football – Page 14 – Middle Age Fanclub

Newcastle United – About last night…

It’s the morning after the night before. I could have written this post last night, but thought better of it in what might have been some sort of rare mature, rational moment. Instead, I was up early this morning, trying to write and not rant. What else was there to do when I couldn’t get back to sleep?

I didn’t avoid the keyboard last night because I was angry, although I was angry. I avoided it more because I just felt so sad. So tired. So deflated and almost resigned, ambivalent. I imagine a lot of us feel this way about Newcastle United at the moment. The pride and the passion are still there, but for me, the stuffing has just about been knocked right out of me. I knew that I wanted to write something, but instead I just drifted through the rest of my night until it was time to go to bed. Perhaps somewhere deep down I hoped I’d wake up this morning and find that it had all just been a terrible nightmare.

Well, I woke up this morning – there’s a cue for a song there somewhere – and it turned out that it actually had all been a terrible nightmare. Unfortunately though, it’s not the kind that’s all in your head. This is just ongoing and in real time.

Around 18 months ago, the heirachy at Newcastle United decided that, having allowed a world class manager to slip through their grasp, they’d appoint Steve Bruce as manager. They might as well have ran a competition and drawn the new manager’s name out of a hat. Perhaps they did. When the news broke that he was the target I was struck with the same feeling of terror that I’d got when Alan Pardew’s name entered discussions. And Steve McClaren’s. I have no doubt whatsoever that thousands of us were all struck with the same feeling.

We knew that it was a mistake. We knew it wouldn’t work. But then again, what do we know? We’re only supporters. 50% of the time disgruntled, ranting and raging and the other 50% head in the clouds, ideas above our stations and completely oblivious to our place in the grand footballing scheme of things, apparently. But we knew it wouldn’t work.

There’s little point in banging on about Bruce’s previous record in management, suffice to say that it’s been dominated by the mundane, a lack of vision and tactics, failure and excuses and as we’ve got to know all too well in the last few months, the old boys’ network. But we knew he’d fail here. We didn’t buy him identifying as a Geordie or a fan and we remembered his failure at Sunderland and Villa as well as the lack of loyalty shown to numerous clubs. Bruce had been given chances to come and manage the club on several occasions before the one he finally accepted. He’d turned us down, most likely under the misguided notion that something bigger and better would come along. He accepted our manager’s job when the chips were well and truly down.

Last night was the culmination of 18 months’ worth of short sighted football management. You could say that Bruce’s vision was so short-sighted that it might have been accompanied by a guide dog. This was the management of the late 1970s and early 80s. The man famous for telling the media that he “wasn’t really interested in tactics” has proved the point over and over again throughout his time in charge. He’s looked like he doesn’t know what to do with the players at his disposal and has played people out of position time and time again. He’s failed to motivate or inspire, got rid of talented footballers when he couldn’t get them to play and alienated others. Players, some of whom were initially delighted at the freedom given to them when Bruce was appointed, look uninispired, unwilling to run, frightened and most damningly of all, bored witless with it all.

It’s well documented that Sheffield United hadn’t won a game all season, but it’s worth repeating just to accentuate the inevitability of what went on to happen on Tuesday night. Newcastle have always been good at lending a hand when the going got tough. If your striker hadn’t scored a goal in 25 games, he’d no doubt find his shooting boots against us. Similarly, if you’re on a losing run, we’re happy to get you out of that particular shit.

This was different though. While you knew there was a fair old chance that we’d lose, once you’d taken a look at the team sheet, it was heart sinking stuff. It was as though we were almost happy to lose. Like we were gambling that the ball would drop, we’d snatch an undeserved goal and Sheffield heads would drop at the thought of another defeat. It felt naive at best and naivety is not what we want in a top level football team. The least we can ask for are tactics, but as we know Brucey doesn’t do that. So instead, we got the usual – defend until you can lump it forward for Wilson to chase or better still, just go backwards until you’re forced to give it back or just hump it out of play and reset.

To set up with a five man defence against a team that hadn’t won in 6 months is nothing short of scandalous. Pundits have asked what we expect, called our expectations unrealistic and over the top, told us that we’re always moaning. Our own manager has referred to reaction to our losses as ‘histrionics’. But surely, it’s not too much to ask that we go there and have a go? Even our midfield was subdued, defensive and adopted a safety first approach. Everything was geared towards not losing. And I’m sorry, but that’s not good enough. It’s understandable against the top teams (although I think we’d all agree that giving them some sort of game is preferable), but this was simply waving the white flag against an opponent who were there for the taking. This was a team who you could say had forgotten how to win. How long before we’re that team?

Bruce did the usual. He stood on the touchline, gawping. He could be heard giving his usual single instruction, just repeatedly shouting the word “Up!” in the hope of catching the opposition offside. Then there was the face. Bruce stood there, as he always does, looking puzzled and pulling the expression of a man with heartburn who had forgotten his Gaviscon and was repeatedly trying to make himself do a massive burp. It’s truly strange the way that he makes those little ‘o’ shapes with his mouth. I daresay it does nothing at all to inspire his players either.

Bruce and his staff look like they don’t really care. There doesn’t seem to be encouragement, other than shouting names, and there certainly doesn’t seem to be anything other than a blank stare when we concede. Bruce, Agnew and Clemence aren’t at all animated and there’s no indication that any of this is actually affecting them. I have no doubt that it is. How could it not? No one wants to do a bad job. Unfortunately though, that is exactly the impression that’s being conveyed to supporters.

Team selection is mystifying and without any consistency, apart from putting 11 on the field and defending. Last night, for me, was crying out for the likes of Matty Longstaff, Almiron, Gayle, even Elliot Anderson (regardless of his lack of experience). And yet none of them left the bench. Jacob Murphy has shown that he can open up defences and yet, he didn’t arrive on the pitch until it was far, far too late. Instead, Bruce persisted with players whose confidence looks shot – the likes of Sean Longstaff who has undergone a remarkable transformation in Bruce’s time at the club and now looks a shadow of the player he was – and those who look to have simply had enough like Hayden, Schar. And that’s before we mention Jeff Hendrick, who is a combination of both of the types of player listed above as well as looking simply not good enough.

Against Sheffield United we repeatedly gave the ball away, often when under little or no pressure. We reverted to long balls into corners and channels far too quickly and readily. When we got into good positions we turned round and went backwards with the ball arriving back with a centre-half or Karl Darlow within seconds. We didn’t press, we didn’t snap into challenges (not you, Fraser) and we largely didn’t put ourselves about the place. And as usual – and this is becoming something that will drive me mad eventually – we took an age over every throw in, like a team of darts players with the ‘yips’.

The short answer is that Bruce needs to go. It puzzles me that as the proud Geordie he claims to be, he refuses to walk away. If I was alienating the same people I’d stood on the terraces with all those years ago, as well as all those who’ve done the same since, then I’d leave. It’s the right thing to do. If I was doing such an awful job I’d like to think I’d be self-aware enough to stop doing that job. Not Bruce though.

When we look to those calling the shots it can only serve to inflict more terror on us. Charnley and Ashley are sleepwalking through yet another season, gambling that we’ll stay up and that the club can subsequently be sold. In doing so they fail to heed previous warnings that the likes of Kinnear and McClaren have given. We’re clearly not too good or too big to go down and right now, we’re heading that way fast! I have no doubt in my mind that if things don’t change soon, it’ll be too late. Last night was an opportunity to calm things down by simply attacking a vulnerable opponent, but instead we looked like the vulnerable side and what unfolded in front of us was as inevitable as it was upsetting.

I don’t have any great theories as to who I’d like to see as our next manager. Eddie Howe has been mentioned and maybe he could ignite something at the club. What I do know is that there are managers out there who would want the job, managers out there who would do a better job and managers out there who would be capable of taking us forward. Like the majority I’d like to see Rafa back, but I’m not blind to the possibility that someone else could come in and work much more effectively with these players than Steve Bruce has. Even Jeff Hendrick. What price someone like Joey Barton? And before you dismiss that, remember, up the road in Glasgow, Steven Gerrard is doing an amazing job at a huge club despite a lack of experience.

Like most supporters, I’m angry and like plenty of us I’m losing my faith, falling out of love a little bit with Newcastle United. That’s hard to take after over forty years of obsession, support and loyalty that has more often than not gone unrewarded. The long and short of it is that regardless of results, I’ve always enjoyed watching Newcastle United play and I just don’t enjoy it at all anymore. I know I’m not alone. Like most supporters, I just want hope, ambition and a bit of excitement. Steve Bruce’s reign as manager is taking this all away.

Here’s hoping for a brighter future. Howay the lads and #bruceout.

Book Review – The Boy on The Shed by Paul Ferris

Paul Ferris was a young man who had it all. The looks, the intelligence, the talent and the style. Okay, maybe not the style, given that this was the early 1980s where style was confined to the drawer marked ‘Things that the 80s forgot’. None of us had style in the 80s. Put the phrase ’80s style’ into Google Images if you don’t believe me. The results are like those in a ‘Who can mix the worst colours in one outfit’ competition.

But back to Paul Ferris. His autobiography tells the tale of a lad who had it all, only to lose it cruelly on more than one occasion. And while this sounds like quite the heart-breaking read, it actually makes for a brilliantly original book and one that I’d wholly recommend people pick up.

Ferris should have been someone who scaled the same footballing heights as his one time team mate, Paul Gascoigne, a player often described as the most naturally gifted footballer that these islands have ever produced. Such was his talent – and his country of birth, being Northern Ireland – that comparisons were also quickly drawn with the legend that is George Best. He was gifted, dedicated and eager to learn, and so when he was scouted by and eventually signed for Newcastle United, his future looked bright.

