the script has been re-written.

However, Pardew would do well to remember that just as one swallow doesn’t make a summer, five Frenchmen do not necessarily make a team (as Raymond Domenech and Laurent Blanc would no doubt attest) and this long overdue recruitment drive throws the ball straight back into his court. The lack of depth in the squad has been addressed and now is the time for Pardew to get back to basics and put in the hard hours on the training pitch or else the only French export he’ll need to worry about will be the guillotine.

The Ballad Of The Child Of Prague

Once upon a time in the Eastern Bloc
There lived a child most hallowed
Who brought light where there was darkness
Who grew crops where fields were fallow.

His face smooth and angelic
Sweetened by his rosy cheeks
But don’t be fooled by his appearance
For the child was far from meek.

He was small but he was mighty
Yes, the child packed quite a punch
While two raised fingers brought peace and love
Five clenched did make a bunch.

Woe betide any man who scorned him
For the child was well-connected
His devotees were heaped with blessings
Grief consumed men who rejected.

He was sitting all alone one night
When the world was fast asleep
His ears perked up when his iPhone 5
Began to buzz and beep.

A text from his boss Benedict
On his holy throne in Rome
Said “pack your bags for Ireland,
You’re heading off across the foam”.

A cynic might have objected
But he knew how his bread was buttered
The order came from on high, away he did fly –
Not a word did the child mutter.

Life can be so cruel at times
And innocents get slaughtered
Yet with a happy heart he made a start
And headed west across the water.

Yes, a handsome holy chappy
Came west from his native east
A credit to his species
More sacred than a priest

An infant coming from the east
With a cute angelic smile
I thought my eyes deceived me
I was swimming in denial

Getting off the bus in Galway
Half-starved and mute with thirst
The child rambled down to Naughton’s
where his blessed life got worse

He sunk a pint of Guinness
Then another - and many more
His eyes rolled around their sockets
He could barely see the floor

That is until he staggered off
His belly for to fill
He did justice to a snackbox
But soon felt a little ill

Down an alleyway he took a piss
But fell into the lion’s den
Attacked by a gang of hoodlums
Out-numbered one to ten.

In the wrong place at the wrong time
the child fell in the dirt
Covered head to toe in blood and guts
Like a baby after birth.

It was then The Big Man intervened,
the assailants quickly fled
but the poor Child Of Prague lay prone on the ground
as his wounds they ached and bled.

Then stumbling towards a taxi rank
His robes in disarray
Blood upon his collar
In the breeze the child did sway

In the queue he met a happy chap
A disciple most devoted
Dressed to kill in multicolour,
Accessorised and sequin-coated.

A Raphaelite angel
Head full of luscious curls
A lad to all the fellas
A gent to all the girls

Even the Gods need help at times
Yes, this saintly human crutch
Took pity on the Child of Prague
And saved him with his touch.

I always try to be objective
But maybe now I’m biased
Never once in this cruel world of ours
Has there been a child as pious.

Once upon a time in the Eastern Bloc
There lived a child most hallowed
Who brought love to the cold-hearted
Who brought depth to waters shallow.

Poet Wanted: Enquire Within

Poetry is bollocks.
Self-indulgent shite.
I, Myself and Me,
Me, Myself and I,
I'm so lonesome I could cry.

Analysing life with fatal persistence,
Straightening branches that look better twisted.
You sentence yourself to misery to pay for your crimes,
tying thoughts together with imperfect strands of rhyme.

Trying to fight your way out
of this braindead herd of cattle.
Afraid of uniformity,
lacking stomach for the battle.

Well, I'll tell you a little secret,
you might thank me when you're older
when you rise above your sorrow
and the solace of the shoulder:
no-one wants to listen to your ego-centric shite
about the tears you cry into your pillow in the night.

Ah, but I'm up there with the worst of them
a word-whirling wizard
who couldn't make a snowball
in the midst of a blizzard.

Cis-fire!

Whoever said that “the meek shall inherit the earth” has clearly never set foot inside St. James’ Park because Demba Ba throwing his toys out of the pram after being dropped for the trip to Everton back in September was clearly the catalyst for him wrestling ‘top dog’ status back from Papiss Cissé and ensuring that he would not be the one shoe-horned into the wide role that neither of them are truly happy in.

Despite his spectacular fall from grace and the fruitless frustration that has characterised his performances this season, it is very difficult not to feel for Cissé. If anything, he settled in too well last year and he has become the unfortunate victim of his own stunning success. However, as we all know, Cissé’s heroics came at a price – Demba Ba took a back seat as his goal-scoring exploits came to a shuddering halt after the 2-1 victory over Aston Villa on Cissé’s debut. Similarly, this season has again seen both men unable to excel in tandem and Cissé has suffered.

Being loud, greedy and petulant helped Ba get exactly what he wanted and while he once again hit a rich vein of scoring form, it came at the overall expense of the team. While his colleagues flapped about hopelessly and completely failed to get any sort of momentum going, Ba stole the limelight and used his central striking role to showcase his talents and ensure that he would finally get his big money move away from us. So, credit to Ba for his stellar performances and for being the one shining light in an increasingly dull and dispirited side but I will not be sorry to see him leave.

Team morale has clearly suffered as a result of his behaviour in the last couple of months and the happy, upbeat mood that characterised last season has been replaced with a muted and miserable silence. There have been whispers of discontent from within the dressing room and if Ba’s departure can nip that in the bud, then it may well be a blessing in disguise. The constant media speculation about his future has undermined the feel-good factor created by last season’s success and it has almost certainly contributed to the team’s below-par performances and subsequent slide into mediocrity.

Ironically, Ba may have stolen the headlines in recent times but it turns out that Cissé has won the war despite losing the private battle and the time has come for him to take centre stage once more – he has remained the consummate professional and silently sacrificed himself for the good of the team, despite his obvious unhappiness and frustration at times and now, hopefully, he can reap the rewards.

So, good night and good luck, Demba and thanks for the memories but it’s time once again to focus on those who actually want to play for the club and who are willing to pull together and work for the good of the team, not just to enhance their own reputations and bank balances. Collective success brings individual rewards but the opposite is rarely the case (we need look no further than the example of our very own Alan Shearer to prove that point) and that is the lesson that Newcastle’s players must take from the Ba saga.

