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Blackburn Rovers 2-4 Newcastle United AET (FA Cup) 15/01/19 - post game p32


BlueStar

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I actually opened the threat to mention him, i always thought he put in a steady shift whenever called upon but yesterday showed why we can't really count on him much long-term, once Blackburn recognized that he was the weak link they started targeting him and he was unable to cope with their long balls and physicality, hopefully it was just an off night and he will do better next time.

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The No-Hope Express trundles out of Tyneside on Tuesday afternoon, a flotilla of cars and coaches peeling onto the A1, fuelled by petrol and diesel, by Haribos and cans, by whisky decanted into a plastic Coke bottle. We are the 2,000, the desperate and disenfranchised, the daft lads and lasses, the old and cynical, on this work day, this school night, chasing this curse, this joy, this crippling habit. Destination: Ewood Park. Destination: dismay.

 

Newcastle United are playing away in the FA Cup and Newcastle United have not won away in the FA Cup for 13 years; we slog across the Pennines beneath heavy wings. Since Mike Ashley became Newcastle’s owner in 2007, there have been just five victories in a competition which once defined the club, silver and shimmering, and now offers a different symbolism. A cold, fractured marriage with functional conversations about priorities.

 

It is ten days since the first, miserable, third-round match against Blackburn Rovers, a 1-1 draw in which Rafa Benítez, the manager, made eight changes and then said there is no “realistic chance” of winning the tournament. It is 50 years since there was a trophy of any significance to celebrate, 64 if you’re talking domestic football and this latest incarnation of the club is riven by dispute; its ambitions truncated, its squad stretched and under-resourced. Relegation is to be avoided.

 

Jackie Milburn, one of the club’s greatest players, wrote that “tradition dies hard in football. That’s why everyone always expects Newcastle United to do well in the FA Cup.” That was 1957, two years after Milburn’s team lifted the old pot for the third time that decade, but this is 2019 and tradition is euthanised. What we cling to is turning up, so we queue outside the Fernhurst pub, across the road from the stadium, an hour before kick-off, jostling and belching.

 

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

 

Beneath the Darwen End, sipping from a plastic cup, Alex, in his 30s and from North Shields, talks about the ties that bind, the ties that are unravelling. “This feels like the last-chance saloon,” he says. “I might not get to another FA Cup game for a long time. If Ashley is still in charge at the end of the season ...” His voice trails off. Behind him on the concourse, the dafties are singing and bouncing, filming each other, drinks spraying. You can smell the beer and Bovril.

 

“We are the Geordies. The Geordie boot boys. And we are mental. And we are mad ...”

 

Benitez has named his team; eight changes again. Newcastle had a late kick-off at Chelsea last Saturday, when they dropped into the Premier League bottom three and this weekend it is Cardiff City, a pivotal league match. Players are shuffled. It is partly understandable and partly heartbreaking, a gilded manager who came to St James’ Park as a Champions League winner now fretting about the fitness of journeymen before a shitty little game against Captain Brexit.

 

“I dunno,” Alex says. “In some ways, if it was a full team I’d be less inclined to be here. The young lads actually need our support.” Does he feel anything about the Cup? Can anybody? “A little bit,” he says. “If nothing else, it’s a break from the fear and threat of relegation. I actually enjoyed the first ten minutes of the first game against Blackburn, not having to worry about other people’s results.”

 

“Ra-fa, Rafael. Ra-fa, Rafael. Ra-fa, Rafael, Rafael Benítez.”

 

Up the steps to row 18, seat 13, past the woman in high-viz, all helpful and smiles, as if in sympathy for the lonely bereavement to come. She knows. We all know. We are in a corner, the away end stretching to the left, home fans in front and to the right. A young boy, a bairn, is clambering up behind, five fingers encased in his dad’s hands, the others around a silver cut-out of the Cup. Poor kid. Poor little bastard. Wonder if he’ll even get ten minutes of happine....

 

YES! HAPPY-YES! One up after one minute! The other end of the pitch and difficult to tell and a deflection but ... Sean Longstaff. One of the young lads! There are people still filing in. Who scored? What happened? Checking their phones and tickets, searching for where they’re meant to be and there are bodies and arms flailing and nobody is sitting down, everybody is standing, but a decent start, this, even if Newcastle are playing on the counter and not keeping possession ...

 

Another! What? In the mid-distance again, but Callum Roberts, another kid, great volley. And we’re winning 2-0 and Jesus! A boiling, seething, bruising mass of limbs, ow, a half-punch to half of the crotch. And throats are open and the noise is swelling ...

 

“Who’s that team we call United...?”

 

“Get out of our club, get our of our club, you fat Cockney bastard, get out of our club.”

 

“Ra-fa, Rafael ...”

 

And some of our dafties have spotted some Blackburn dafties, a group of lads huddled together and perched in the next stand and there’s some waving and goading and smiling and some wanker signs and some Vs and one of them has this magnificent hair, an old-fashioned microphone of tight, blonde curls piled high on his scalp and aye, he looks a bit like, I mean not much, obviously, but a bit like ...

 

“Oh Coloccini, You are the love of my life, Oh Coloccini, I’ll let you shag my wife, Oh Coloccini, I want curly hair too ...”