Paul’s story was never going to be simple though. Brought up amongst sectarian violence in the city of Lisburn south of Belfast, there seems to have always been an edge to his childhood. Add to that his worries about his sick mother and you’ve already got an engaging story. But, surrounded by love and encouragement, Paul flourished. His natural talent with a ball at his feet soon became clear and suddenly he was faced with a choice – stay at home and pursue his education or risk everything, including the love of his life, and move to England to follow a dream and escape the troubles of his home town.

‘The Boy on The Shed’ is simply brilliant. Undoubtedly a book for football fans, but at the same time the kind of tale that anyone will enjoy. This is so much more than just a sporting autobiography. Ferris seems to have the world at his feet and yet every time he looks like making a big breakthrough – and not only in football – a cruel twist of fate appears to slap him round the chops. Undaunted, he keeps on getting up and fighting on, even when the setbacks seem like they’ll leave him with little or no fight left.

Ultimately, ‘The Boy on The Shed’ is the classic underdog story. And it won’t spoil your enjoyment to hear that there’s a happy ending. But along the way Ferris’s life seems to be blighted by pitfalls, tragedy and simple bad luck. Just when you think he’s going to catch a break another setback appears and he’s back, unfortunately, to whatever you call the bit that comes before square one! In a tale and a career that takes in professional sport, medicine, law and even writing novels, all you want for Ferris as a reader, is to be happy. And at times it seems like he never will be. Delightfully though, he makes it in the end.

‘The Boy on The Shed’ is a joy to read. Brilliantly written with intelligence and good humour and crammed full of the kinds of stories you’d expect from a life spent in and around professional football, it’s a must read. Whether you’re a sports fan or not I’d urge you to pick up this book. It’s the kind of story that has you rooting for the protagonist – and in this case it’s a real life that we’re reading about. Paul Ferris may not be a name that you’ve ever heard of, but he’ll become a person that you end up caring about. A likeable underdog who gets there in the end.

I loved ‘The Boy on The Shed’ so I’m giving it nothing short of…

Feel free to leave a comment – I’d love to hear what you made of the book if you get around to picking it up.

Back on the grass – a new season in grassroots football

It’s Sunday 13th September. The sun is shining and the temperature is set to hit 24 degrees. It’s a beautiful day for football and in the Garforth Junior Football League, the excitement is palpable.

This day has been a long time coming. It’s been six months since a ball was last kicked in competition and I imagine every grassroots coach will say the same; it’s felt more like years.

When the season was shut down in March 2020 the majority of people probably felt that it wouldn’t last that long. I thought we’d be away from training for a matter of weeks rather than half a year. In fact, where some other coaches were telling anyone who’d listen that they didn’t know how they’d get through without football, I was actually quite glad of the break. We’d been having an indifferent season and didn’t seem to be able to find any kind of consistent form, so perhaps the break would do us all good. Maybe I would have time to think and figure out exactly how I could get the message across about passing the ball to one of your team mates! In fact, I had more time to think than I could possible have wanted. So much time in fact that the government very kindly suggested I take a daily walk, while maintaining a Netflix habit and re-discovering a dangerous addiction to crisps.

By the time August rolled round and we were allowed to start training again, I was more than ready to get going. COVID restrictions would mean cutting down drastically on working with a ball, but there was always fitness. My lads love fitness work! I’ve adapted some of the exercises from fitness routines I’ve been doing over lockdown and it’s safe to say that I was not a popular coach after the first couple of fitness sessions. Watching some of your team struggle to lie flat while keeping their legs lifted off the ground is both a hilarious and heartbreaking thing, but I know that we’ll benefit from the strength and fitness that will build up. I’ve already reminded them of the good it does during a recent friendly when we came back strongly in the final ten minutes and ‘outfitnessed’ our opposition. (That’s not a term you’ll find in any coaching manuals, by the way, but feel free to use it. Trust me, I’m an English teacher).

Gradually, we were allowed to work more with a ball and less in small bubbles, while retaining certain guidelines like using hand sanitiser and disinfecting equipment. So it’s been a drip feed of footballing fun, if you like. We’ve been allowed to get back to something like football, but nothing quite like normal.

But even then, COVID-19 and the footballing gods still weren’t finished. There was still a little bit more trouble to throw at us and complicate things further. Just at the point that we were told things could get a little more competitive and that we could start organising friendlies, the proverbial spanner was thrown in the works for some of us.

Just when we got the go-ahead to play matches and attempt something a it more competitive, Leeds City Council announced that if you played on council owned playing fields, which we do, they would be just that until Saturday 12th September. That meant no pitches were allowed to be marked out and no games to be played. Now every team in Leeds was left searching for friendlies elsewhere. Last pre-season we hosted 6 friendlies – now we’d host none. And with places to be play being in greater demand than ever before, it seemed that organising a friendly game was going to prove impossible for some of us.

Eventually, after about two weeks of trying, Wakefield Owls were kind enough to host us. Even that proved tricky. Keen to get away and experience something a little different from the same four walls where they’d spent lockdown, parents were taking their kids away on holidays. So for a while, every time I got the sniff of a friendly, I’d be apologising on WhatsApp groups hours later when I couldn’t get the numbers to play!

On the night of our first friendly it felt brilliant to be around an actual game again and the mood was great among parents, players and coaches. In the end, it was a fantastic game of football with both sides giving it everything. In order to take the necessary COVID precautions we played four 15 minute sessions which meant that posts, footballs and other equipment could be sanitised during the break. Unfortunately our rust at having not played for so long showed and with only the final 15 minutes to play we were 5-1 down.

Brilliantly though, all that fitness work paid off and we came storming back to level at 5-5, before conceding again. However, we simply pushed forward again and managed to pull the score back to 6-6! You don’t get action like this in the Premier League!

It was brilliant to be back. In many ways the performance wouldn’t have mattered and nor would the result. As it was, we salvaged something of a result, we played well – even when we were 5-1 down – we didn’t give up and most importantly, we enjoyed ourselves. And this should be what junior football is all about. I’m a big believer in my team enjoying what they do and this game was right up there in terms of enjoyment. Animated coaches, players giving everything and supportive parents watching soemthing brilliant unfold in front of them. Football – the game we all love – was back!

Our next friendly game was a week later. This time, although some of our number enjoyed themselves, I really didn’t. One of the things that frustrates me most about being a coach reared its head and left me unhappy with what I’d witnessed. We won comfortably, but abandoned shape, movement and passing; stopped following instructions in favour of chasing a long ball forward in an attempt to score more goals. It was like going back to when they were 7 or 8 years old and everyone just wanted to play up front! And I understand that kids love to score goals, but in terms of a performance, I felt we’d learnt nothing at all. Football – the game that has the tendency to frustrate the life out of us – was back!

And so, after 6 frustrating months, thousands of football related WhatsApp messages, countless hours of thinking and planning and possibly even more of just dreaming about games, the sun rose on Sunday 13th September – the first day of the Garforth Junior League season. It was sunny, warm and practically without wind; the footballing gods were smiling.

We had what promised to be a tricky away game against an excellent Beeston side. I was up early; shaved, showered and ready in what felt like no time at all. Breakfast was wolfed down and before I knew it we were getting in the car to head to the game (As an aside, I’d been so excited about the game that I’d packed all of our equipment in the car the night before, just to be sure we’d be ready!)

When we arrived we met up with other parents and players and walked around to the field where we’d play. Everyone was in high spirits – not because we were favourites to win, but just because we were ‘back on the grass’. There was a definite buzz of excitement and that carried on as we warmed up. As we jogged and stretched and then went through a passing drill everyone on our side of the pitch was smiling.

It would be an understatement to say that the game didn’t go quite to plan. We were 5-0 down at half-time and it ended up as an 8-2 defeat. Not the start to the season that any of us had dreamed about! And while it was frustrating, it was clear that everyone – myself included – had thoroughly enjoyed the game. It was fantastic to see my team out there playing football. It was amazing to see how calm they stayed, despite the pressure they were under. It was even more amazing to see them wearing the away kit bought last season that they were never able to wear due to Covi-19 cutting their season short!

In terms of the game itself, we kept everything as positive as possible. We spoke about positives before the game; about being grateful for the chance to play and not ruining it with tantrums or blaming team mates when something went wrong. We told them to go and enjoy themselves.

At half-time, 5-0 down, we kept it positive, re-iterating certain tactical points, telling them to keep going and in fact to up their work rate because fitness would tell in this game and that they were fit as a result of all the strength and conditioning work we’d done in the previous few weeks. We told them that despite the scoreline, they’d done very little wrong. We told them to treat the second half like the score was 0-0 and to go out there and have a go. And it was easy to speak to them like this because, after a long time without it, it was a joy to have football back.

Late into the second half we had got the score back to 5-2 and were unlucky not to have scored at least another. I think we all knew that we’d never get back to being level and that we were going to lose the game. But it was brilliant to be reminded of how well my team can react to encouragement. It was brilliant to be reminded of what a great bunch of boys I coach and what a great bunch of people I get to mix with in terms of coaches and parents.

It’s been an incredibly tough 6 months or so for everyone. People have lost so much and our way of life has changed in ways that we could never have imagined. In contrast to what we’ve lived through, football seems trivial. But, its return has meant that for some of us, we’ve got back a massive slice of normality and enjoyment – and you can’t underestimate the importance of things like that.

The NUFC Takeover: Spare me the guilt trip, there’s no shame in celebrating.

Why do we follow our football clubs? The answer is that there are loads of answers. For me, primarily it’s a regional thing. I support my club because it’s where I’m from. Born a Geordie, it was always going to be black and white for me.