Snakes On A Plane

People. Airports. Pee-fucking-pull and Air-fucking-ports. People and airports. People in airports.
Two significant sources of annoyance whisked together, poured all over me and baked at a low heat for 15 hours - all because good old Christmas-time is here again. Not that Christmas bothers me, I actually quite like it but the journey home is so much of an inconvenience that it’s almost an outright deterrent. 15 hours all alone – well, alone apart from all the annoying bastards everywhere.

So, here I am, trapped in a flying metal phallus with an intriguing array of curious characters. Every minute spent in here is torture and my journey’s just beginning; I’m tired and irritable and my misanthropic thoughts are in danger of turning into wanton acts of mile-high violence as I slowly become acquainted with my fellow passengers...

First up is an over-worked young banker-type, run down from ‘living the dream’; quickly coming to realise that living the bloody dream involves little more than getting up at 6am and working like a dog to impress some muppet who in turn is getting raped by his superior – all to make money for some nameless, faceless asshole who wouldn’t even piss on him if he was on fire.

Maybe he’d get along well with the prissy little bitch who’s thoughtfully scrawling in her ludicrously expensive diary, elaborately decorated with butterflies and crystals and the obligatory little lock that keeps inquisitive on-lookers at bay – on-lookers that would need to be both deranged and perverted to have any interest whatsoever in discovering more about her world.

Next we have the mowler with the crumpled chinos, tailored grey sports jacket and shiny black shoes – all beautifully complemented by the Liverpool jersey that he proudly wears to complete the dashing ensemble. Although, to be fair to him, the ‘St.Michael’s GAA’ gear bag that he’s carrying his Christmas presents home in is a lovely seasonal blend of red and green.

The loved-up young couple are here too, of course. The guy saying all the right things. The girl beaming from ear to ear, reveling in the attention and the fact that she has him wrapped around her little finger. Not that he minds and he dutifully trudges up and down the aisle hoping to find a place for her ridiculously over-packed rucksack – while the people in the queue forming behind them are growing increasingly restless and frustrated, audibly tutting and shuffling on the spot, willing him to snap under the pressure and to shove the bloody bag up her stupid fat arse. (Or maybe that's just me...)

Then the too-sweet-to-be-wholesome air steward makes his announcements, carefully enunciating all his syllables and urging the passengers to “feel free to contact myself as I pass through the cabin should you wish for anything”. Such subservience is music to the ears of the smug, chubby middle-aged man sitting across from me and with 330ml cans of Heineken costing a mere €5 he’d surely be a fool to miss out. He’s a sophisticated adult and he always likes to have a little treat when he’s flying, regardless of the cost. It’s his little present to himself to help him unwind and enjoy the flight. After all, he deserves it.

At the top of the cabin we have the horse on stilts standing with her arms behind her back, desperately trying to look professional and eager to help but her mask is slipping. Another inch of make-up flakes off with each forced smile and she’s there in body only - her tiny mind is away in the clouds, plotting her escape. Maybe this will be her year; after all, she’s Miss February in the Ryanair Babes calendar – all she needs is for the right guy to see that and pluck her from obscurity and make her a star. Well, a porn star at least.

My train of thought is interrupted by an important announcement made by an enthusiastic Finn who advises everybody that some self-important shit-head has made it known that they are allergic to nuts and nut products and could all passengers please kindly refrain from eating these… and at that exact moment I wanted nothing more than to stuff a big bag of dry roasted peanuts into my mouth and to cough and splutter everywhere, hoping that the fucker would be dead by the time we landed. Or, well maybe not dead - it is Christmas after all - but at least itchy and bloated and in need of urgent medical attention.

Now, I'm no stranger to hating every last member of the human race when the mood is on me but this is bad, even by my standards, so there and then I vow that next year, to save me from tears (and a possible court appearance), I'll have to avoid airplanes.

I'll stay away or get the train or walk or something. Maybe I'll try hitch-hiking - Chris Rea sounds like he might have a seat going a-begging...

Identity Crisis

Upon his return to Newcastle in January 2008, Kevin Keegan spoke of the weight of expectation and the fans’ desire to be entertained; how they want to “see something that’s worth seeing”. He likened a visit to St James’ Park for one of the Geordie faithful as being akin to a trip to the theatre for the more cerebral and culturally-inclined southerners. While it may have been a slightly cringe-worthy analogy, his conviction was palpable and we all understood what he meant.

Keegan has always known what he’s wanted and he is synonymous with a certain style of football. His 1996 team captured the public’s imagination in a way that no team ever had or, arguably, has done since – at least until Pep Guardiola took the reins at Barcelona. Essentially, you know what you get when you appoint Keegan. The same, however, cannot be said for Alan Pardew.

While last season’s superb 5th place finish rightly saw Pardew lauded, it’s fair to say that he doesn’t adhere to any particular philosophy – nor does the team don’t have any identifiable style of play. Indeed, this struggle for an identity has been on-going since Bobby Robson’s departure and while Keegan’s return ultimately didn’t result in a repeat of the heroics of the mid-90s, at least it was a step in the right direction. Since Ashley forced Keegan out, however, the subsequent managerial merry-go-round has ensured that the good ship Newcastle has been somewhat rudderless.

The popular perception is that having weathered the storm after his initial arrival, Pardew set about overhauling the team by shipping out the likes of Kevin Nolan and Joey Barton in favour of more technically gifted ball-players like Yohan Cabaye. Granted, there were some superb performances and excellent results last season but Newcastle are not the free-flowing, dynamic attacking force that many believe them to be. Indeed, when they were at their most scintillating in the final third of last season, it was more by accident than design – with a rejuvenated Hatem Ben Arfa finding form and confidence at a particularly opportune time and Papiss Cissé hitting a prodigious purple patch shortly after his arrival.

Newcastle’s current problems lie in the fact that they have no footballing philosophy to speak of. This season has been a chaotic shambles so far and despite his new 8 year deal, Pardew will know that a failure to arrest the recent decline could edge him towards the exit door. Contracts aren’t worth the paper they’re written on and Mike Ashley is nothing if not brave and ruthless, so his position is far from assured. Nor, however, is it anywhere near untenable just yet despite a disastrous and scarcely-believable run of 5 defeats in 6 games against some of the league’s lesser lights.

