On the Tyneside - this club, man. These beautiful, bastard heartbreakers. This fucking club.

Discussion in 'Soccer Board' started by ochoseis, Nov 28, 2009.

  1. Tony Wonder

    Tony Wonder Well-Known Member
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  2. NineteenNine

    NineteenNine Divers are, in fact, wankers. It's science.
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  3. Shiggityshwo

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    ahh geez, my condolences guys
     
  4. JonathanCoachman

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    I’m sad for Newcastle fans and Almiron.
     
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  5. Andy Reocho

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    Little Longstaff :warn:

     
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  6. Tony Wonder

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    We don’t suck right now.

    2 wins in the next 4 would put us in really good shape.

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  7. Andy Reocho

    Andy Reocho Please don't get lost in the sauce
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    If the next match and results went our way, team could be 5th :roll:
     
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  8. Bay Bandit

    Bay Bandit Cabral Univirsity
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    I never, ever, know what to expect. But I will take the point.
     
  9. Tony Wonder

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    Steve Bruce - the English Rafa
     
  10. Andy Reocho

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    woah there
     
  11. Tony Wonder

    Tony Wonder Well-Known Member
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    you’re right. Rafa would have us in 17th right now.

    Not serious about any of this.
     
  12. Andy Reocho

    Andy Reocho Please don't get lost in the sauce
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  13. Andy Reocho

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  14. Shiggityshwo

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    basically you guys should just start watching from around the 80th minute from here on out
     
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  15. Andy Reocho

    Andy Reocho Please don't get lost in the sauce
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  16. Andy Reocho

    Andy Reocho Please don't get lost in the sauce
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  17. Andy Reocho

    Andy Reocho Please don't get lost in the sauce
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    ‘These beautiful, bastard heartbreakers. This fucking club’ – the maddening, inescapable beauty of the away end

    [​IMG]
    By George Caulkin 1h ago[​IMG] 8 [​IMG]
    Puke was spattered in the ladies’ toilet at 6.45pm; don’t ask me how I know. On this work night, this school night, our commitment is pebble-dashed on porcelain — this half-digested Scouse pie, these pints. A little while later, a lad bounces from a concession stand holding a foot-long hot-dog smothered in red sauce. Glancing down, his world swimming, he says “horse cock” to nobody. A cannonball in the belly. This is our commitment.

    This is Everton away and we are Newcastle United, the dispossessed and the disenfranchised, the pissed and the proud. We are the 1,500 black-and-white nomads who funnel past the stewards and the sniffer dogs through turnstile 56 into this wooden stand with its wooden seats on a Tuesday evening in January, the daft lads and lasses, the ald gadgies, the many. We have come to bear witness and to sing and drink and froth and spew.

    [​IMG]

    And when that goal goes in, that second goal, that equalising goal, that 95th-minute nonsense, we lose ourselves in ourselves. This is who we are, who we used to be: these flying limbs, this disbelief, these punches to the bollocks, the elbow in the back and that spinning forward, hauled back by the collar and the beery embrace, the team in front of us, that laughter and that madness of what’s possible, of how it feels to be lucky and what it might feel like to be good…

    “Who’s that team we call United? Who’s that team we all adore? Oh, we play in black and white and we all know how to fight, we’ll support you ever more…”

    We sing it and we sing it and we sing it, long after our dog-weary players have thrown their shirts at us and stumbled back to the dressing-room…

    “Who’s that team we call United…?”

    And we sing it and we sing it, tops off and spectacles smashed, long after Steve Bruce has walked halfway across the pitch to salute and wave…

    “Who’s that team we all adore…?”