Family comes into it too. Sometimes this is believable and acceptable and at others it’s clearly just an excuse for something else. Supporting Manchester United because your gran was from Ireland and that connected to George Best is utter rubbish (but one that I’ve actually heard). The same goes for following the same team as your glory hunting dad who, despite living in Essex/Castleford/Luton/Devon/York or any other far flung location, supports Liverpool, Man City, Man Utd and the like. In my case family came into my thinking. My dad was a loyal follower of Newcastle and he was never going to let me get away with supporting anyone else. I would have to follow in his footsteps whether I liked it or not. Fortunately, I liked it having looked on forlornly every Saturday as my dad set off for the match without me, home or away.

And then we have reasons like glory hunting – see family stories above – , love of a particular player (again, not good enough), love of a kit and other miscellaneous reasons such as just picking a team, regardless of success or location.

We stick with a team largely because of success or blind loyalty. Since I started supporting Newcastle United I’ve seen us win the Intertoto Cup. Now defunct and even in its heyday a bit of a joke, we didn’t even really win it. We were awarded it because we were the surviving Intertoto entrant left in the UEFA Cup. Bizarre. But I’ll never forget Scott Parker’s not quite smiling face as he held the trophy – more of a big wall tile – in front of home fans. It’s safe to say I don’t follow the Toon for trophies. Mine, as with countless others at my club and many others throughout the country, is a tale of ridiculously blind loyalty.

With this in mind, I don’t want to be told by people that I can’t celebrate this potential takeover. I’ve spent days worrying that it might not go through, mostly because of other people’s problems with it. I’ve spent the same amount of time trying to quell my excitement. So don’t tell me not to do so – I’ve earned this.

Since I started following Newcastle United twenty seven teams have won at least one trophy in England. That’s either the title, the FA Cup or the League Cup. Several in the list have won all three, as well as European trophies. Some have won two, three, four in a season. None are clinging on to Intertoto Cup memories. West Ham, Villa and Fulham have won it, however. The list also includes the likes of Ipswich, Southampton, Coventry, Wimbledon, Portsmouth, Wigan, Forest, Blackburn, Leicester, Wolves, Norwich, Oxford, Luton, Sheffield Wednesday, Middlesborough, Birmingham and Swansea. Even a Welsh club have won an English trophy since I started supporting my team. We haven’t.

My point? My point is that no one has the right to deny us at least bit of excitement at this takeover and what it might well bring. We’ll deal with human rights issues at another time, although why it’s the job of football fans to highlight these type of things, I will never know. Stopping this takeover won’t represent a victory for human rights activists. It’ll just move the problem somewhere else. But still still be a problem and Newcastle United will still be left with an owner who doesn’t give a damn about human rights.

Let me list for you, off the top of my head, the five highlights of following Newcastle United for over 40 years. I’ll put them in no particular order, because I’m genuinely remembering them as I write.

Newcastle United 5 Manchester United 0. I wasn’t even at the game! I was living in Stoke at the time, earning a paltry wage. I couldn’t get a ticket and didn’t have the money for one. We didn’t have Sky, so we drove to my wife’s brother’s house in Bradford to watch it on the telly. Without any real detail it was other worldly. It was bizarre to see my team make Manchester United look so poor. It didn’t win us a trophy.

Newcastle United 5 Swindon Town 0 (FA Cup 4th Round 1988). Amazing result, brilliant game, we were crushed getting in as there were so many people outside the Gallowgate, we got separated and ended up in different parts of the ground and a mate who managed to stay with me had this as his first game. I was 16 and had been going for years. The whole thing was unforgettable. We didn’t get a trophy for this.

Newcastle 0 Sunderland 0 (Play-Off Semi Final 1st leg). I wasn’t at this one. I went to the ill-fated second leg at St. James’ Park and had skived school in order to queue up to get a ticket for the first leg at Roker Park. Having failed to get one I stayed in the queue and purchased a ticket for the live beam back of the game at Whitley Bay Ice Rink of all places. It was an eventful game – John Burridge saved a Sunderland penalty and was then kicked in the face by a Sunderland player. I was there with my two best mates and as the penalty was taken we sat with our hands on a picture of Uri Geller’s hand chanting ‘We Three Are One’. Because that’s what Newcastle United will do to you – reduce you to a ridiculous shell of a human who grabs on to the slightest hope that might help us out. We saved that penalty, not Budgie. Nothing had ever seemed so important. History shows we lost the home leg and didn’t get promoted, but I’ve rarely had so much fun watching football as I did at the ice rink that morning. We didn’t get a trophy for this.

Leicester 1 Newcastle 3. This was in the Premier League in August 1994. Leicester were newly promoted while we were fairly attuned to life in the big league. This was at the old Filbert Street ground and we dodged stones and bricks being thrown trying to get into the ground. The place was jumping by kick-off. We completely outplayed Leicester that day. I’d never witnessed a centre half that played like Philippe Albert. Andy Cole and Peter Beardsley played up front. Scott Sellars had a wand in the place where his left foot should have been. Three goals was kind to Leicester and it felt amazing to be supporting this Newcastle United side. We didn’t get a trophy for this.

Liverpool 1 Newcastle 0 (Ronnie Whelan Testimonial game) This was a pre-season game and another brilliant memory. I went with my best mate, travelling by train on the day of the game and being guided up to the ground by friendly Liverpool supporters. The main things I remember are Peter Beardsley getting a fractured cheekbone in the first few minutes and Mike Hooper – who had been savagely abused by us travelling fans – saving a penalty for Liverpool. Strangely, it felt like the result really mattered, although clearly it didn’t. We didn’t get a trophy for this.

My five, random favourite memories of following Newcastle. Inevitably if anyone asked me for my five favourites another time I’d list five more. And five more the time after that. I probably wouldn’t remember a great deal about any of them, but enough to know that they were brilliant in their own way. What I can definitely remember though is that none of them would have involved us winning a trophy. It doesn’t matter. It can’t matter, because I’d given up hope of a trophy years ago. It’s never been a reason to support my team. It never will be.

I don’t follow Newcastle United for any moral reason either. We do some brilliant community work these days, but I don’t find myself arguing with people about it, as if it makes us a better club than theirs. So any human rights issues that have been brought to the forefront of matters concerning this takeover can, at the very least, wait. And while the moral compass is out, why wasn’t it being waved around in the hope of finding support when Mike Ashley bought our club? Why weren’t Newcastle United fans being targeted on behalf of those suffering because of zero hours contracts and terrible working conditions? Not to mention being forced to sell Slazenger polo shirts.

If the likes of Richard Keys and others in the media care so much then surely this fight is theirs. As it happens I’ve read a lot of common sense being written by our fans over the last week or so concerning Saudi Arabia and their human rights record. But for now, we’re all focusing on the one thing – the excitement, the hope and the potential of this takeover.

It’s been said a million times in the last week, but I’ll say it gain. No one had a problem with human rights issues when Russians invested in Bournemouth or Chelsea or with Chinese money buying Wolves or investing in Southampton Barnsley or Birmingham or Reading, UAE investment in Manchester City or Charlton, Iranian money at Everton or Saudi owners at Sheffield United. The list could go on and on. So why is the takeover of Newcastle United a step too far?

Football is all about dreams. As a little kid you dream of being a footballer. As you get older you dream of a season ticket, a job that allows you to follow your team. If your team signs even a little bit of quality you dream about trophies, flowing football, success. At St. James’ Park we’ve been dreaming for decades. So just for now, excuse my dreams and excuse my excitement. Keep your agenda and let me and thousands of others enjoy something that could provide the kinds of memories that we probably never imagined we’d ever have.

Every football fan in the country might be about to witness something so special you daresn’t even speak about it happening to your club. Some of us might be about to sample it first hand. I can’t believe it might happen, but let me get at least a tiny bit excited.

The NUFC Takeover has me more worried than ever!

We’re almost a week into the serious news about the latest Newcastle United takeover attempt. I say attempt, because history tells us that they never work out. Since Mike Ashley bought the club thirteen years ago and subsequently put it up for sale a couple of years later I’ve lost count of the amount of stories, rumours and consortiums that have entered all of our lives. I’m even still confused as to whether Barry Moat was actually a real person. I can’t have been the only one thinking that was a made up name, surely?

This latest story has me more worried than ever. It’s the validity that’s doing it. The hope that it brings, because as any good Newcastle fan knows, it’s the hope that kills you. Since the news broke about serious documents being submitted to Companies House, it’s felt like a long week. Day by day things look brighter. Hour by hour it actually seems like it could happen. But of course, with your sensible hat and especially if you’re of a certain age, on you could never actually believe it.

Please don’t misunderstand me. I’m not trying to pour cold water on what, on the face of it, seems like the best news we’ve had in many, many years. If you can get excited, then do it. Get excited! In fact, get a bit more excited for those of us who simply can’t allow themselves to do it. Because believe me, when the time is right, and one of our new board members is there at the edge of the pitch with a black and white shirt or a scarf, me and many others who are at the moment terrified to get optimistic will be celebrating long and hard. #Cans indeed.

We’ve been here before though. I seem to remember that way back when, the aforementioned Barry Moat (if he’s real) came close, but we were told that he couldn’t quite raise the funds and that the lovely Mr Ashley was unwilling to give any leeway on price. At that time the price was a lot less. Typically, I built my hopes up. The man who’d taken my club away from me was on his way out. Chairman Barry was going to somehow find the money and bring Alan Shearer along for the ride. And what a ride it would be. But of course he didn’t and it wasn’t.