While their points tallies are low, both Liverpool and Aston Villa’s recent performances have been quite encouraging and the decision to abandon the quick fix in favour of a more sustainable long-term strategy looks curiously far-sighted in a world where instant gratification is routinely demanded. Similarly, fans have more patience than they are given credit for and Rodgers and Lambert may well reap great rewards in the coming years as they are being afforded the time needed to implement a new playing style and to instill a fresh ethos in their respective clubs. The time has come for Pardew to do something similar.

It’s fair to say that this season has been a write-off for quite a while now and the best we can hope for is to avoid spending the next few months in a relegation dogfight. However, Pardew can turn the situation to his advantage in the second half of the season by attempting to develop a signature style of play and to bring some cohesion to a fragmented group of talented, yet purposeless, players.

The common misconception is that Newcastle’s midfield quartet of Ben Arfa, Cabaye, Tiote and Gutierrez are the heartbeat of the team and that they dictate the tempo of the game and carve out opportunities for whichever of the Senegalese strikers is in the mood that particular day. The truth, however, is that Newcastle are heavily reliant on the long ball and the midfielders spend a significant proportion of every game stargazing as hopeful balls are repeatedly launched over their heads in the vain hope that Ba or Cissé can make some magic happen should they happen to get on the end of it, which is a rarity. (Though, rarer still are the occasions when the aforementioned players are all actually on the pitch together at the same time).

If he wants to play a direct, long-ball style then Pardew needs to have courage in his convictions – he shouldn’t attempt to sugar-coat it and to pull the wool over the fans’ eyes. If it’s to be long-ball, target-man football then Andy Carroll needs to come home. If it’s not, then either Ba or Cissé need to be sacrificed and the appropriate personnel must be deployed in the 4-3-3 system that reaped so many rewards last season, rather than attempting to shoe-horn an out-and-out striker into an unfamiliar wide position. Similarly, Ben Arfa’s match-winning magic is compromised when he’s required to play on the wing as his talents are better suited to playing centrally and creating space for others as well as wreaking havoc himself with his thunderous shooting and his delightfully incisive passing.

Also, it might be a loss of appetite or perhaps it’s complacency brought on by the lack of competition in the squad but Danny Simpson and Jonas Gutierrez have been particularly disappointing this season and may well have out-lived their usefulness. They’ve both been great servants in recent years and have made massive contributions but neither is deserving of a starting berth anymore and must be replaced if Newcastle are to progress. Jonas in particular looks a spent force as he has lost a yard of pace and no longer goes on the long, mazy runs which he was famed for in his early days, while his unreliable delivery and distribution have diminished even further in recent times.

On the other hand, while Davide Santon has been one of the stand-out performers this season, he has shone more as an attacking threat than as the heir apparent to Paolo Maldini, which he was mooted to be during his breakthrough season with Inter. His marauding runs, mazy dribbles and quick thinking have invited comparisons with a young Gareth Bale – a similarly gifted player who also started out as a full-back before being moved higher up the pitch to take full advantage of his talents. One wonders whether Pardew might consider making full use of Santon’s abilities and deploying him as a right-winger and buying a specialist left back in January. It would bring a greater balance to the side and could rejuvenate and reinvigorate the team as an attacking force.

Of course, such a gamble may not pay off but the time has come to think outside the box as Pardew needs to stamp his authority on a team that looks increasingly clueless, unimaginative and one-dimensional. He can no longer afford to rely on moments of individual brilliance from match-winning mavericks like Ba and Ben Arfa. The time is nigh for Pardew to cultivate a signature style; a philosophy on how the game should be played. Nobody’s expecting Barcelona’s tiki-taka but a little joined-up thinking and cohesion would go a long way and may just be the making of him as he struggles to stay in control of his destiny having enjoyed a remarkable journey during his first two years at St James’ Park. Then, who knows what might happen - sentimental old romantics in years to come may recall ‘the good old days’ of Pardew’s Newcastle with the same wistful smile and far-away look in their eyes that they currently reserve for Kevin Keegan and his ‘Class of ‘96’.

Slack & Shite Army

This month sees the second anniversary of Alan Pardew’s appointment as Newcastle manager but he’ll be lucky to see out even another season of his new 8 year deal unless performances and results improve dramatically.

The defeat at the Britannia stadium was our fourth on the bounce and it meant that a series of winnable games against so-called ‘lesser’ sides have yielded absolutely no points and that’s just not good enough. Of course, there are mitigating circumstances: the strain of the Europa League, injuries to key players and frequent suspensions have all taken their toll but the lack of investment in the summertime now looks like it has ended our season before it ever even began. Far from building on last season’s success(or even standing still), the team has gone into free fall this autumn and they are bereft of confidence, devoid of ideas and lacking fight – all of which is in stark contrast to last season. Jonas Gutierrez has mentioned that Newcastle are now a marked side and that opposition teams have figured out how to stifle their threat. That clearly is the case but, worse than that, Newcastle have shot themselves in the foot by blindly hoping that last season’s good form would continue on into this year. ‘Plan A’ worked a treat in the second half of last season when Cisse and Ben Arfa were in sparkling form and shot us up the table but there were some comprehensive defeats – such as the 5-2 reverse at Fulham and the 4-0 spanking by Wigan - that Pardew and the players clearly failed to learn anything from.

The strain of European competition coupled with the fact that Newcastle are overly-reliant on Ben Arfa producing a rabbit from a hat meant that investment needed to be forthcoming in the summer but, sadly, funds were denied. Not only did the squad need padding out but investment in what Derek Llambias has termed ‘purple’ players could have cemented the club’s place in the top 6 and helped take us to the next level but a long list of supposed targets yielded only one signing and to describe his start as patchy is being somewhat generous. Now, however, not only is Plan A not working but Pardew doesn’t have enough bodies to change things up, so some players are still basking in the glory of last season’s achievements and not pulling their weight – safe in the knowledge that their starting berths are all but guaranteed.

Our early season draws were frustrating but understandable given the strain of our Europa League participation but we imagined that it would be a solid platform to build upon. We weren’t picking up wins but we were still robust and hard to beat but that steeliness has evaporated since the draw at Anfield and defeat now seems inevitable as soon as we concede a goal. Indeed, quite amazingly, Newcastle have never overturned a deficit to claim all three points during Pardew’s reign - the last time they did so was in October 2010 in a 2-1 win at Upton Park in a game that was overshadowed by media reports of Chris Hughton’s impending departure. The team has a losing mind-set at the moment and it is up to Pardew and his staff to shake the players out of this malaise.

