Elevation

This weekend just gone, I was privileged to see a team of black and white clad footballers cavorting with each other on the pitch, after their convincing 3-0 win in the final game of a long season had handed them the title. Over the course of the last 8 months, the club’s fortunes had swung in different directions and nothing was resolved until the very last second. So, well done to Ponteland United Reserves for winning the Tyneside Amateur League. Kennie Malia’s young team beat Cramlington Town Reserves away, to overhaul their hosts at the top of the table, and clinch the trophy.

That was Saturday afternoon of course, which then continued until the early evening in Jesmond with the absorbing draw between Newcastle, who closed on 211/9, and South Northumberland, who had been dismissed for 224. I’ll come back to that game probably next week, but suffice to say, it was so tense I could hardly breathe, never mind sit still. Thank goodness for the 4.1% Wainwright’s beta blocker beer in the clubhouse to keep me on an even keel. For a while at least…

Being calm was off the agenda Sunday morning; not only were Newcastle United kicking off at the unearthly hour of noon at home to Barnsley, but I’d managed to acquire myself a freebie ticket up in Level 7 Family Area. Having attended 3 previous NUFC league games, Reading and QPR on freebies and Forest with Ben, as well as 4 cup ties in the Platinum club at a tenner a pop (Cheltenham, Wolves, Preston and Birmingham), I’d seen 6 wins and a draw. In addition, I’d caught 8 of the 16 other televised games, which isn’t bad as I don’t have Sky; thankfully Ginger Dave does and he only lives round the corner. I’ll never be a regular attender at SJP again, regardless of circumstances, but I do like to drop by now and again, especially for nowt. The only minor problem with the Barnsley brief was it was a junior ticket, which clearly could not be upgraded. So what? Newcastle United have defrauded me enough times in the past that I might as well get my own back.

Stepping off the Metro at 11.45, I was borne by the human wave of optimism up the stairs, across Strawberry Place and under the Milburn Stand canopy, coming to rest outside the sparsely used set of turnstiles, numbered 83-86. It isn’t the case that these entrances give you access to an empty part of the ground, it’s just that with it being the point of entry for families with young’uns, or gangs of high school lads, they all tend to get there well before kick-off. Additionally, the enormous queues for the lifts either side of the turnstile block showed that many punters demurred at the thought of clambering 140 stairs for their place in the sun. I must admit, the previous evening’s libations were a disinclination for me to begin my ascent on foot. However, scanning the turnstiles I realised one major hitch that could scupper my plans; when placing the ticket in the machine, a green light came on for adult tickets and an amber one for junior ones. Being candid, there wasn’t much of a chance I could pass for 15. Therefore, I was at the mercy of the turnstile operator’s mood; a failed attempt at one gate would immediately prohibit me from trying a different one as the ticket would instantly become invalid.

Several times I resolved to breeze into the ground, but on each occasion my nerve failed me. Being candid, I wasn’t prepared for the shame and humiliation of the inevitable knock back, so I stood idling and musing as the game kicked off. Admittedly I had the consolation of a cricket back up plan of Sunderland 3^rd XI v Boldon 3^rd XI in the NEPL Sunday Division 2. The perverse irony of watching a different sport in a different town did appeal to me, so I readied myself to leave the scene and take a long metro journey to Park Lane.  Then perhaps the most fortuitous series of off-pitch events I’ve known at SJP occurred, at least since someone threw a slack handful of spare tickets over the wall of the Gallowgate Corner before we played Southampton in September 1987 (won 2-1). In between the two pairs of turnstiles for Level 7 is a stand-alone concrete pillar, bearing a sign above a door, indicating this is the way to the lift, though apparently granting access to the car park only. I was leaning against this pillar when 3 coppers, 2 stewards, one carrying a tray of pies and the other escorting a young fella with a broken ankle, went through the door to the lift. The last of the coppers held the door open for me and gestured that I should walk through. I did, without even thinking. I entered the lift. I kept my mouth shut. I was borne upwards. I exited at Level 7. I had by-passed the turnstiles. I was inside the ground. I was ignored. I took the seat number from my ticket. I got away with it. In fact, the whole ground rose to applaud my entrance in the 17^th minute of proceedings.