The club had been put up for sale and Ashley, Charnley and co had done so by putting an advert in the papers asking interested buyers to respond to a specially set up email address. As professional as ever. If memory serves me rightly there was even time for a Sunderland supporter to launch a false bid for the club, which although it was quickly found out, was still a source of hope for a little while. A source of hope in Sunderland too, I suppose – one of their own had finally worked out how to do the internet.

Amanda Staveley, don’t forget, has also been here before. As ever, it all looked rosy. She attended a match and as a result, as well as seeing the team and sampling the atmosphere around the stadium, was presumably able to see at least some of our bridges. So with that kind of thinking, I imagined she was writing out a cheque at the end of the match in the player’s lounge. Any shortfall was being taken care of by trading in her Nectar points. Wor Amanda was the symbol of a very bright future.

Then she wasn’t. Despite the rumoured backing of oil money and the involvement of the Rueben brothers it all fell through. Mike Ashley himself called the whole thing off, referring to Staveley and the whole negotiation process as a waste of time. See, the pot can call the kettle black after all.

Despite all of this, there was time for more fun via Peter Kenyon and the Bin Zayed group. Again, both bids failed, despite appearing in an absolute blaze of glory and despite both looking legitimate and plausible. At one point during talks with Peter Kenyon, Ashley himself went on Sky to say that a sale had never been closer. It still never happened. If you hadn’t given up years ago, you probably had by this point. It may have shortly after this time that Ashley himself dropped the line into an interview that “I think I’ll own this club forever.”

Apart from the many failed bids, the fact is that things like this don’t happen to Newcastle United and its fans. As much as I worship this club – as we probably all do – I wouldn’t expect it to be bought and have money literally thrown at it. As much as I love my home city, we’re just a small city in the far north of England. I’ve never really imagined that anyone was taking a great deal of notice. The news that we could become the richest club in the country – and perhaps the world – just sounds ridiculous to me and as much as I’d love to get carried away, I won’t. The whole thing just makes me worry.

This week, I’ve spent a long time thinking about this takeover. As usual. I’ve tried not to think about it, because not thinking about it might just make it happen. A twisted logic, but mine all the same. Yet, it seems to be creeping ever closer. But I can’t allow myself to be sucked in.

I didn’t choose to support Newcastle United. It was a birthright. An addiction, something that was always going to happen. I was born in the city, brought up just down the road in Blaydon and so it was fated that I’d set foot inside St. James’ Park one day and fall in love. Like many before and after me. Because, there’s no glory to chase here. No trophies to talk about at work as if they were you’re own. Just disappointment, mainly. So the thought that someone might come in and turn us into something different is quite simply too outrageous for me to not worry about.

I’ve read lots of comments about us being the richest club in the world, the £250 billion that the owners are worth, signing Mbappe, Bale and all the rest. We’re going to target the Premier League title and the Champions’ League, apparently. But we don’t support this club for that type of thing. Don’t get me wrong, I’d got to a stage in life – I’m 48 – a few years ago now where I resigned myself to the fact that I simply wouldn’t see us win a trophy in my lifetime, so if someone does come in with serious spending power and transforms the place, then I’ll take it. But, at the moment it’s just another reason for me to worry about the fact that this whole thing might not go through.

I find it hard to understand that we may be utterly transformed from what we know as a club. We see ourselves as a so-called big club anyway. History, fan loyalty, the stadium, they all point to that as a fact, rather than just the usual bluster you get from fans. I’ve always believed us to be a big club. But now we could become the kind of club that none of us would have believed we could become in a million years. It’s so close you can almost touch and taste it. This, ladies and gentlemen, is the stuff of dreams. And because of that, I simply can’t be calm about the whole thing.

Apparently the whole process that would lead to an announcement is a number of weeks off. And everything I read worries me even more. As if a global pandemic wasn’t enough to occupy our minds, now this! I sincerely hope that it goes through. For the simple fact that it would mean getting rid of Mike Ashley and his cronies it’d be more than worth it. Then we can start to look at who the owners are and what they plan to do. But we’ve been here before.

I, for one can’t do anything but worry!

Lockdown Cravings – What I miss most about grassroots football.

It’s got so bad I think I even miss washing kit!

Having studied both world wars in my time in education I never thought I’d see the like of such change across the planet. I never imagined that my life – about as typically suburban and dull as they come – would ever be turned upside down in such an unexpected way. Sure, we all face family crises and unless you’re under the illusion that you’re part of the Marvel universe, you know that death will come knocking at your door at some point, whether it’s for you or someone close to you. And similarly, while I was aware of words like ‘pandemic’ I never expected to be part of one. This was the stuff of Hollywood as far as I could work out. But then came the rude awakening. Corona wasn’t just a foreign beer. A pandemic was actually happening and life was changing beyond all recognition.

It seems trite to start writing about football. I’m classed as vulnerable to this virus. I have elderly parents who are even more vulnerable, as well as being quite a long way away. I have a family to support and many vulnerable students to care for. Away from my own personal circumstances thousands are dying not just in our country, but across the globe. But then maybe trivial things like football are the kinds of things we need during such a stressful time.

I never thought I’d miss football, especially if it was taken away to help save lives. Sure, it’s a huge part of my life and always has been, but I’ve found that taking it away also removes the amount of stress that it causes. It’s simple when you think about it! As such, I usually quite enjoy the international breaks because they take away Newcastle United related worries and just allow me to watch some football that I largely don’t really care about.

On 23rd March, via a WhatsApp message from the chairman of the league, the coaches of the Garforth Junior Football League were notified that our season had been voided. It was inevitable and we were probably all prepared for it, but it was definitely very sad news. There were still about 8 or 9 matches to play. As much as it was expected, I imagine that there wasn’t a coach among us who hadn’t hoped it wouldn’t happen.

Us coaches are all probably of much the same mindset. As volunteers we have to be! Optimists, that’s what we are. Maybe not in terms of football as a whole – I mean I’m a Newcastle fan, so optimism does not come easy – but in terms of the teams we coach, we probably all feel the same. Optimistic. Hopeful. Positive.

From my own point of view it hadn’t been a great season. Satisfactory, but not great. I’m the coach of a team called Glen Juniors Whites Under 11s in Morley, Leeds and it’s been a season of upheaval for us. We’ve lost several good players from last season and brought through a number of new players with not a lot of experience. As such, we’ve had ups and downs. However, it’s generally been enjoyable and as a result, it’s not taken long for me to realise that I’m really missing football. So I thought I’d write a blog and compile a bit of a list. It’s a not quite top Ten, and I’ve been unable to put it in any sort of order. These are just some things that I really miss about my involvement in football and I thought I’d put them out there and see who felt the same.

First up come Saturday Preparations. We play on a Sunday, but over the years I’ve got into the habit of being prepared on a Saturday. That way I know that despite an early start on Sunday mornings, I’m almost certain to be ready. I say almost certain, because my son can often be found, oblivious to the warnings he’s been given to be ready, absorbed in a YouTube video on his iPad, with bits of kit missing, no water bottle and no boots on! Dad’s ready to leave, but the kid that’s actually playing won’t be ready for another five minutes or so! It’s always a good look to have turning up late as the coach. And so, I prepare on a Saturday as much as possible. The bag is taken from the shed and put in the car overnight. The practice balls for warm-ups, the same. The boy’s kit is out, my kit is laid out. My boots are in the car. I’ve filled in my team sheet, written up the team, written down some notes as to what to mention before kick-off. Sometimes I’ve even thought about substitutions too, as I have a bad habit of getting a bit confused on the sidelines and suddenly everyone becomes a right sided midfielder in my head! Needless to say, if it’s an away game I’ve had a good look at the route and either written stuff down (I’m still a bit old school!) or programmed the sat nav, regardless of how much I know it’ll irritate me.

Preparing on a Saturday means that I have longer to savour the whole experience as well. So, while no football means I have free weekends back, given the amount I put into it all, I really miss those Saturday preparations. It’s a routine that I wasn’t quite ready to get out of and it’s made me feel at a bit of a loss.

Next up, I miss the sheer obsession of being involved in grassroots football. And I know that every coach who reads this will feel exactly the same. To illustrate exactly what I miss I thought I’d write up an anecdote that might just go some way to helping explain. It concerns grass.

At Glen Juniors, although we have our own pitches, they are actually council playing fields. Thus, everybody is allowed on them. And when I say everybody, I mean everybody. It wouldn’t surprise me if one day a coach pulls up and it’s full of people and their dogs come to sample what it feels like to empty their bowels on a different field for once – the dogs that is, not the humans. This is a massive source of frustration for me, but that’s something to vent about at another time. My obsessiveness is shown well – and at its most embarrassing – if I tell you about recent events on our pitch.

Our pitch hasn’t been cut for months. It feels like years. The council only cut it at certain times of the year and because of the wet weather the private company that the club have employed won’t cut it because their vehicles can’t get purchase in the inevitable mud. Further to this, despite several pleas, we’ve not even been able to get use of a petrol mower. So, as a result, for what feels like an endless amount of time, our pitch has been allowed to grow. And grow. And grow. Subsequently, in lots of places it’s several inches thick, meaning that we’ve played games where it’s been difficult to make the ball roll at times!

Cue me. The least that I’ve been able to do over the last few months is to make sure that the lines are kept fresh. If the grass is far too long, at least I can make it look as much like a football pitch as possible. But I haven’t been able to let it end there. Oh no. When I can, I’ve been getting there very early to mark the lines, but with an ulterior motive. Some days I’ve sank low enough to find myself on my hands and knees ripping grass out of the pitch, especially in the corners. I’ll kind of crawl along, ripping handfuls of grass out and throwing them away quickly so that anyone watching me from nearby houses might just think that they’re seeing things. Because no one’s that ridiculous right? Wrong. I have indeed been giving our pitch a kind of hand cut, if you like. Sadly, when my son has accompanied me, I’ve had him doing it too!