Similarly, our set pieces are regularly a frustrating non-event. Long gone are the days when a free-kick or a corner launched in the general direction of Andy Carroll would cause mayhem in the opposition box see the ball ending up in the back of the net and our boys wheeling away in celebration. Steven Taylor used to be good for the odd headed goal but that has dried up of late, Williamson hasn’t managed a league goal for us yet and the likes of Gutierrez, Cisse, Anita, Simpson and Co simply don’t have the physical stature to be an aerial threat (although that’s assuming that the ball will even get beyond the first man).

Even more curiously, Newcastle top the statistical charts for long balls played despite the widely-held belief that Carroll’s departure and the arrival of Cabaye and other more technical players has resulted in a new, more expansive passing style. These long ball tactics don’t particularly suit Demba Ba and certainly negate Papiss Cisse’s threat, while the lack of an attacking central midfielder in the Nolan mould means that any aerial duals that the frontmen do win are not capitalised upon and rarely result in goals.

Ironically, Pardew is in danger of becoming a victim of his own success but he needs to show that he is not just a one-season wonder – he needs to build on last season’s success and be inspired by it, rather than seeing it as a millstone around his neck. Newcastle need to evolve and reconfigure the team’s playing style; changes need to be made, underperforming players need to be dropped and the good of the team must come before any one individual. Pardew has a lot of credit in the bank with Newcastle’s fans and defeats will be forgiven if it’s all part of a greater plan and we can see progress being made. A slow and sad decline will not be tolerated, however, and Pardew must rally his troops and ensure that performances improve quickly even if results do not. While we all dream of glory, at times failure seems inevitable and so, if we must fail, at least let us fail gloriously – it’s better to burn out than to fade away…

The Devil We Know

While many beleaguered Ireland fans may currently be calling for his head, the history books will no doubt be kind to Giovanni Trapattoni. In years to come, his tenure will surely be heralded as a great success and rightly so. It doesn’t really feel that way at the moment though as dissenting voices in the media and in the stands were left feeling disillusioned and frustrated by John Delaney’s decision to grant Trapattoni a stay of execution following the pair’s meeting last month.
For a man of his standing in the game, it is remarkable that he is held in such disdain by the very supporters who jubilantly sang his name and proclaimed him an honorary Irishman prior to the demoralising capitulation at Euro 2012, which saw public opinion turn against him.

There is no denying that Trapattoni has heaped a lot of misery on himself during his time as Ireland manager. His man management style is caustic and abrasive, his tactics are stagnant and inflexible, his devotion to the job has often been negligent and inattentive and, most disheartening of all, the team’s performances have frequently generally been insipid, lacklustre and devoid of imagination and creativity. In spite of that, however, he remains the only man for the job.

Changing manager during a qualifying campaign smacks of change for change’s sake. Fans grow bored and weary - it’s human nature. However, we must be careful what we wish for. New beginnings, blurbs, flashing lights and sound bites all help to get people on-side, to stir up excitement and get the fans dreaming again but it’s all cyclical. The tidal wave of goodwill subsides after a while and we are left in the same situation again.

The FAI were somewhat over-zealous and hasty in tying Trapattoni to a new deal prior to our trip to Poland and now must stick by him. Not simply because they are hamstrung by the financial implications of dispensing with the Italian but also because, as Liam Brady pointed out, it would be a PR disaster to oust him - as he has arguably over-achieved during his time in charge of Ireland.

A hasty and populist sacking to appease the media and fans could do untold damage. While many may doubt whether Trapattoni is the right man to take us forward, it is worth remembering that in tough times, standing still must be regarded as a success – it would be disappointing but far from disastrous. After all, we failed to qualify for four successive tournaments after 2002 and the world didn’t stop turning. Life goes on. You acknowledge the disappointment and hope to learn from it. Not that we shouldn’t aim to qualify, rather that we should not necessarily expect it. As Brady said, we were in the wilderness for 10 years. Also, as depressing as it was, the Germany defeat was only cosmetic and has not really damaged our chances of qualifying. So, why are people baying for blood as if we have shot ourselves in the foot or somehow snatched defeat from the jaws of victory? We are precisely where we imagined we might be at this stage. Germany were always going to win the group at a canter, while Sweden are a formidable opponent and certainly better than us on paper, boasting many established Premiership players as well as the brilliant Zlatan Ibrahimovic.

It has also been quickly forgotten that drab and unimaginative performances during our last qualifying campaign nearly cost us dearly and only some unexpected results turned the tide in our favour again. We did not mastermind our own success. We performed solidly and, for once, the planets aligned for us. Curiously, if we had met a more formidable opponent than Estonia in the play-offs and had another glorious failure like in Paris in 2009, Trapattoni’s standing might be higher. He has become a victim of his own success. Qualification raised hopes and fans dared to dream that this team could replicate the success of Jack Charlton’s spirited sides in the 1990s. Unfortunately, those dreams were cruelly crushed and we were brutally exposed under the full glare of the media. However, as clinical and unimaginative as it may be, Trapattoni’s game plan is at least just that: a plan. It might not be pretty but, on the whole, it is relatively effective and despite 2012 being a dispiriting year, the national team stands in good stead.

Also, there is no outstanding candidate to become Trapattoni’s successor. Any manager that is out of work, is generally out of work for a good reason. The best-equipped replacement recently sauntered down Portman Road and signed on the dotted line with Ipswich Town. Ironically, he will replace Paul Jewell - a man who Eamon Dunphy and John Giles fervently backed to become Steve Staunton’s successor at the time. Jewell himself was hired to revive the once great club’s flagging fortunes – ironically, the very thing that Roy Keane before him was unable to do. Keane has been out of work since, while Jewell may find himself on the scrapheap for a while until a lower league club comes calling. David O’Leary’s name will surely arise but his career remains on a downward spiral having been sacked by Al Alhi in 2011. The idea of replacing a European Cup winning, serial achiever like Trapattoni with candidates such as these is ludicrous.

Fans are disappointed and dispirited at the moment but we have a vastly experienced manager with a glittering CV who has, on the whole, performed very well with a shallow pool of resources. Of course, we are entitled to wonder whether trusting the likes of Long, Coleman, and McCarthy at an earlier date may have had a telling impact on our performances and results but we must let bygones be bygones. Now is the time to wipe the slate clean and afford Trapattoni some much-needed breathing space to overhaul the team and implement the necessary changes now that some of the old guard are hobbling off the stage and the understudies are shuffling in to take their places. Duff and Given are gone. Keane and Dunne may soon follow. It’s the end of an era but it need not be the end of Trapattoni’s tenure.