Hell of a view I had too; only other times I’ve been up there I saw us beat Everton 6-2 on Good Friday 2002, draw 0-0 with Swansea in the Gary Speed memorial game and Brazil defeat Costa Rica in the Olympic football. Lots of teenaged lads in Stone Island and CP Company, even more parents and tiny bairns. Good atmosphere. Within five minutes, everyone was back on their feet to acclaim Ayoze Perez’s delicious backheeled opener; a goal almost as impudent as his precocious winner at West Brom that won Goal of the Month in November 2014. I’d missed Hayden’s early departure, but at least I saw Haidara in a black and white shirt for the first time since decimalisation was introduced.  He wasn’t up to much frankly, though neither were Barnsley. Happy to be in the Championship next year and becalmed in lower mid-table, they produced as supine a performance as you could imagine; witness the utter lack of marking for the second goal and inability to deal with a long punt down field for the last one. Their two efforts on target, both blocked admirably by Rob Elliott, brought scarcely a response from their fans, who only appeared to show passion when news of Brighton’s goal at Villa Park filtered through. They set off a flare; there were gestures thrown from both sides of the sterile line and the coppers hoyed out 2 from each end. That said, fair play to the sizeable number of Tykes who hung back to applaud our team at the final whistle.

Now I’ll admit to having been a dreadful curmudgeon for large stretches of this season, but I’ll hold my hand up and say I was delighted to be there when the title was won. You have to say they deserved it with the way they dug in and came back from the Easter Monday fiasco at Ipswich Town. The joy from the players is what made the day special for me; none of this sullen, job done, underplayed lack of emotion malarkey. Instead, they were leaping all over each other and generally giving Ponteland United Reserves a run for their money in the celebration stakes. Without wishing to deflect from the joy of the occasion, perhaps many of those players realise this is probably the best moment of their careers and it won’t get any better than this for a whole load of them.

In contrast, Rafa Benitez has had many better victories than this in the past and may well have several more in the future, whether on Tyneside or elsewhere.  Yes he’s done a decent job in assembling a squad to gain promotion, albeit in fairly mundane circumstances and playing prosaic football much of time. Yes he’s popular with the support, other than the lunatic fringe who demand the moon on a stick, but that wouldn’t be difficult considering the shower of shit we’ve had in the dugout since the utterly irreproachable Chris Hughton got the bullet. Yes he’s won the title, but to celebrate that fact is, as my friend Gary states, like George Orwell winning the People’s Friend letter of the week and hiring an open top bus.

Meanwhile, talking of authors, both Mark Douglas and Martin Hardy have 2016/2017 season diary cash-ins ready to roll from the presses with almost indecent haste.  Mark’s a great writer on a terrible paper, but I presume he’s been pressurised to come up with this volume of platitudes from the public domain. Surely he’d be happier watching his beloved Bradford in the play-offs? As far as Martin is concerned, it seems both contrary and opportunistic for Martin to abandon his chronological accounts of Newcastle United from the mid-90s for the sake of a single campaign narrative. Then again, he’s a full time writer grubbing a living as a freelancer these days, so he needs to earn a crust. Also, it’ll give him another year to find a way of explaining in print about his exclusive that all the Muslim players at SJP were set to walk out when Wonga were named as sponsors.  Let’s just remember what happened again. Perhaps we can even discuss the ramifications of Newcastle’s supposed new sponsorship deal with a Chinese on-line gambling firm. Now that is something I find morally abhorrent. I’ve never bet in my life and don’t intend to start, but the club who have done such good things with the NUFC Food Bank initiative ought to give bookies a wide berth, as they cause untold misery for millions in their thrall; not just the unemployable and workshy either, but the likes of that little shit Joey Barton. Mind any sympathy I had for his plight disappeared when I learned he’d been betting against the club that covered his backside when he was in chokey. A character as complex and detestable as Paul Gascoigne; he’ll never eat Greggs in this town again.