At other similarly shameful times I’ve taken our garden shears down – both the lawn edgers and the actual hedge cutters – and furtively stood there cutting as much as I could without taking so much time that I look too stupid and get caught by loads of dog walkers. I’ve genuinely considered just taking scissors to it, so that there was a bit less grass, but also a bit less chance of being seen! However, I’m not quite daft enough to imagine that several householders have watched me, intrigued, from their bedroom windows while slowly shaking their heads. I have no explanation to offer them or you other than to say that I’m obsessed by my part in grassroots football (and I know that there’s a joke in there somewhere), but it’s a level of obsession that I genuinely miss.

And while you try to rid your mind of the sight of a bloke on his hands and knees crawling around yanking grass out of a massive patch of grass, I’m sure you’ll enjoy the fact that about a week ago, around a week or so after the season was actually stopped, the grass was finally cut!

The third thing that I miss horribly about grassroots football is the social side of things. I’m a quiet, shy lad, but while I’ve been a coach I’ve been forced to talk to parents. And I’ll be honest, I don’t always enjoy talking to my own parents, let alone anyone else’s! But I genuinely feel that the social side of the game has really helped me as a person. The parents of my team have become quite a close-knit bunch and they are incredibly supportive of me, something that I appreciate hugely. I try to make a point of speaking to as many people as possible on matchday, time allowing, and I love just getting round people and saying ‘Hello’ and asking about their day or their week. Who knew this actually bothering with folk could be so nice?!

This season, as a group of parents – my son also plays for our team – we’ve sat in meetings planning various next steps for our team as well as fighting their corner within the club and the support has been genuinely heart-warming. Having been deprived of their company, I’m finding I miss them terribly! And I really barely know any of them, but this thing we have in common has absolutely united us over the last few years. It’s been a real surprise to find out how much I miss this social aspect of my grassroots life.

I even miss the social side of preparing for a match. I’m joined for every home game by Nigel, one of the other parents who coaches and helps me out. He’s invaluable. But we chat and laugh and joke when we’re putting up the goals – mainly about our inability to put up the goals – and it’s something I find I’m really missing about early Sunday mornings.

On a similar social note, another thing that I find I’m missing is the WhatsApp groups! During the season it would feel like my phone was almost constantly buzzing with notifications. As a member of several football related groups there was always someone wanting to relay a message and this multiplied when trying to cope with the constant rain and storms we seemed to be having earlier in the year. At that point it was rare that a day went by when you weren’t updating the opposition on the state of the pitch or letting people know that as far you knew the game at the weekend was still on. Or more likely, that the game at the weekend had been cancelled, yet again.

Now, these groups are eerily quiet. If there is a message on one of them, I invariably get a bit of a shock. Thoughts turn to next season and then you open it up and it’s nothing of any real consequence.

Strange how things change so dramatically. Sometimes, being so snowed under with messages to read, respond to or just send got a bit much. There were times when it was just an irritation, something that while trying to do a job and be a dad and husband, I just didn’t really have the time or patience for. Now, in the midst of a lockdown and with the prospect of any football still a long way beyond the horizon, it’d be lovely to send the weekly message about our game at the weekend, where we were playing and when we should get there!

Of course one of the main things to miss about being involved in grassroots football is the actual coaching. Watching the progress of my lads when at times they’ve been so up against it this year has been great. And it’s always a pleasure watching players develop. However, I think what I mainly miss about coaching is watching it all go wrong. And that’s easy to say now when I’m not in amongst it. I certainly haven’t enjoyed it while it’s been happening. But now, when every day can feel a bit of a matter of life and death, it’s just funny to remember the things that can and will go wrong.

Picture the scene. You’ve checked they’re all listening, got them quiet and you may even have made them all sit down, because that’s when ears work best of course! You explain the drill, maybe even three times because you want it to sink in, right? You’ve even given it a run through with one of the kids or another coach to demonstrate how it should pan out. And then you tell them, “Right, off you go.”

The responses at this point vary. But I’m sure we’ve all heard or witnessed every last one of them. Take your pick from,

At least one player is stood, stock still, blank faced before asking, “Wait, what’re we doing?” And when I say at least one, we all know that it could be every last kid.
A selection of kids or even every kid just does the drill completely wrong and much to your amazement some of what’s going on bares absolutely no resemblance to what you’d talked them through. With my team there’s even a chance someone’s pulled out a rugby ball. They might even be hitting it with a golf club.
You realise that you explained it wrongly. You might even consult some kind of notes and see that what you’ve got them doing and what you’d drawn out and written down are two completely different things.
A dog walks past/plane goes over/crisp packet blows by/literally anything happens that isn’t at all football related and one by one your players stop to watch.
It’s a difficult drill – these ones usually don’t involve a football – and suddenly an abundance of kids needs either the toilet or a drink.
Literally any scenario you can think of.

We know it’s not all like that though. I obviously miss the sessions where it all goes right – and we do have some of them! Some nights we’ll run a session where from minute one they’re all giving 100% effort, the passing is sharp, everyone’s eager and there are smiles on every face. You then have a practice game and everything you’ve worked on for the previous 45 minutes is there for all to see.

I miss making mistakes. And boy can I make them. We have a squad of 15 and there’s rarely a session or a game goes by when I don’t get names wrong. On more than one occasion I’ve sent a team out short of at least one player. Sometimes at the start of the game, but more often than not, for the second half. I’m an absolute master at losing track of the changes I’ve made at half-time and sending out a team of 8 for a nine-a-side game. Sometimes I’ve eve watched in horror as we have two players lining up in the same position before realising I’ve sent out one too many. The game’s never actually started like this, but there will inevitably be a time when it happens!

In the past – although I seem to be learning my lesson here – I’ve turned up for a game with no match ball. Luckily, I live around the corner form the pitches and have time to nip home, but it’s an interesting mistake to make. I’ve put the goals up wrongly, only to stand back to admire my handy work and find a ridiculously sagging crossbar or just some ridiculous shape that I’ve created. One of our players even managed to turn up without shorts this year, so I think my influence is clearly having an effect!

The final thing that I miss has to be game related. But I don’t just miss games. I miss the adrenaline involved. There can’t be many other feelings like this; not that can be related on a family friendly blog anyway. It’s that feeling as your keeper makes a brilliant save. Ours seems to specialise in saving penalties and it always feels amazing to watch. For me, it’s when my son scores a goal or even when he plays a pass that leads to the same for one of his team mates. It’s in the last ditch tackle from the kid you didn’t think would get there and it’s there in the minutes leading up to a kick-off, when optimism is at its highest.

This season we’ve had a lot of adrenaline fuelled times. During one early home game though, the adrenaline got unusually high. We were 1-4 down at half time and to be honest when we got them in to talk there weren’t a lot of positives. The lads were told in no uncertain terms to go out and prove a point in the second half. I knew that the game wasn’t beyond us and said as much, but what happened over the next half hour was stunning. We grabbed the first goal of the half and the second, but then conceded again to leave the score at 3-5 with around 15 minutes to go. However, my lads simply reacted once more and used this setback to push themselves further. Now, I’m usually reasonably calm on the touchline, if probably a bit too involved in terms of calling out instructions. However, my adrenaline levels were far too high at this point and as we scored again I was a parent more than a coach, just shouting encouragement as much as I could while trying not to jump up and down too much!

Amazingly, with around 5 minutes to go we’d levelled the score and our opposition looked out for the count. By this point I’d regained some composure and was able to look at the game from a more tactical point of view, but once we went ahead I was back to simply bouncing up and down and screeching.

We won the game 7-5 in the end and I found myself apologising to the opposition coach at the end, conscious of the fact that I’d been like Zebedee for the previous twenty minutes. I’ll never forget the following moments however as the adrenaline coursed through my system. My son nearly knocked me over as he came over at the end and it was an enormous dad and son hug. As we got everyone in afterwards – parents, family and players – it was like one enormous smile and although I couldn’t tell you what I said, it was all positive and felt fantastic to say. I miss those levels of adrenaline hugely.

So there we have it. In the midst of a global pandemic and with life as we’ve known it changing by the day, I find myself still missing football. Ridiculous when you think of it with your sane adult head on. Yet I know that many of you reading this will feel exactly the same.

Worst NUFC side ever? Sorry, but I beg to differ!

There can be no doubt that these are dark times for Newcastle United supporters. And sadly that’s a sentence any one of us could have started an article off with at almost any point in the last fifty or sixty years. From the likes of Lord Westwood with his pirate eye patch, through the Seymour years, McKeag and most recently Mike Ashley, the ownership of the club has regularly been a shambles. I mean, if you think back, even Sir John Hall seemed, at one point, to be doing his best to mess things up by forcing Kevin Keegan to walk out. And those were the good times!

There have been questionable managers too. And that’s me very much using the word ‘questionable’ as a polite way of saying shite. In my memory we’ve had some shockers – Gordon Lee, Richard Dinnis, Bill McGarry, Jack Charlton, Ardiles, Gullit, Souness, Allardyce, Kinnear, Pardew, Carver, McClaren and the current incumbent Steve Bruce, who seems to be mainly getting by on his reputation of being a nice bloke who has a lot of admirers in the media. You can tell this as they constantly refer to him as ‘Stevie’ or Brucey’.

So, although I have to admit this season’s performances have largely been woeful and are getting worse, some of the outrage at our team and squad that I’ve witnessed lately has made me chuckle. And that’s what prompted this blog.