 

And this is alright, this. This life. This madness. It’s alright. This is why we do it. For this. This feeling, this energy, this brightness, this adrenaline, this craic. These fleeting moments beneath the lights. Because like Alex said, these away days are when you still feel that “unity and togetherness, because there’s nothing like seeing Newcastle win away,” and then, of course, it’s 11 minutes later and Blackburn get one back and a single piercing voice ...

 

“BOLLOCKS.”

 

It’s Adam Armstrong, which means — improbably — that all three goals originated from Newcastle’s Academy and that’s weird, and he doesn’t really celebrate and it’s still 2-1 and the dafties all shake their hands in mock excitement at the Blackburn dafties who are jumping up down. It’s okay, although, if we’re honest, Newcastle have controlled the scoreline rather than the game and now it’s 2-2 and now it’s half-time and now Ciaran Clark is injured and f*** this. Just f*** it.

 

People sit down. Or they troop down the gangway for a piss and a pint. A bloke in a business suit — who is erring on the large side — is doing the same in the home stand and he gets the treatment and he’s loving it, milking every step. He’s bowing and saluting and he’s waving and he’s laughing and he’s really getting it from the dafties now and there are others as well, but it’s scattergun and going through the motions.

 

The second-half is much quieter. You can pick out individual conversations, individual exclamations, and songs take much longer to stick and grow. We know this feeling. We know how it goes. Jamaal Lascelles has come on for Clark, but he’s immediately struggling, feeling his hamstring, limping and hobbling, but he won’t go down for treatment - what’s he doing? - and so he stays on. “Ah, for f**** sake, man,” and Rafa, look at Rafa, he’s going ballistic on the touchline.

 

“Ra-fa Rafael, Ra-fa Rafael ...”

 

Isaac Hayden replaces Lascelles, finally, but Hayden is struggling too and so is Fabian Schar, and Newcastle are already without Paul Dummett, Jonjo Shelvey and Mo Diame through injury, while Ki Sung Yueng and Yoshinori Muto are away at the Asian Cup and they’re dropping like flies and this is now officially a disaster. This club, man. This is what happens when you have an owner too blind and arrogant to invest ...

 

“Get out of our club, get out of our club ...”

 

It’s only going one way, this; one way via the diversion of extra-time and then penalties, almost certainly. That is what football does and because Rafa didn’t want an extra game, he got an extra game and he definitely didn’t want extra-time, so he’s got extra-time, and then injuries just for another kick in the balls and we are the 2,000 and if we’re used to anything, it’s a kick in the balls. Then the A1 will be closed. Then Cardiff will beat us. And we’re going down.

 

But we are the 2,000 and at least the team are trying and they’re not very good, but they’re trying ...

 

“Ra-fa, Rafael ...

 

“Get out of our club, get out ...”

 

The third goal for Newcastle came in extra-time and gave fans a reason to cheer

The third goal for Newcastle came in extra-time and gave fans a reason to cheer

 

JOSELU?! Was that Jos ... Joselu has f****** scored? And it’s ... shit ... my back ... where’s my phone, my programme ...? Limbs, thrashing limbs, arms, limbs, a leg, how can there be a leg, more arms, lots of arms, f*** those elbows, I’m really worried about that leg, was it attached to a body, arms, arms, arms ...

 

“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 are the Geordies, the Geordie boot boys ...”

 

And now it’s Ayoze Perez, who gets some stick, and he’s holding his hands behind his ears and fair play to him, because he’s scored and that’s that, 4-2, we’ve won this, even though we’re bedraggled and up against it and shit and there’s three lads standing on the barrier above the exit and they’re clapping and pumping their fists up and they’re using their fingers to show the score and there’s a fella behind with both arms in the air and he’s shouting, really shouting ...

 

“WHO’S THAT TEAM WE CALL UNITED ...?”

 

And the Blackburn fans are leaving now, draining from Ewood Park, and they’ve done well and fought hard, but our dafties are waving them from the ground, ushering them out, and their dafties are waving back and everybody’s waving and they’re pretending it doesn’t matter and we’re pretending it was never in doubt and we’re all waving, f****** waving, as if we’re all at a waving convention and ...

 

“Is there a fire drill, is there a fire drill ...?”

 

And they’ve done it and we’ve done it, and we applaud and they applaud and it doesn’t happen enough, but this club man, this club, and so it’s Watford at home in the fourth round and we’ve not gone beyond the fourth round under Ashley, so it’s a waste of time and it’s a waste of energy and Rafa will rotate again and we’ll go out and we’ll go down and Rafa will go and Ashley will stay, but we’ve beaten Blackburn, we’ve actually won away.

 

And we’re back in the car and we’re back in the coach and there’s a can to be opened and sleep to be had and we’re in the fourth round (don’t say it) and you never know (don’t say it) and if we beat Watford (we won’t) but if we do (we won’t) it’s the fifth round (don’t say it) and then you never know (we do) but you never really know (we do know) and if we could only win (don’t say it) then we could be something (we can’t).

 

And the No-Hope Express is back on the road, beery and hanging and comatose and energised and everything in between. Newcastle won away in the FA Cup and we were there, like we always are. And maybe we’ll stay up and maybe Rafa won’t walk and maybe this interminable takeover will actually happen and maybe, just maybe, but the thought trails away ... Set the Sat Nav. Destination: home. After that: who the f*** knows.

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