Grim-iver’s Travels


Saturday 27th April.
I Set off to go and take in the spectacle of a match at St James’ Park involving my beloved Newcastle United and The Forever Victims/ Cannibal Clan who eat from the bin, Liverpool FC. The exhaust started blowing on the motor. I should have known right there and then that the day was not going to go well. So me and pumpy Clyde (the Mrs named him) rattled on down the M62 and up the A1 headed home.

Other than an idiot in a Corsa trying to wipe me out, the trip was pretty uneventful. Got to Teg’s house dumped the car and headed off into the Toon. Due to my umming and ahhing I missed the boat on booking a hotel or anything so I had no digs and was looking at an afternoon out, the match and then a few hours in the evening all with no ale. Not my best decision, but still, I could cope with it, anything for the chance to see the team stride out on the hallowed turf and meet a few of the twitterers I have been chatting to for the last year or so. All good eh? I’ll cut to the chase, met the guys, brilliant, went to the match took my seat. The next 70 minutes were like being circumcised and then castrated without any anesthetic. Our formation as it was, in a phrase coined by Teg, 4- Squiggle- Scribble. I have never seen such a disorganized shower of shit in my life. Now I haven’t watched MOTD of MNF because I can’t stand to look, but from the stands we were diabolical. Everybody was out of position and ball chasing, but not closing men down or playing into space or at times even looking. Tiote appeared to give a shit, but even that was a temporary affair. 2-0 at the end of the first half and I still believed, I believed Pardew would give them the hairdryer and gee them up and we would still be in with a shot of getting something from the game. That first 10 minutes after half time we give them a right good blasting, we were all over the pitch and dominating(ish).

And then someone scored, and it wasn’t us. And that was it, we fell apart quicker than a house of cards in an earthquake. Complete and utter capitulation. When number 4 went in, Teg was just on the verge of leaving, when 5 went in, I was on my way out of the ground. I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t watch while fucking Liverpool gave us such an ass fucking you could have mistaken our collective arseholes for the Tyne Tunnel. Oh and singing “He bite’s who he likes’ about Suarez, you dirty classless fuckers.

Outside the ground it was quiet. Nah it was silent except for traffic, it was odd. Then a roar went up, had we managed to at least do something redeeming and score? No, that was Debuchy getting sent off. Which leads me on to the referee. He was as useless as we were, king of the card and mostly for no good reason other than he wanted to show who was in charge, which incidentally appeared to actually be the linesman. I don’t think a good ref would have made that much difference to the result, but it was just another example of the piss poor performances that referee’s have been giving all season. I’m sure next weekend he will be relegated to the lower league’s like the others who made an arse of themselves, and good riddance to him.
Anyway I digress, I’m strugglingto convey how everyone I met straight after I left felt. Shocked, stunned, disbelief I don’t think even come close, it was more like the instant onset of Post Traumatic Stress. Men, women boys and girls all shuffling along with that 1000 yards stare, silent, lost in the horrors of what they have witnessed. In one of the best places in the world for banter, where laughter is never far away it must have been an hour before I heard anyone crack a joke or risk a giggle. I’ve never experienced anything like it or wish to again involving Newcastle United. There are plenty of articles doing the rounds about who was to blame and what is going on with the team, read them because I was left baffled and still cant form an articulate opinion.

Several more glasses of coke later and in the Berry, the only highlight of the day was seeing Teg on the big screen and poking fun at his 80’s style look of windswept hair and his bodywarmer, sorry I mean gilet. Then it was time to head home, the day couldn’t get any worse could it? Some dirty cow threw up on the bus back to Teg’s, and it stank the place out, dirty dirty dirty beast. After a bit of a natter it was time for me and pumpy Clyde to hit the road and get home, hopefully without the exhaust falling off, which thankfully, it didn’t, because I would have lost my shit entirely if it did.
And so it ended. 300 miles round trip. 13 hours out of the house, not a drop of alcohol passed my lips and I had to watch in disbelief as Newcastle United once again broke my heart. That’s the hardest part, they chew me up and spit me out and I still come crawling back for more. I’ll never understand why but I reckon a lot of you feel the same. As to where do we go now, I have no idea, all hope is gone at the minute the only thing we can do is get this horrid bastard of a season done and see where we stand.



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