Now before some brave or eloquent soul labels me an Ashley apologist, a fan of Steve Bruce or the Anti-Rafa, well I’m not. Plain and simple. For the record I’ve been boycotting games now for the last 10 years, having given my season ticket up when cuddly Mike forced Kevin Keegan to resign. The whole Rafa thing simply strengthened my resolve to stay away. But it’s ridiculous to think that I could turn my back on my club entirely. Newcastle United are still my team, my birthright. As a result, I’d still say that I’m still worryingly obsessed with the club.

I’ve read a lot recently about how this season’s vintage is ‘the worst team we’ve ever had’ and I find that a little bit laughable, if I’m honest. It’s also a bit of an insult to quite a few of the squad. Let me explain.

I simply can’t agree that this is the worst team we’ve ever had. The tactical element is entirely down to our head coach and his team. Bruce, Clemence and Agnew, who by the way in my opinion has been given a very easy ride given his former allegiance to both Sunderland and Boro. But that’s something for another time.

Compare this team to several of the last twenty or so years and you can see how ridiculous a label it is to call them the worst. I mean, think back to some of the players in the teams sent out by Jack Charlton or Souness and you won’t have to look far to find some absolute duffers. However, for the purposes of the blog though I’ll focus my thoughts and the comparison on a team that almost had me throwing in the towel years before I finally did. For me, straight off the top of my head, the worst ever NUFC team that I’ve witnessed would be that of Sam Allardyce.

Allardyce, like the current incumbent of the job is coincidentally another media luvvie who seems to take every opportunity to ludicrously defend himself about the dullness of the side he put together at St. James’. For the record his team was clueless. The man, who still claims that if he was called Alladychio he’d be sitting pretty in a top job, was a disaster for us. Not only did he buy a load of absolute duffers, but he brought his horrible playing style too. We were awful under Allardyce. I would drive up from Leeds every other week and sit in my seat on Level 7 of the Leazes end wondering why I’d bothered. There was always hope, but that hope was usually destroyed within the first quarter of an hour of a match. The football bored me rigid. The idea always seemed to be to take a safety first approach and with some of the players in the squad – not many mind you – this seemed at best wasteful.

One particular match under Allardyce stands out as a beacon of drudgery and proof positive that times and teams have been worse. On 3rd November Newcastle played Portsmouth and I remember turning up full of optimism. Pompey were a long way from home and wouldn’t relish playing us at St. James’. How wrong I was. We were 0-3 down after 11 minutes and it genuinely felt like Pompey were playing a different sport to us. Our defending was described by the BBC as diabolical, our midfield was non-existent and up front Michael Owen wandered around like he was out for a walk with the dog. Sadly his dog seemed to have taken the form of Alan Smith and he was clearly on a short lead.

It wasn’t just the system though. Some of the players were amongst the worst that I’ve ever seen at Newcastle. There was Claudio Cacapa, who whatever your views on Joelinton, was quite simply the worst Brazilian to ever play first team football for the Toon. Centre half? Defensive midfielder? Even he didn’t seem to know what he was! He arrived on a free aged 31 and was given a deal worth £40,000 a week. He stayed for 2 years and played a grand total of 25 times. A woeful excuse for a footballer and part of, in my opinion, a far worse team than we have at the moment. In fact, if you think of those in today’s squad who could do that dual centre half/defensive midlfielder role you might well come up with the names of Isaac Hayden and Fabian Schar. Now, you’d be hard pushed to successfully argue that either of them lacks at least a bit of quality, Schar in particular looking a Rolls Royce of a player at times. And, if you were watching during Allardyce’s time, it wouldn’t take you long to work out that neither is the equivalent of Claudio Cacapa.

Alongside Cacapa there was David Rozenhal a Czech defender who, I must admit, I actually thought was quite a decent player at first. Turned out he wasn’t though. In fact he was very much a Czech version of Steven Taylor, who himself was also part of Allardyce’s squad. Rozenhal was Taylor, but without the Forrest Gump running and bad Platoon style acting when he’d handled the ball in the box. I daresay he didn’t wave at keepers either. He was very good at standing still while attackers waltzed round him though. So, in that way, very much a Taylor-alike. And again, simply not in the same class as the likes of Lascelles, Schar, Fernandez, Clark or Lejeune, all of whom would have waltzed into Allardyce’s side and all of whom are currently competing for places in what some would have you believe is the worst NUFC team ever.

Then there was Geremi, another alleged footballer brought in on massive wages by Big Sam. Inspired. Geremi came from Chelsea, who strangely seemed to make no attempt whatsoever to keep him. But in much the same way as we’re always the team that a stirker who hasn’t scored in ten games will break his duck against, we were similarly welcoming to high profile footballers that nobody wanted. Which brings me nicely on to another of the mainstays in Allardyce’s side.

Alan Smith had picked up a career-threatening injury at Manchester United and was never really the same player again. It was plain for all to see. All that is apart from Sam Allardyce who threw £6 million at our friends at Old Trafford and brought Smith to St. James’ Park on £60,000 a week. I remember reading about the potential deal before it happened and going through the same emotions I’d felt when it was reported that we were after John Barnes and Ian Rush some years before. Fear, panic…and a bit more fear.

Smith was at a stage in his career where it had taken such a bizarre turn that no-one seemed to know what to do with him. He could play up front, but had a happy knack of not scoring goals. He was never prolific in his heyday at Leeds, but by the time he reached us it was like he was the reason someone had invented that phrase about the cow’s arse and the banjo. Sir Alex Ferguson had used him as a defensive midfielder, but that didn’t work either. And as if you ever needed evidence of the man’s arrogance, Allardyce seemed to think he knew better.

Smith had even confessed that, ““My injury will restrict me from competing at the very highest level.” and said, “I know that I’m not as good as I was, simple as that.” Astonishing really. Imagine any of our midfield saying that now and think about your reaction. It was never going to work for Smith at Newcastle and under Allardyce, in my opinion, he was an integral part of a team that just didn’t work. Another reason why this was a far worse team then the one we have now. And again, whatever position he’d have played in he doesn’t compare favourably to what we have now.

Allardyce’s team also included the player I rate as the worst I’ve ever witnessed in a Newcastle shirt. Abdoulaye Faye. Another who could play as a defensive midfielder or centre half – Christ, how many did Allardyce think he needed – words almost fail me when I think of him playing for us. Almost, but not completely. I can summon up the following. Slow, clumsy, tactically inept, couldn’t pass it, couldn’t control it, struggled to head it, made me think on more than one occasion of the bloke who rang Souness when he was manager of Southampton and claimed to be George Weah’s cousin and ended up on a short term contract; surely this wasn’t him again, but with a new name? I always wondered what my dad meant when he used to say players ‘couldn’t trap a bag of cement’. And then I saw Abdoulaye Faye and I wondered, for quite a while, if my dad was indeed some kind of wizard.

Faye is undoubtedly a brilliant reason why this season’s squad couldn’t possible be called the worst ever with any legitimacy, because it doesn’t contain Abdoulaye Faye.

Other notable names from Allardyce band of brothers? David Edgar, Peter Ramage, Mark Viduka and Charles Nzogbia. Look for their positional equivelants now and you could easily settle for the names of Ciaran Clark, Emile Krafth, Dwight Gayle and Alain Saint Maximin. Well I know who I’d rather have.

Times are hard at the moment. Hope is in short supply and frustration and anger is in danger of boiling over. But to suggest that this is the worst NUFC squad of all time is ludicrous. Blame Ashley and Charnley. Blame Bruce and his staff if you like. But don’t blame the players. Don’t include Ritchie, Saint Maximin, Almiron, Lascelles, Dubravka, the Longstaffs and any of the rest of them in something as stupid as your worst squad of all time.

Coaching football: When just in case becomes just too much.

Back from Storm Ciara to announce a surprise postponement!

As a grassroots football coach it’s easy to become obsessive. I’ve blogged about this before. Training sessions, team shape, ordering kit, even how kids’ families might feel when their son or daughter isn’t picked. But our obsession with weather must be right up there.

Since going back to coaching I’ve become completely obsessed with the weather. One of the first things I do each morning at work is to bring up the BBC’s weather page on my screen. The tab is always open on my phone too. And as dull as it undoubtedly is, I’m forever checking. Percentage chance of rain, wind-speed and the search for the sunshine emoji are personal favourites. But it’s essential. No, really. It’s essential.

It’s not even a case of what the sky is doing on matchday either. Some weeks are spent scanning the day by day percentage chance of rain in the week leading up to a game in order to assess whether we’ll have a pitch or a swimming pool waiting for us on a Sunday morning. I spend more time refreshing the weather than is healthy really. But then you never know when the forecast will change and the rain will just disappear.

This week though I feel like my obsessiveness has moved on to a new, much sadder level than ever before. My team, Morley Glen Juniors Whites of the Garforth League, division 3a should have been in cup action. And we’re on a cup run, so this is exciting stuff. Although, when I say a cup ‘run’ I mean that we got a bye in the first round and today should have been the second round, but the season going as it has been doing, we’ll take any win possible. Even if we won a game that wasn’t even played against an opposition that didn’t even exist. In my head it was a tactical triumph.

As ever, having confirmed the match details with the opposition coach on the previous Sunday afternoon, I checked the weather. With the pitch in mind I went through every individual day. I’d be at work for most of it, but it feels important to know if it’s going to just rain all week or whether we can expect a drier pitch by the weekend. As I said before, it can be the difference between a pitch and a swimming pool.