Iconoclast Ashley’s greatest triumph was slaughtering Tyneside’s sacred cows

Few would have believed back in the tumultuous days of December 2010 that Alan Pardew would still be incumbent in the St James’ Park hot-seat some two years later.

Since Mike Ashley took the reins in the summer of 2007, Sam Allardyce, Kevin Keegan, Joe Kinnear, Alan Shearer and Chris Hughton have all come and gone – none bar Hughton lasting any more than a few months or leaving with their reputation enhanced or their credibility intact. They dined with cannibals and got eaten as Ashley’s ruthless regime chewed them up and spat them out. Sympathy was limited and many onlookers basked in the schadenfreude and were only too happy to witness Newcastle’s sad decline.

To the untrained eye (and there were many of them - myself included), Pardew in 2010 was a washed-up also-ran who had blown his chance of making it big by believing his own hype and letting the relative success of his stint at West Ham go to his head. However, against all the odds, he has done an amazing job at Newcastle and he thoroughly deserves all the plaudits he has received of late. However, despite my admiration for Pardew and all he has achieved, it must be noted that finally, either by accident or design, Ashley and Co have brought stability, reality and a sense of perspective to Tyneside.

Ashley’s mistakes have been both high-profile and numerous – each one a more shameful and damaging PR disaster than the last, with many die-hard fans swearing that they would stay away from St James’ Park for the duration of his tenure. Doubtless, some have done and will continue to do so – yet it has not really been reflected in the attendances as the stadium is more or less full for most league games.

Many fans have surely been in turmoil as the team’s fortunes on the pitch began to improve. Pardew’s vision took shape, he hit upon a winning formula and he got the team playing attractive, free-flowing football once more. Trying to make a stand and be principled in showing your dislike for a contemptible owner is one thing in the bad times, quite another when things are going well. It’s easy to criticise, take the moral high ground and bark out ‘I told you so’ as the club continues its moral decline and the owner eventually heads off into the sunset, leaving shattered dreams and smouldering embers in his wake. However, turning your back on your team when they suddenly start winning is nigh-on impossible; when all the hurt and controversy is justifiable and you realise that it was all just a means to an end... Gandhi himself would be hard pushed to continue his protest under such circumstances.

Yet, at times, it seemed like Ashley was intent on causing as much damage as he could in as little time as possible. His takeover of the club had fans dreaming that Newcastle would rival Chelsea in the transfer market and could take Europe’s hottest talents to Tyneside and finally break the hoodoo that has plagued every manager since Joe Harvey won the Fairs Cup in 1969.

Despite Allardyce not being his man, Ashley gave him backing, funds and enough time to see whether he could change his spots and attempt to play a more exciting and expansive brand of football – he couldn’t and he wouldn’t and he paid the price.
After the drudgery of Allardyce’s short reign, Ashley then pandered to the fun-lovers, the dreamers and the romantics and wooed Kevin Keegan back from the lonely obscurity of his Glasgow Soccer Circus. He sold us a dream where the glorious failures of the recent past would be replaced with actual, tangible success. We would play with style and flair once more and the near-misses of yesteryear would be exchanged for cantering triumphs. Or so it seemed.

Henry, Beckham, Ronaldinho and Modric were mooted as possible arrivals but none materialised. In reality, trouble had been brewing since Day One and Dennis Wise’s arrival would ultimately ensure Keegan’s premature but all-too-predictable departure. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, while it was very sad and regrettable, one feels that Keegan’s departure may well have been for the best. He was (and always has been) high-maintenance and despite his shabby treatment and the subsequent legal wrangles that absolved him of any wrongdoing, he was probably not the right man for the job anyway. He lacked the energy and enthusiasm that had characterised his first stint as Newcastle manager – the sparkle was gone and he didn’t believe in miracles anymore.

However, Ashley’s bizarre decision to leave the running of team affairs to the charming Joe Kinnear while he sought a buyer further alienated the already disillusioned fans and made the club a laughing stock. Kinnear did his best, which wasn’t much, and his only really meaningful contribution was to repeatedly bring the club into disrepute and his exit in the back of an ambulance was all too fitting and symbolic of the general state of the club at the time.

That left Hughton and Calderwood to take the reins for a few games until Ashley consulted the ‘Big Book Of Geordie Legends’ once again and made a beeline for Tyneside’s favourite son in the vain hope that he could save them. Unfortunately, even Alan Shearer couldn’t revive the club’s flagging fortunes during his brief tenure and it was a cruel irony that arguably the club’s greatest servant was at the helm to oversee Newcastle’s fall from grace as the fecklessness and poor decision-making of two different regimes culminated in a scarcely-believable demotion to the Championship.

Despite the relegation, Ashley publicly backed Shearer, saying that appointing him was the best move he had made as owner of the club. The fans too were on-side, the general consensus being that it would ultimately be better for the club to crash and burn, clear the dead wood and rebuild from a solid foundation under Big Al’s stewardship than for them to limp to 17th place, avoid relegation and bring in another of the Cockney Mafia’s henchmen to take charge of our pathetic excuse for a ‘team’ until Ashley finally sold up and headed back down south - whenever that might be. Despite the turmoil, the feeling was that fans would continue to get behind the team as they had faith in Shearer’s ability to guide the club through the turbulent transition period and to restore the club to its rightful place.

Unlike another of Tyneside’s favourite sons however, Ashley makes promises lightly and has no qualms about breaking them. He gave Shearer the silent treatment that summer, ended up giving the job to Hughton and, allegedly, the pair haven’t spoken since. Naturally, this prompted further ire amongst the long-suffering supporters.
However, Shearer’s loss ultimately seems to have been the club’s gain. Rather than acceding to Shearer’s demands about backroom staff, the playing squad and the necessary transfer budget needed to gain promotion, Ashley’s gambled on Hughton and it paid off spectacularly. Better still, Hughton was discreet and humble and didn’t want any limelight. His stewardship was steady and understated and exactly what the club needed at the time. While it wouldn’t be wholly fair to label Hughton a ‘yes man’, it is fair to say that Shearer would have been a much more demanding employee.