    And we sing it and we sing on, long after the stewards corral us towards the stairs in the upper section of the Lower Bullens, with their “Come on lads, come on girls. It’s time to go home. We need to go home. Come on lads…”

    “Oh, we play in black and white and we all know how to fight…”

    And we stay put and we sing it, long after the stadium drains, serenading these old stanchions and pillars, wooing this emptiness as if there is nothing and nobody else but we and this moment…

    “We’ll support you ever more…”

    [​IMG]
    George Caulkin

    ✔@GeorgeCaulkin



    And still they sing ... this team. #NUFC


    897

    3:35 PM - Jan 21, 2020
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    And what about that lad in front, row G, seat 80-something, who swayed through the match, drunk and then drunker, whose game was a stream of “fucks” and “fuck offs”, of stumbling backwards and leaning sideways, propped up by his mate, who greeted the sight of the board going up saying four minutes of added time with a superhuman “FUCK THIS” and a dismissive swat, and then he was gone and he missed all of it.

    “Who’s that team we call United…?”

    And we’re still singing it as we pour down and through the turnstiles, the dafties deranged and the gadgies all cackling, out into the air where we dissipate and separate and suddenly, it’s quiet and all we have is this bedlam in our bosoms and a memory of elation which only football gives. We know we’re awful and we know we’re special; ordinary players and an extraordinary team.

    All you can think is: this club, man. These beautiful, bastard heartbreakers. This fucking club.

    Beneath the stairwell in the Bullens Road stand, the daft lads were hopping and banging, facing each other in a tight circle. The gates have just opened and the away end is filling and nobody knows what’s coming next except what always comes next: the banging and the singing and the boozing. We’re clutching bottles and plastic pots, chuntering and chatting, meeting friends, skim-reading the teams when they come through on Twitter.

    And because this is Everton, this is also Jordan Pickford, the England goalkeeper and a former Sunderland player and because Newcastle are Newcastle and Sunderland are Sunderland, and because we’re black and white and they’re red and white, our competing stripes of disillusion, the songs start early. And we always give Pickford stick and he always gives it back, and we sing about each other as much as ourselves, these ancient tribal mockeries.

    “Sad Mackem bastard, you’re just a sad Mackem bastard…”

    “Sunderland get battered, everywhere they go. Sunderland get battered, everywhere they go. Everywhere they go…”

    “Miggy Almiron, Almiron, Miggy Almiron…”

    “Hey, Shearer — ooh, aah — I wanna know, how you scored that goal…”

    “You fat cockney bastard, get out of our club…”

    [​IMG]

    We are upstairs and out now, the players finishing their warm-up and us clapping them off. We live in an era of austerity, of recalibrated meaning, but these lads are our lads. The season began with a boycott, 10,000 half-season tickets have been given away, Rafa Benitez is history and Bruce is here — but the great implosion predicted by many at the start of the season has not happened. We are still here, warriors of this lonely wasteland, somehow still here.

    We beat Chelsea last weekend and nobody understands, Isaac Hayden scoring in the 94th minute and Matt Ritchie lacing the corner flag into some bloke’s nuts. We beat Tottenham Hotspur and Manchester United, we drew 2-2 with Manchester City and nobody knows anything because we don’t touch the football, we’re not very good, we’re decimated by injuries and our strikers repel the net. The evidence is Himalayan, yet we scale the table.

    The game starts with Pickford at our end.

    “You laughed at us when we went down. Who the fuck is laughing now…?”

    “Oh when the Mags, go marching in…”

    There is some brightness here, a five-minute dash. Miguel Almiron is wriggling about, Joelinton is running and we’re singing, singing about how quiet it is …

    “Is this a library, is this a library…?”

    And a fella in the Everton stand is pointing back at us and above, to seats we once would have filled. And yeah, we returned some tickets but they do not get this austere half-existence, this rationing of pleasure, this limit on everything, with their boardroom largesse and stadium plans and Carlo Ancelotti. There is no empathy in either direction, no seeking out of context, just singing about libraries and our wanker signs and them pointing at our ghost supporters.

    My God, we’re shit. We are really shit. The brightness has dimmed and the dash has dashed off and we’re really labouring. There is nothing here. Nowt. And this is the other Newcastle, the Newcastle that loses to Norwich City and Aston Villa and Burnley, that draws at Rochdale, this forsaken side of nothing. We sing and we implore, we scream and we sing, but we know what this night is and it is everything but ours.

