Over the last four years my love for almost everything to do with that club has diminished to a level where I resented winning, each point was another piece of paper over the cracks of mediocrity.
I disliked it because I knew he’d be happy, vindicated in his selection of runners and jumpers ahead of passers and players. Whatever your belief on this apparent torturous regime that prevented him from blossoming into the super-nobody manager he was before, then understand he was complicit in it all. Unsackable to the end despite performance.
That’s not to say I wanted us to lose, more that it had all become emotionless and irrelevant as we hurtled towards mid-table, joyless and drunk.
But without him I can already feel hope instead of the motions I was going through, I’d become a dial-it-in fan, done talking about the multitude of problems from boardroom to pitch. I struggled to criticise players because I wasn’t sure if they were that bad or simply the product of our other-era coach. It all became pointless.
It made discourse an inconvenience, selective breeding a group with which I could feel comfortable talking about our woes. ignoring those that believed he was the right man because their brain clearly worked differently to mine. I began to dwell on all that was wrong as they enjoyed the small victories. I should feel justified now, but there are those that remain in his corner despite the statistical shortcomings.
We’ve had debate about whether we’d prefer cup progress or a derby victory, a trophy or stay in the Premier League? I’ll take both please, like others before us. As it was we got none of these things. Concerns about Stevenage not playing midweek through to the curse of the Europa league, there was always an excuse with Alan that his honesty and thus his character was rightly questioned. It’s difficult to love a fool when they always lose at Fulham, as the saying goes.
It was never about being demanding through delusion, but always, always about wanting to be better than you currently are. You can’t win every game but you can try. It was the opposite with Pardew, we got pre-game excuses about preparation time and then wonder why the players looked liked they were excused. We got anything but belief in ourselves while he patted his own back. The atmosphere from St. James’ is as void as Gouffran’s position as we lazily wait for a bad refereeing decision to stir the viewers. He has wilfully participated in the deconstruction of Newcastle United to comply with the owner’s vision, a stadium that blinks in unison to his red and blue graffiti.
It just so happens he’s from London, he replaced another Londoner and we liked him. That myth is stronger today more than ever, even from local media who should know better, especially as that claim often sits alongside the 10 months, 12 months and 18 month bad spells we’ve had depending on when they think we sold Cabaye. Whatever their timescale for his poor run, none of these include the 12 months before that in which we nearly got relegated.
We didn’t choose him, just like we never chose or sacked any previous manager, and I’m not sure those defending him now were overjoyed with his appointment even though his record has changed little. For me, he’s actually worse than previously thought.
But the thought of him not being here is a beautiful thing. Whether or not we get that exciting, young, foreign coach to replace him can’t currently dilute the fact I care about winning again. Trophies are for those other teams, not us, but good or bad just give me something to shout about, because for two years I’ve been sleepwalking to this day.
Thanks for nothing Alan.
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