Shearer, of course, is revered on Tyneside and with good reason. He had the same dream that every young boy in the area has ever had: to play for Newcastle United and wear the number 9 shirt – the difference being that he was lucky enough for that fantasy to become his reality. Where others might have buckled under the pressure, Shearer was inspired by it and when he wore the shirt he carried the hopes and dreams of the city on his shoulders as the fans lived vicariously through him. He was an inspirational talisman that could galvanise fans and team-mates alike and was an excellent servant of the club. However, that was when he was a player.

His eight-game stint as manager in spring 2009 showed him to be a mere mortal and one who had neither the tactical nous nor the man-management skills needed to save Newcastle. On the pitch you wouldn’t want anybody else but in the dugout, it was a different story. Several interesting managerial vacancies have arisen in the last few months and Shearer’s name is always in the running without ever being considered seriously – even at a club like Blackburn where he is fondly remembered. One is entitled to wonder why.

Unfortunately for Shearer and the high esteem that he holds himself in, he has proved himself to be a less than shrewd football man by spending his Saturday nights sitting on the fence in the ivory tower that houses the increasingly tame and pedestrian institution that is BBC’s Match Of The Day. He comes across as wooden and smug – devoid of personality, lacking insight and generally, not much of a student of the game despite his prowess during his playing days.

Derek Llambias feels that Shearer lacks the necessary attributes required to make the transition from great player to successful manager and says that he regrets turning to Shearer in the club’s time of need. There is a sneaking suspicion that Shearer feels that he has a God-given right to walk into a top job without ever having cut his teeth lower down the leagues (as Lee Clark, for example, has done) and that is holding him back – even though he claims that he loved the challenge of his two months in charge at St James’ Park.

I’m afraid that the time has come for Shearer to shit or get off the pot, as the old saying goes. He had his chance to prove his worth and show what he was capable of and despite the task being difficult, it was far from impossible and he was unable to perform the necessary miracle – now he needs to swallow his pride and take a job at an unfashionable club or stop talking about being a manager. It has been more than three years since he last sat in a dug-out and the sound bites are wearing thin.

The intervening years have proved Ashley to be right in his assessment of both Shearer and Pardew’s respective merits and I, for one, have forgiven Ashley for all of his crimes – even the harsh sacking of Hughton appears to have been a shrewd move in light of Pardew’s subsequent success. The club has made great strides under his stewardship despite all the agonies and controversies that we have had to endure. Mistakes were made but, crucially, lessons were learned. It should never be about one man – it should be about an entire club and while Ashley was merciless in his slaughtering of two of Tyneside’s sacred cows, it is now apparent that the good of the club is paramount and woe betide anyone who forgets it.

The Black (& White) Stuff

It emerged this week that prior to the completion of Wonga’s controversial sponsorship deal with Newcastle United, Mike Ashley and Derek Llambias made an audacious attempt to set up a lucrative agreement with brewing giants Guinness. In an effort to tap into the growing African market, Newcastle had been looking at forging a commercial relationship with Guinness’s parent company, Diageo, who have an international base in Nigeria. Plans have long been afoot at St James’ Park to create a football nursery in one of the continent’s English-speaking countries and it seemed that this could be a match made in heaven.

Despite being an internationally-renowned institution in the beer world, Guinness have recently reported a marginal downturn in sales in Ireland, the UK and Europe and had been keen to examine the possibility of creating a mutually-beneficial commercial partnership with Newcastle United. With Newcastle having cemented their place in the Premier League since their promotion in 2010 and also having returned to competitive European action in the Europa League this season, Diageo had earmarked Mike Ashley’s charges as a perfect fit – with the matching black and white colour motifs of the two outfits being a marketing man’s dream.

However, the deal reached an impasse when Mike Ashley and Co requested the naming rights of Guinness’s flagship brewery at St James’s Gate, Dublin. They had been interested in exploring the possibility of renaming the famous brewery as the ‘SportsDirect.com @ St James’s Gate Brewery’ in keeping with their re-branding of the erstwhile St James’ Park but the head honchos at Diageo vetoed the move and the deal ultimately fell apart.

Like A Bat Out Of Hell

They say that you never really choose your football team. With little regard for your mental health, current (and prospective) relationships and general hopes and ambitions for the future, one big brutish bastard of a team will grab you by the hand and forcefully drag you down the aisle to join them in irrational, passionate and bittersweet matrimony until the day you die. Not that it’s all bad – there are good times. Just enough of them to keep you blinded by hope when the shit invariably, and repeatedly, hits the fan (no pun intended).

Now, while I haven’t quite chosen a new team per se – New-fucking-castle won’t be nudged out of my affections that easily – I have been presented with a choice since arriving here in Valencia.

I was blissfully unaware of the fact that the city boasted two La Liga sides until I arrived here and started fishing around for something to do one Sunday afternoon (actual fishing not being an option that day, unfortunately) and saw that Levante were playing host to Real Sociedad and that tickets were readily available. So, I went and enjoyed the atmosphere and saw a decent, if unspectacular, game as a debut goal from none other than former Newcastle livewire Obafemi Martins helped ‘Los Granotes’ overturn a one goal deficit to win 2-1 in the type of stifling heat that one would expect to find in the muggy, breathless kitchen of a sizzling Texas steakhouse owned and run by the devil himself.

“Adelante Levante!” and all that but I wasn’t quite ready to fork out €60 on their faux-Barcelona jersey or even buy as much as a pencil in the club shop. I couldn’t nail my colours to the mast just yet.

A trip to the Mestalla awaited and I had an inkling that Valencia just might be my team. I was, after all, in a position to engage in a spot of glory hunting for once in my life and I was damned if I was backing the lame horse.

Weekends came and went and either Valencia were away or I was, so we’d have to wait a little longer to consummate our marriage. Not to worry, we’d get there in the end.

A midweek liaison with Lille in the Champions’ League saw an upsurge in form for Valencia as Jonas scored two in an altogether greatly-improved team display as Mauricio Pellegrino’s men put their league woes behind them and ran out 2-0 winners. They were hitting form at just the right time – a few days before the local derby.