The week looked great. Day after day of dry weather, one or two warm-ish temperatures, sunshine and a bit of a breeze. Our pitch would be brilliant. And then I read Sunday. The cloud and rain emoji spelt trouble, but maybe it’d be a case of getting on with it and getting soaked again, like we have done on several occasions this season already. But there was an exclamation mark. In a triangle. A weather warning. And clicking on to the actual day would reveal the small matter of potential 48mph winds. Driving home that evening from work the news then informed me of the approaching storm, this one given the charming moniker of Ciara.

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As the week progressed it seemed that the wind speed was increasing day by day. I’d refresh the weather several times a day just in case the storm had miraculously changed direction and was now heading for Spain or somewhere else that wasn’t Morley. But oh no. This lass Ciara was very definitely heading our way. Ever the optimist though, I was still texting all concerned on Saturday night, confirming that yes, the game was still on and that I intended to have a walk over to the pitch on Sunday morning to check exactly how things were. The now predicted 68mph winds weren’t going to cause a problem.

And so it came to pass that I left my front door slightly before 8am this morning and headed out into a quite horrendous storm. I could hear the scale of the thing through the bathroom window while having a shave half an hour earlier. I could see it from the kitchen window when I went downstairs. But a combination of guilt and stubbornness prevented me from calling the match off from the comfort and warmth of my own home. Surely, once you were out there, you could have a game of football, right?

There was no-one around as I started the five minute walk to the pitches. Scanning the houses around me seemed to reveal that people were still in bed, perhaps playing hide and seek with Ciara. The main road also revealed no cars. But still, I pressed on. Of course I did.

In actual fact, it didn’t feel that windy. It was raining, which probably didn’t bode well for the pitch, but the wind wasn’t too bad. There was hope for this game yet.

And then I turned a corner and headed up a narrow path that leads to the pitches. Now the wind stopped playing games with me. Suddenly I was being battered and it was actually quite tricky to walk in a straight line. Like three years at university encapsulated into a matter of seconds, but with less lager.

Staggering like a drunk I had to keep my head down now because the rain was actually stinging my face. But I still hadn’t checked the pitch. There was a glimmer of hope for this game and the magic of the cup was still alive. I kept on going, still with no other human soul anywhere in sight. Where were the dog walkers that normally left us a Sunday morning surprise? Where were the runners in badly matched shades of lycra? Who knew?

Before I knew it I was out in the open. Ciara was flinging me round like a rag doll (Wow, reading that back, perhaps I’ve got a Mills and Boon or a Fifty Shades in me yet?) but I was ridiculously determined to carry on. Pausing to edge my way up a muddy grass bank in order to avoid a path wide puddle, I pressed on as best I could. I slipped and slid and for a moment feared that I was going to end up face down in the mud, but I leapt the last bit in hope and desperation and made it to the other side of the path. I mean, how stupid would I have looked falling in the mud? Well, in truth, no more stupid than I did with rain streaming down my face and a veritable lake down my front, but my obsessive coach’s nature tells me that as yet, this game hasn’t actually been called off.

I briefly recall playing in horizontal snow last season and imagine that we could yet have a game. And then I reach the pitch. Even at a distance the surface water is clearly visible and I know that unless we play in wellies we haven’t got a game. But still I feel that I should walk on the actual grass to just confirm it. I’m wearing fly knit running trainers that give no protection at all and my feet are already damp, but there’s nothing like the feeling of actual water squelching between your toes to confirm a postponement. So out I stride.

Except I can’t stride out as it’s far too slippy. So I tip-toe on to the grass like some kind of wet, clumsy ballerina. We still have white lines, which is a plus, but in no time at all I’m ankle deep in liquid mud. I hang around for a few minutes, just walking on the pitch, maybe in hope of a dry patch, but it’s inevitable that we’ll have to postpone. I love football, but it’ll be no fun whatsoever to play in this, let alone stand around barking instructions at my team.

I spot a dog walker approaching and it’s this sight that brings me to my senses. We exchange pleasantries, each as funny as the other in a not funny at all kind of way.

“Lovely morning.”

“Aye, just beautiful isn’t it?”

We’re vying the title of Archbishop of Banterbury here, but rather than claim the sceptre and funny hat, I walk on, heading for home. I’m soaked and there’s a path wide lake to avoid on the way back.

When I get back the whole family are waiting for me. My wife and daughter both tell me how ridiculous I look and how stupid I’ve been, but it just makes me laugh. My son joins in, probably more out of relief that he doesn’t have to go out into the storm and attempt to play football. I know why I’ve been out. I understand that I could have called this game off from the safety of my home, but that wouldn’t be right and proper. Other coaches will understand.

I dry off – every item of clothing is wet (I’m definitely writing that racy novel by the way, ladies) – and head downstairs for breakfast. Picking up my phone to relay the postponement to all involved, I see that I have a message. I open it to find that, from the safety of his home, the opposition coach has texted.

“That wind’s probably going to spoil the game mate.”

Life in grassroots football: How to turn your Under 11s four match losing streak into a personal crisis!

Right lads, read this, take it all in and get out there and play like Brazil. Oh, and enjoy yourselves!

Every week, I try to make the last words that I say to my team exactly the same. “Enjoy it”, I say. And I mean it. I won’t lie though. I desperately want them to win because I know that winning football matches is a great deal more enjoyable than losing them. It’s simple really. But I always tell them ‘enjoy it’.

There’s no doubt that there’s a boat load of enjoyment to be had from running a kids’ football team. Certainly that’s what everyone will tell you. It’ll be a tonne of fun. They’re right as well. It is fun. So why am I currently turning our form into some kind of personal crisis then? Well let me attempt an explanation.

“I take it all very personally”

First up – and I know from conversations with other coaches that I’ve got no exclusivity here – I take it all very personally. When I played, as a kid and as a much younger man, I wanted to win. Desperately. Now, as an adult, I won’t ever send a team out thinking that any of us will enjoy it if we get beat. I certainly won’t. I don’t even enjoy it when we’ve got beat and played well. I might tell the kids that it was enjoyable to watch, but that’s a carefully placed white lie. When I played I would brood on defeats or bad performances for days on end. Nowadays, as a coach, it wakes me up in the middle of the night. ‘What could I have done to prevent that from happening?’ I tell the kids that I enjoyed watching them play, but inside I’m already asking myself how I could have changed things in order to avoid that defeat. Or I’m wondering how what we did in training on the Thursday and what we spoke about before kick-off didn’t make it to the match.

Kids don’t enjoy defeat either, especially when it’s a run of them. This thing that was meant to be fun isn’t anything like fun when the other team are laughing at you or celebrating yards away as you sit and have a drink of water miserably at the end of the game.

“I didn’t shout and bawl and I wasn’t cruel.”

And then as a coach, what do I say? I understand the need for positivity, but I think sometimes you have to be human too. Sometimes I just find it really tough to choose my words. And it becomes something that I worry about. Another reason to lie awake on a Saturday night. After our last game, and at the end of the four game losing streak that kind of prompted this blog, I’d had enough. I didn’t shout and bawl and I wasn’t cruel. But I couldn’t tell them lies. Not on this occasion. It had genuinely felt like every instruction given had been ignored. It had genuinely felt like, as coaches, we’d been let down. Of course I didn’t tell them that, but they were left in no doubt that they simply hadn’t been good enough. We’d been forced to make three substitutions because of the attitude of some of the boys and the fact that they’d decided to shout at not just the ref, but their coaches, parents and each other too. Of course, I then worried about that as well! Should I have been negative? Did I need to say anything? Would I need to sit them down again before the next training session and be all ‘cuddly’ and positive? In the end I said no more, but I must have thought it through at least a dozen times in the days between the game and training.

I did end up spending even more hours on football that week coming up with a code of conduct for the boys with some ‘rules’ and sanctions. I gave it out at training still feeling like I might be taking it all too seriously, but then comforted myself later with the thought that I’d taken out the bit where I wanted them to sign it! I’d planned to photocopy each of the signed code of conducts, so that I had a copy as well as the boys! I’m still keeping it in mind for next season though! After all, they’ll be coming up to 12 by then…

As coaches we took that day personally. In the heat of the moment I genuinely considered quitting as it just felt like I wasn’t making any kind of difference any more. As I do on many a Sunday, I found some time to sit and think things through in the afternoon after the game and came to the conclusion that I was taking things a little too seriously. There was no option but to carry on, making sure that training was purposeful and fun and that we worked more towards getting things right in games. After all, it’s an under 11s team, not someone fighting to win the Champions’ League. But it demonstrates how easy it is to become completely obsessed by the small part we play in football. And I’m sure I’m not alone in being this way. I hope I’m not, anyway!

“…I’ve allowed running a team to become too big a part of my life.”

The lengths I go to and the time I put into my team probably pales into insignificance when measured against some coaches. But I still feel that I’ve allowed running a team to become too big a part of my life. In the lead up to a game I can be regularly found scribbling down teams and formation on the backs of envelopes or scraps of paper. I’ll invariably then proceed to lose the envelope and have to search out another one and do it all over again! The trouble is that a combination of a big squad of players – we have 16 kids for a 9-a-side team – and a poor memory means that every team is different again as I forget a player and include someone else. Suffice to say the whole envelope thing can be unnecessarily stressful!

I used to keep a record of every game we played as well. I’d mark each player out of ten, record scorers and write a paragraph or two about how we’d played and things to change. Family life and work has put pay to that particular obsession though as I can just never find the time anymore. Again though, the little orange book is something I’m thinking of bringing back for next year!

When I’ve got time I get out my little magnetic board with the counters that represent players and play about with it, working out who’d be best where and what I’d need to tell them in order to get the best out of them in said position. I haven’t yet had the bottle to use it at an actual match, but the time will come when I finally convince myself that it’s not that embarrassing and that it’s what other coaches do! I’ll stress myself out about that too.