    Then, the noise stills. The needle drops on the barometer, the away end becomes a vacuum. It’s “Get into them, man” and “Get into these fuckers” and “Hit them” because you feel it, we all feel it. And then, the goal comes, Everton’s first, Moise Kean celebrating, and as soon as it goes in, you know it was always coming and you know there is no coming back from it. Not tonight, not playing like this. But we rally ourselves…

    “Who’s that team we call United? Who’s that team we all adore…?”

    And we stand and we sing and we swear and it’s “Come on Newcastle, man” and “Fucking hell” and “Fuck’s sake” and “Fight, man” and “Put your foot in” but our players’ feet aren’t dancing feet or soldiers’ feet — they are dozy feet and they are slow. We’re dreadful. We give the ball away. Every pass is lead. Joelinton is Joelinton again, too weak in possession, too passive without it, and this will get worse. This will only get worse.

    “Oh, Martin Dubravka…”

    Thank fuck for our goalkeeper. It should be two. It should be two again. So instead of two Everton goals or three, the daft lads lift two fingers at Everton fans and flick the Vs. Half-time has been and gone, crammed beneath the stairwell in this rickety edifice, and there are a lot of Pickford songs but it is Dubravka who takes the stage until the moment when he can do no more and Dominic Calvert-Lewin brings justice to the scoreline. We rally again.

    “Who’s that team we call United…?”

    “Sing when you’re winning; you only sing when you’re winning…”

    “We forgot that you were here…”

    “Hello, hello, we are the Geordie boys. Hello, hello, we are the Geordie boys. We’re gonna win fuck all this year, we’re going to win fuck all. We still follow United…”

    “You fat cockney bastard, get out of our club…”

    We recognise this game in every pore. And if you want to know something, if you really want to know us, this feeling of dismay is almost a comfort, an old friend. We hunker in and double down. “You’re just a shit Liverpool,” we sing and then, “Sit down if you shag your mam” — and of course all the Everton fans are sitting and of course all of us are standing and then one of them stands up and we laugh and he bows and that pretty much sums up this life.

    We seek out Pickford, at the other end of the pitch.

    “He’s only got little arms, he’s only got little arms. He can’t even touch the crossbar, he can’t even touch the crossbar…”

    [​IMG]

    You can feel it drifting, the game decomposing. We don’t like Calvert-Lewin, so we barrack him. We don’t like the decisions, so we pose a modern version of a very old question: “Who’s the fat c*** in the pink?” And now, Florian Lejeune is on for Ciaran Clark and Fabian Schar is on for Joelinton and suddenly, we’re playing with all the centre-halves in the world and eh? And what is this? What is going on? And Brucie, man, what the fuck?

    This game is dead. Extinct. There is no momentum, no flicker, no hope. Sometimes you can sense something but this is not one of those times and we are quiet now and the Everton lot are leaving, and so we wave them on their way and sing “We can see you sneaking out” but this is going through the motions and there are corpse-shaped spaces between our seats, too. And then, Lejeune gets one back, an overhead kick. But this is the end — the 94th minute — and we celebrate coolly.

    Everton restart. Nobody is paying much attention. The ball is given away and Newcastle win a free kick. Dubravka comes forward, then hangs back. What is this? Some of us are moving along the rows — time to go — but we stop and turn, looking to the far end of Goodison, not believing, scarcely daring, but we clear our throats and it’s just disparate and it’s “Howay lads” and “Come on”. No chance, no way.

    The ball goes up, pumped by Matt Ritchie, our little radgie, and Federico Fernandez is in space and what is this!? No, YES, no, YES! Fernandez smacks the post and then it’s Isaac Hayden thumping it forward and it’s hit someone and WTF!? What is this!? YES, no — and it’s Lejeune again and why is he even there!? But he hits it and it’s madness and then it’s in Pickford’s tiny arms and the game is still dead, except he’s behind the line and the players are all running at us. YES!