Sunday 7th October had been an eagerly-anticipated date in the Spanish football calendar since the league fixtures were announced during the summer but that had absolutely nothing to do with either Levante or Valencia. Real Madrid were heading east to face Barcelona in the first league meeting between the two sides this season and all the talk was about ‘El Clásico’ – nobody seemed to care about the other mammoth derby that was taking place down the road…

I cared though. I would finally get to see Valencia play and, what’s more, I would do it as one of their own. I made a bee-line for the ticket desk at Levante’s ‘Estadio Ciudad’ and bought one in the ‘away fans’ section and eagerly walked around the perimeter of the stadium until I was safely ensconced in the bosom of ‘my people’.

Although, one quick look around me and I noticed that the bosom wasn’t particularly welcoming or fragrant. It was 11.30am. Thirty minutes prior to kick-off – very early for anyone, anywhere to be up and about and enthused about a game of football in the mid-day sun, never mind the notoriously lazy Spaniards.

A quick scan and sniff of my new family told its own story; bleary eyes, designer stubble, the pungent waft of stale sweat and the hoarse-yet-hearty laughter of an all-night reveller too wired to even think about trying to sleep. Anyone who was here was still up after a serious all-night session and they were here to shout abuse, act the prick and sing their little hearts out with little regard for anything that might
actually unfold on the pitch.

The minutes immediately before kick-off were brilliant and the excitement and anticipation were palpable. The air was dense with a swampy honey-glaze of molten noon-day heat as I found my seat right in the middle of the sleep-deprived, half-pissed Valencia Ultras. They were in fine voice and were all twirling and waving their scarves proudly as the two teams lined up. Once it was underway, the game itself was pedestrian, insipid and repetitive as neither team took control. The real action was in the stands. Classical-sounding ballads of local pride and vanity blended seamlessly into artless anthems of bilious hatred, before all the fans came to their senses as one, realised that there was a game on and that whoever had the ball was an ‘HIJO DE PUTA!!!!!!!!!!’

La Liga is often accused of lacking the passion of the Premiership and that may generally be the case - I don’t know - but I do know that this was quite a fiery occasion. Little sons looked up adoringly at their fathers as they hatefully roared in unison, while tattoo-covered brick shit-houses puffed heavily on joints and screamed profanities over at the Levante fans in the adjacent stand.

Yes, the Valencia fans were loud and they were proud but, most of all, they were just annoying. I didn’t feel entirely comfortable in their midst and while I should take the blame for my unwise choice in terms of the seats, I didn’t expect to be surrounded by complete lunatics. On a different day I may well have showed up drunk myself and seamlessly blended into their band of miscreants but it was early on a Sunday; I was clean, I was sober and I was interested in watching some football.

I longed to be sat amongst the wholesome, well-mannered Levante fans. Mothers bounced their babies lovingly on their knees and clapped hands in unison as fathers shared Cokes with their parched sons (as opposed to coke, which many of the feral Valencia fans may well have fed their children for breakfast) and everyone encouraged the team with ripples of applause and constant good-humoured singing. I was trapped and there was nothing I could do.

Or was there? Levante had taken a 1-0 lead during the first half thanks to an Obafemi Martins goal that was somewhat against the run of play but they were looking good for the 3 points. For the first time in my life I was in a position to be a glory-hunter for a day and change horses mid-race. It didn’t matter to me that Levante are really quite shit and will do well to reach mid-table this season. I knew I didn’t want to join Valencia’s army of spiteful, hungover semi-hooligans, so I changed out of my Batman costume… and into a different Batman costume.

A subtle sea change, imperceptible to the masses surrounding me, and I ripped my colours from the Valencia mast and nailed them firmly and proudly to Levante’s! Yes, I was now an undercover agent; behind enemy lines and living dangerously - ostensibly wishing for a Valencia goal on the rare occasions that they made a breakthrough but secretly delighted when Roberto Soldado and Co. frequently fluffed their lines.

With the clock ticking down, the tension ratcheted up. Minute after minute the fans grew more restless and the players became more purposeful and frenetic - everything seemed to be crescendo-ing towards a noisy, repugnant and ill-deserved Valencia equaliser. How the hell would I get out of this? My mask would surely slip! I could try to explain that I’m Irish and didn’t really support either team but that mightn’t wash with Big Gus and Hairy Jorge. I crossed my fingers and my toes and fixed my gaze on the scoreboard as the four minutes of injury time slowly evaporated. I wasn’t looking at the pitch but I knew that Valencia were on the attack. I heard the collective gasp of the crowd as a long ball was foisted goal-wards… and then I hear them exhale… and moan… and groan… the whistle had blown!

I shook my head sadly and knowingly as my eyes met those of the dejected fans around me as we all gloomily swarmed towards the exit… but inside I was somersaulting in tandem with Oba Martins.

Pardew must be brave if Magpies are to continue flying high

Originally published on various websites in early September, I forgot to post it here.

Prior to Newcastle’s recent meeting with Aston Villa, Alan Pardew warned his misfiring front pair, Demba Ba and Papiss Cissé, that their places in the Magpies’ starting XI were far from assured – despite the apparent dearth of viable alternatives that Pardew has at his disposal.

The comment was probably designed as a motivational rallying-call to reignite the spark that has been so sorely lacking in the duo since pre-season training started in July. In stark contrast with last season’s superb performances, Cissé and Ba have contributed one solitary goal between them so far this term and, far more worryingly, have looked blunt, listless and off the pace. Pardew now needs to show that his threat was not an empty one.

Perhaps their complacency is to be expected given that Newcastle are currently bereft of any other attacking options. “There’s only two Ameobis!”, has become a favourite chant of the St James’ Park faithful since Sammy joined his brother Shola in the first team squad in early 2011 but fans and staff alike are probably thankful for that at the moment given that the only fitting use of the word ‘prolific’ in any sentence involving the pair would be in describing their respective injury
records.

To be fair to Shola, he has often proven to be an able understudy in times of need but his presence in the dressing room is unlikely to have Ba and Cissé quaking in their boots, while Sammy is still far too young and inexperienced to be called upon in a game of high stakes.

While neither really set the world alight, both Leon Best and Peter Lovenkrands were reliable professionals with international experience who could do a job when required and their respective departures during the summer have left Newcastle dangerously short up front. Forgotten men Nile Ranger and Xisco remain on the club’s books but are about as likely to feature for the first team again as Peter Beardsley is.

