Paul Dixon has been following Newcastle United for more than 40 years, 17 of which have been as a season ticket holder in the Gallowgate End at St James’ Park. Each week in his column, he takes a wry look at all things football – from a black-and-white perspective.
THE retribution for having the temerity to get a couple of contentious decisions at Old Trafford didn’t take long arriving, did it?
Four minutes into the next match to be exact – hey ho, funny ol’ game eh?
Of more concern than dubious referees, though, are the injuries to Colo and Taylor. The paucity of our squad has been laid bare, and the regrets about the failure of the money men to seal more deals in the summer could make us pay a high price.
We played well in parts against a physically stronger, and more experienced, Chelsea – but that decision, while not costing us the match, had a great influence on the outcome.
The worry now, of course, is that once you get out of a long unbeaten streak, it’s doubly difficult to get back into it.
The St James’ Park tribute to Gary Speed seemed to be appropriate, and although I am not a supporter of the minute’s applause, the genuine affection we had for him shone through. A very sad loss.
This brings me tenuously to the ongoing war of clichés with Joseph Barton, the Bard of Tw*tterland.
This is getting into stalking territory here kidda, like an ex-boyfriend not accepting a break-up.
Consider this. You played for a then-middling club in Manchester, thriving in being a big fish in a static pond. The champagne and cigars flowed freely, sometimes into your own face, so you leave.
Barely was your case unpacked here, when City were bought by the richest family in the galaxy!
Never mind. New club, new manager with a decent budget, and a wage structure the envy of even banking institutions.
You promptly got relegated and banged up. You manage 15 appearances in the fizzy pop league to ‘help’ us go up, and all of a sudden you talk of deigning to grace another club, as long as they’re in the Champions League.
When given the boot from here, your ludicrous agent suggests suitors are throwing themselves at you. They transpired to be QPR and Stoke.
So you promptly sign for a club so small, they only have initials for a name. They even employ Kieron Dyer.
Give it up man, you’re a young, rich footballer. You have arrived in Utopia.
Just a thought, but have you ever considered that it isn’t everybody else, and that it’s you?