    And we are just a broiling sea and a din of voices and none of us know any of these facts — none of us know what’s happened — except the players are here now and they’re shaking their fists and they’re roaring, and we are battering and braying each other and they are our players and this is our Newcastle: our team, our United and none of this makes sense but we are here and we are singing, and for the smallest time, it makes the greatest sense of all.
     
  18. Andy Reocho

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  19. Tony Wonder

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    Here we go again.

     
  20. Andy Reocho

    Andy Reocho Please don't get lost in the sauce
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    Mike Ashley found one of the few ways he could get me to quit the club
     
  21. Andy Reocho

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    Bentaleb getting his debut
     
  22. Tony Wonder

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    This has legs...

     
  23. Andy Reocho

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    I don’t buy it at all. It’s from the Sun
     
  24. Tony Wonder

    Tony Wonder Well-Known Member
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    Just let me believe.
     
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  25. SugarShaun

    SugarShaun Was once confused for BuckeyeRiot
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    Weren’t you willing to sell to a Sheikh last page?
     
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  26. Andy Reocho

    Andy Reocho Please don't get lost in the sauce
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    I was willing to. I could be wrong, but MBS seems like a next level to a sheik
     
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  27. Tony Wonder

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  28. Andy Reocho

    Andy Reocho Please don't get lost in the sauce
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    Reading all the fans justifying MBS buying the club using Ashley's shitty record as a business owner(wages, etc) is blowing my mind.
     
  29. Andy Reocho

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    From Ornstein

    Former chairman leading Saudi bid to buy Newcastle

    Chris Mort, the former Newcastle United chairman, has been spearheading Amanda Staveley’s latest attempt to buy the club from Mike Ashley.

    Staveley and her PCP Capital Partners firm made three unsuccessful bids to purchase Newcastle in the winter of 2017-18, but she is now the figurehead of a consortium which features Saudi Arabia’s sovereign-wealth fund in a majority role. They value the club at £340 million.

    The Athletic understands that Mort, a partner at Freshfields Bruckhaus Deringer, the law company, has again been leading negotiations with Ashley’s associates, including Justin Barnes, the retailer’s trusted adviser.

    Mort spent a year as Newcastle’s chairman in the early days of Ashley’s ownership, leaving St James’ Park in the summer of 2008. He assisted Staveley in her previous efforts to complete a takeover of the club, which finally broke down when a source close to Ashley told Sky Sports News that talks had “proved to be exhausting, frustrating and a complete waste of time.”

    Then, as now, David and Simon Reuben, the property investors, were attached to the bid alongside Staveley. The family, ranked as the second most wealthy in the UK by the Sunday Times Rich List last year, represent 20 per cent of the consortium which, until recently, was known by the informal codename “Project Zebra”. The Reubens are reported to be worth £18.664 billion.

    It is the other 80 per cent which will cause both excitement and prompt controversy amongst Newcastle supporters and beyond, given the level of wealth connected to Saudi’s Public Investment Fund (PIF), which is chaired by Prince Mohammad bin Salman, the kingdom’s crown prince and the country’s chequered human rights record. It is thought that involvement by the Saudis is likely to be welcomed in government circles given the Conservative Party’s commitment to invest in the north following their recent General Election win.

    The Athletic has been told that initial talks between Staveley and Ashley’s inner circle stretch back to before the departure of Rafa Benitez as Newcastle manager last summer but, after a long period of due diligence, intensity has ramped up in recent days.

    It is not yet known whether the leaking of PIF’s involvement to the Wall Street Journal over the weekend will hinder or even scupper the bid, but Ashley has previously been irritated when dealings have become public.

    Staveley, 46, who was also involved in Sheikh Mansour’s purchase of Manchester City in 2008, has long thought of Newcastle as being ripe for a takeover.

    As part of her previous bid to buy the club, she had set aside a further £200 million, with at least £100 million to be made available to pay for new players over the first two transfer windows and the same again to upgrade the training ground and academy facilities.
     
  30. Andy Reocho

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  31. SugarShaun

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    Oh my god. He is a treasure.
     
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