Indeed, the only non-Senegalese striker to appear for Pardew’s side so far this season has been the 17-year-old academy prospect Adam Campbell who made his debut against Atromitos as a makeshift Newcastle side limped to a 1-1 draw in Athens on their way to sealing qualification for the Europa League group stages. Those in the know are making all the right noises – praising Campbell’s ability and attitude and tentatively speculating about whether he will prove to be the North East’s next
great footballing luminary. However, one is inclined to wonder whether his involvement in the first team set-up has been fast-tracked out of necessity.

One gets the feeling that this summer presented Newcastle with the perfect opportunity to build on last season’s achievements and to consolidate their position as a ‘Top 6’ club by adding reinforcements to what is already a strong and cohesive team. Curiously, however, Newcastle chose not to invest in another striker during the transfer window – a move that one hopes will not come back to haunt them in the coming months; defeating Atromitos has added a further six European
fixtures to the 20 league games scheduled between the season’s start and the re-opening of the transfer window in January.

The possible return of Andy Carroll was an intriguing prospect but one always assumed that Liverpool would sooner keep him warming their bench than admit defeat and allow him to return to the North East for a fraction of the £35 million that they forked out to prise him away from Tyneside in the first place.

Newcastle have a growing reputation for keeping transfer targets under wraps until they’re signed, sealed and delivered and this, coupled with the excellent work that Head Scout Graham Carr has done since joining the club in 2010, has given fans a new-found confidence in the club hierarchy’s ability to deliver in their time of need. Selling the likes of Carroll, Barton, Nolan and Enrique was seen as a suicidal move at the time, yet Newcastle stuck to their guns, ushered their replacements in
with little fanfare (and modest transfer fees) and have since gone from strength to strength – all the while playing a more free-flowing and expansive brand of football than has been seen at St James’ Park since Bobby Robson’s charges were genuine title challengers in the early 2000s.

All of this only serves to make the decision not to bolster their limited attacking options all the more baffling. Ba and Cissé were both unstoppable on their day last season but, sadly, Ba’s outstanding early contribution to Newcastle’s cause petered out after Cissé’s arrival and a 2-1 victory over Aston Villa in early February was the only time that the pair ever scored in the same match. As the season wore on, Ba was shoe-horned into an unfamiliar position on the left side of a front three in a
formation that allowed Hatem Ben Arfa to come into the fold and paved the way for Cissé to blaze his trail and hit 13 goals in his 14 league appearances last term.

While Cissé and Ba stroll around looking lost and lethargic, making up for lost time and quickly becoming the club’s new talisman is the magnificent Hatem Ben Arfa, who has finally made the successful transition from bit-part luxury player to indispensable match-winning maverick. He embodies the boldness, craft and cunning that Newcastle fans have long cherished – from the great Jackie Milburn through to the tempestuous Laurent Robert via Malcolm Macdonald, Kevin Keegan, Peter Beardsley, Paul Gascoigne, Chris Waddle and countless other fleet-footed magicians.

The terrible injury Ben Arfa suffered when he clashed with Nigel De Jong in a game against Man City in October 2010 kept him sidelined until the summer of 2011, when an ankle injury delayed his anticipated return until the new season was well underway. Even then his involvement in the first team was fleeting as Pardew was reluctant to entrust him with a starting berth, believing that he didn’t work hard enough for the team. He was used largely as an impact sub but gradually started to
win Pardew over with his improved work-rate and appetite for the ‘ugly’ side of the game, whilst still displaying his own brand of Messi-esque wizardry by conjuring up sublime solo goals against Fulham, Blackburn and Bolton to name but three.

Newcastle have been disappointingly stagnant and toothless so far this season – “a ghost of a trace of a pale imitation” of their former selves, as the song says – and Ben Arfa has been the only stellar performer in an oddly one-dimensional and unimaginative side.

Pardew believes that mischief-making agents are partly to blame for Newcastle’s slow start with Yohan Cabaye, in particular, and possibly Ba, Cissé and Cheick Tiote all believed to have had their heads turned by enquiries from Champions’ League clubs in England and beyond. There may be an element of truth in what Pardew says but all of that is out of his control and there is nothing he can do about it now; what’s done is done. More importantly, however, what has been said has been
said and Pardew has painted himself into a corner.

The only way out now is for him to deliver on his promise and to take the bold decision to dispense with the static and lacklustre 4-4-2 that Newcastle have stubbornly tried to make work and, accordingly, to relegate one of his big hitters to the bench and to wholeheartedly embrace the more fluid 4-3-3 (or, at least, some derivative thereof) that brought so much success last season.

An outsider looking in may see dropping an enormously talented – though, admittedly, goal-shy – striker as a negative move. The truth is quite the opposite. Ba and Cissé haven’t ever complemented each other to great effect for club or country and there is a growing belief that they are too similar to prosper in unison. Placing them in direct competition with one another for the central striking role may just shake them out of their lethargy and reinvigorate them, while simultaneously allowing Pardew to remind everybody that he is in control and is not afraid to make big decisions.

There is a sneaking suspicion in some quarters that a leopard can never change its spots and that this team are merely a reflection of their manager; over-confident, smug and believing their own hype after confounding all their critics last time out and finishing the season in a vertiginous 5th place. To be fair to Pardew, however, he has handled himself impeccably since being installed as manager in December 2010 against a backdrop of bewilderment and incredulity. Replacing somebody as popular as Chris Hughton was always going to be a tough task and he has passed the test with flying colours; fine-tuning a functional side and gradually encouraging them to play with more flair and flamboyance.

Having under-performed at Charlton and then been sacked by Southampton in August 2010, Pardew seems to have learned from his mistakes. He cuts a more humble and well-rounded figure since his return to top-flight management. He remains self-assured and still possesses a steely determination but the brash and flashy over-confidence that seemed to characterise him in his days as manager of West Ham has been replaced with a quiet poise and a dignified belief in his own ability.

Pardew did a tremendous job last season as evinced by the fact that he won both the ‘Premier League Manager of the Season’ and the ‘LMA Manager of the Year’ awards. Building on that remarkable achievement will take some doing but the ball is now in Pardew’s court. Sticking with Plan A in the hope that the glories of last season can be replicated is a dangerous ploy, while ‘fixing’ something that many people may not necessarily see as being broken is sure to raise a few eyebrows too…

Pardew had nothing to lose when he arrived at St James’ Park precisely because he had nothing; he was a forgotten man and expectations were non-existent. Now, however, he has it all and therein lies the problem.