Despite the premature adulation for Benitez (thanks again Gary), I have to say personally I regard him as only being marginally in credit for what he’s achieved since his arrival on Tyneside. You can balance this title with the inability to get more than 2 points from games at the end of last season against Villa, Norwich and the Mackems. The club record 14 away wins this campaign are offset by having the double done over us by play-off hopefuls Fulham and Sheff Wed, not to mention relegated Blackburn.  The inability to come back from going behind in several games, compared with the indomitable spirt of the Norwich (H) and Brighton (A) games. A stuttering start and a triumphant finish to the season. Yin and yang all over the park. Statistics can be manipulated to suit any argument: Newcastle gained more points this time than Keegan’s cavaliers, but less than Hughton’s roundheads. Most wins and most goals in the division, but more home losses than in the previous 3 promotion campaigns combined. Perhaps we ought to take comfort from the fact the single most irrefutable statistic is that Newcastle United obtained more points than any other side in the division in the campaign just ended. However, the nagging question is always there in the back of your mind; what happens now?

The day after promotion was achieved, HMRC were up at Darsley Park going through the books with a fine-toothed comb, looking for where les corps are buried from the era of Francophilic folly. Social media went into a frenzy of lurid claims relating to forced relegation and points deductions when Lee Charnley had his collar felt and so did Sylvain Marveaux; the latter for presumably impersonating a footballer. I’m glad I wasn’t le gendarme charged with running the anonymous winger in, as he’d spent so little time on the pitch I wouldn’t have been able to recognise him if he’d been shredding cheque book stubs in front of me.  As ever, the storm has blown itself out. Things might happen and charges could follow, but not for a while and nothing I’d imagine that will discomfit the NUFC playing side of operations, which is where we should have our gazes firmly fixed.

Looking at the squad list, other than Atsu’s loan spell ending, we’re in the situation whereby only Sammy Ameobi, Vurnon Anita and Yoan Gouffran are out of contract. Sammy must surely have miskicked his final ball for us, though the latter two players have had their best seasons with us (Big Vurn’s performance against Preston notwithstanding), on account of being coached and trained properly for a change. If they were to leave, it will be with the best wishes of all supporters who understand how football is played, rather than the mindless radgies who believe the ideal NUFC player is a cross between Jimmy Nail and Skeletor.

Before we even begin to think about new signings, there are those who’ve been away on loan to consider: Krul, De Jong, Saivet and Riviere from the first team squad, as well as Armstrong and Woodman from the fringes. Of the questionable quartet, the only one whose return wouldn’t fill me with dread would be Saivet, as I simply haven’t seen enough of him to hold him in utter contempt, yet. Perhaps we can trust Rafa’s judgement in this instance.

Looking at the signings he made last summer, obviously Gayle, Ritchie, Clark and Hayden have been unquestioned successes and I’d be happy for them to be in a Premier League squad, if not first names on the team sheet every week. Hanley and Murphy haven’t put a foot wrong either, but I wonder if they have the attributes for the top division. I hope Yedlin has, but he needs to add more steel to a game based entirely on explosive pace. Diame has let himself down with an infuriating number of under par performances and I doubt Rafa will be forgiving or sentimental enough to give him another season at the club. Meanwhile Lazaar, Gamez and Sels simply are not good enough; they must be moved on.

And what of those players Benitez inherited who remain at the club? Perez, so harshly and unfairly berated, is still a jewel and must remain. Shelvey has shown us what he can do, but he needs a creative partner. Elliott and Darlow are solid and steady; I trust them both. So too Lascelles, who has played through the pain barrier and Dummett; unfairly castigated for the crime of being a local lad. I don’t believe Rafa is convinced by Mbemba, good player he may be, or Haidara, who hasn’t really progressed in over 4 years.  Aarons is a low-carb Nile Ranger who needs bulleting, as does the woeful Serbian Whitehurst who, if retained, will get more red cards than goals in the top flight.

If you’re asking me to give you a list of suggested signings, you’re out of luck. In all seriousness, it is time for the fans to relax and enjoy the silence, while Benitez negotiates with Ashley. I have no doubt that Rafa is fully aware of who and what he needs for next season, while Ashley remains as enigmatic as ever. If the capricious billionaire plays nicely, the club will march forwards, but if he doesn’t the repercussions for the club will be frightening. Newcastle United need Benitez far more than the other way round; if Ashley doesn’t give him a sizeable transfer budget, Rafa could easily walk into another major club job tomorrow.

Were that to happen, the question of who would replace him would be almost immaterial as whichever crawling sap took over the job, they would struggle not just to keep us up with the current squad, but to emulate Derby’s 12 point haul of 2007/2008.