“…please don’t get me started on dog walkers!”

And then, in terms of obsession and crisis, we get to the pitch. Our pitch takes up so much of my time that it’s criminal really. I live quite close to the club, so in times of bad weather I’m forever thinking about it. What will that near side touchline be like? Will the top goalmouth be holding water? Is the grass too long in the corners and is it possible that my lines have disappeared again? As a further consequence of living close, I’m forever checking the weather forecast for the week a well, just in case there’s a few days worth of rain that I need to panic about while being unable to actually do anything about it.

All this is of course before we even touch on the subject of kids using the pitch to ride bikes on. And please don’t get me started on dog walkers! It seems that every time I go over to re-paint the lines someone has let their dog use our pitch as a toilet and then conveniently not noticed! And I swear that every time I’m leaving having re-done those lines someone will proceed to walk their dog over our pitch, even though they can see me coming out of the clubhouse! I’m beginning to feel paranoid; that someone is watching me paint the lines while simultaneously winding up Fido ready to go and run all over our grass!

It gets worse. I can often be found hanging out of my bedroom window, craning my neck to see if I can get a view of the pitch from about 400 metres away. I can’t, but it never stops me trying! Sometimes I’ll see dog walkers or, Heaven forbid, kids playing football and quietly curse to myself while trying not to worry too much. I’ve genuinely become a pitch bore and I fear that I may need to seek some kind of professional help in order to shake the disease.

The final form of obsession can be found on the morning of any match. As a supporter I’ve been ridiculously superstitious for as long as I can remember. Nothing too crazy…just the lucky pants, the lucky socks, the lucky top, not using any plates, bowls or mugs that are the same colour as opposition shirts, the lucky pebbles found on a beach stuffed into coat pockets, buying a programme from the same place week in, week out. Just the kind of things I’ve found as a Newcastle United fan that are proven to work and responsible for all of our success over the years. I mean you can’t always rely on the likes of Mike Ashley, Joe Kinnear and Alan Pardew.

As a coach I’m much the same. If we lose I won’t wear the same top for the next game. I’ll change tracksuit bottoms after a bad result too. I put things out in a certain order when I get to the pitch. I haven’t quite got to the lucky pebble level yet, but I know it’ll happen. I just haven’t found the right pebble yet!

We finally have a game again this weekend after the last four were postponed due to the weather. After what has felt like months and months being obsessed and feeling like I’m in the middle of some kind of personal crisis I have an outlet! I hope that we go out and play well. I hope that the formation I’ve been considering will work and that the changes I’m planning won’t be too much. I hope we can win. And, you know obviously, I hope everyone enjoys themselves. Whatever happens I’m sure I’ll sulk and moan and overthink every last second of it!

An ode to Matt Ritchie and why his injury could prove disastrous to Newcastle United.

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I was driving home on Wednesday night when I heard the news of Matt Ritchie’s injury. Ironically I was driving home to Leeds from Newcastle where I’d been visiting family and friends. My self-imposed boycott – 8 years and counting thanks, Mr Ashley – meant that even though I was home I wouldn’t be in attendance as Newcastle bowed out of the cup in traditional fashion once again.

Ritchie’s injury brought a much greater significance to a game that I’d fully expected us to lose. They say that with Newcastle United it’s the hope that kills you. Well, in terms of the cups, I gave up hoping a long, long time ago. So actually, I was fairy impressed that we’d put out a scratch team and actually drawn the match over 90 minutes. The loss on penalties was par for the course. But then came a different kind of hope.

As I watched the highlights and Hamza Choudry’s crunching challenge on Ritchie, I immediately feared the worst. Here was as good an example of a straight red card as one could hope to see. But it wasn’t given because referees and Newcastle often don’t mix. The sight of Ritchie hopping out of the challenge and trying to stay up before collapsing to the ground sent a shiver down my spine.

Matt Ritchie is my favourite player. In fact, if you look at my Twitter feed – @grahamcrosby – I can fairly regularly be seen to be declaring him the best player in the world. It’s as close as I’ll get to loving a footballer. I’ve always had a taste for wide players. I was one myself and feel that I can identify with their role. It all started in the 70s as I attended St. James’ Park with my dad to watch an utterly uninspiring Newcastle United side containing, over the years, the likes of Tommy Cassidy, Irving Nattrass, John Connolly and Alan Gowling. My favourite though, was Micky Burns. From memory he was a workmanlike winger who would graft up and down in front of me in the East Stand. There was no discernable pace and little skill, but I loved watching him. Micky Burns was the Matt Ritchie of his day. Possibly. Later I’d fall for wide men such as Waddle, Sellars, Lee, Tino, Ginola, Solano, Robert and Ben Arfa, but I’d never forget Micky Burns. I’d also have to put up with people like Alan Davies – God rest his soul – and Wayne Fereday, so I think I deserved the likes of Ginola and mad Hatem. But Matt Ritchie is my current beau.

Ritchie first caught my attention when he played for Swindon under the notorious, horrible, referee assaulting mackem fascist Paolo Di Canio. If you’re reading this Paolo, I hope all the dry cleaning in the world never got those knee slide trousers clean. I’d occasionally watch Swindon on Sky or just catch goals on highlights shows and Ritchie would always turn up.

He then went to Bournemouth, where a lot of Geordies will remember him for the incredible volley he scored at Dean Court against sunderland. Here was a player that I coveted, but never imagined we’d sign. He wasn’t French enough for a start. And so – and I can’t be the only one who does this – my imagined ‘scouting’ would once again go to waste. But sign him we did.

Arriving as we prepared for a promotion attempt, having been relegated under Rafa, here was a sign that we meant business. We payed £12m as a Championship team and persuaded him to drop down a division and to me as a fan, that meant a lot. Here was a bloke that wanted to take on this challenge. Here was a bloke who wasn’t frightened of the potential mess that was put in front of him. Here was Matt Ritchie – I felt at one with Rafa Benitez!

One of the first things he talked about would remind me of Kevin Keegan. And for me, Ritchie is a Keegan type player. In early interviews Ritchie spoke of his father-in-law, an exiled Geordie and how he’d tell him of the joys of Newcastle United. Ritchie bought into the club straight away and was quoted as telling journalists who asked about his decision to drop down a division, ‘You cannot pass up an opportunity like Newcastle’. Much like Keegan and his tales of his exiled Geordie father, Ritchie was endearing himself to the faithful straight away. Here was a player to fall for.

Since his arrival Ritchie has been a pivotal part of the team. And so his injury and the two months out that it threatens to bring will prove crucial to the Toon. Much is made of the captaincy of Lascelles, the finesse of Schar and the pace of Almiron, but for me Matt Ritchie is the talisman and leader of this particular group.

I coach my son’s under 11 team and can get quite obsessed with the role. This often means that when we sit down to watch games, I’m constantly ranting to him about how a player made a run or what decision was made. All in the name of progress though! Matt Ritchie is someone I always draw his attention to as an example of how things are done. My son is ten and impressed with Dele Alli’s handshakes and Jesse Lingaard’s dancing, and while I want him to enjoy his football, I also want him to see the value of passion, desire and working hard. Matt Ritchie encapsulates all of these qualities.

There will be much to miss about Ritchie in the coming months and thankfully some of his time out will be taken up by the first international break of the season. We’ll undoubtedly miss his work rate. Ritchie is a renowned grafter and footage of him sprinting back into position at the very end of last week’s win away at Spurs was great to watch, but nothing remarkable for him. He leaves nothing out on the pitch, as they say and he’s always looked like one of those players that might well die for the cause.

Ritchie also brings a wealth of experience, which often comes out in his talking on the pitch. Throughout any game he seems incredibly vocal; barking orders, cajoling others and generally chuntering along at himself. He seems bad-tempered with it, which can be a useful motivating factor for those around him. A lot was made of the relationship between him and Miguel Almiron last season, but I for one didn’t notice much to worry about. My take was that we had a seasoned professional talking a fairly young and inexperienced new signing through exactly what was required of him. Ritchie was merely Rafa on the pitch and acting as the kind of player that Sir Bobby Robson would have referred to as one of his ‘blue chip boys’. He isn’t afraid of giving out the odd bollocking either, which when the stakes are high is a valuable tool to have. I’m not sure kicking the arse of Christian Atsu, as witnessed last weekend at Spurs, would be found in any coaching manuals, mind!

Another excellent quality that Ritchie possesses is that he never hides. He demands the ball and commits everything to every single challenge and run. There’s the odd trick in him too and he can certainly pass a ball. His delivery from wide areas especially will be missed and could be something that costs us dearly with Joelinton and dare I say it, Andy Carroll waiting in the box. He reads the game well and is often in the right place at the right time to make a vital block or interception. Ritchie is brave in possession and hungry for the ball when out of possession and as we scrap for every available point in what could be a long next few months, it’s almost cruel that our under pressure manager has been robbed of this player.

The last thing that I think fans as well as players will miss is Ritchie’s enthusiasm. I don’t pretend to be ‘in the know’, but I imagine that he is the kind of character that galvanises a team. You can see it in the way he screams at officials when he senses injustice. It’s there in a very different way when there’s a goal and someone is the recipient of a dozen forceful slaps to the head – an in joke? I don’t know, but again it’s the kind of thing that appeals to team mates – the ones who’s heads remain unslapped – and fans. And it’s also there as he’s kicking the shit out of corner flags!

I sincerely hope that Ritchie isn’t missed too much and it would be nice to think that in his absence someone steps up to fill his boots. But this is Newcastle United where a crisis is never far away and rarely averted. Let’s hope that Ritchie’s back sooner, rather than later.

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