Saturday morning and Sunday afternoon: a Mag’s marathon weekender

Seconds after this Newcastle United fan stumbled off the overnight Flixbus service from London at 5.26am, I nearly stepped into the biggest puddle of paint ever seen on the corner of John Dobson Street and New Bridge Street.

I wouldn’t have been the first late-night or early-morning pedestrian to do the white sole shuffle. About half the 10-litre tub had been spread north, south and west along the pavement, within a long throw of the Laing Art Gallery. If the instantly installed street art had been applied with aerosols, I would have suspected Banksy had made a nocturnal trip to the Toon. The source of this exhibit was more prosaic than artistic, however. Just another example of Friday night fun and frolics in the nation’s self-proclaimed party capital.

Having gingerly avoided the spectacular mess, presumably left by the Boys from the White Stuff, I headed for Northumberland Street and something to eat or drink in the drizzly half-light of pre-dawn.

This former section of the A1 has been traffic-free for years, though it still carries reminders of my childhood. Fenwicks, now a proud sponsor of Newcastle United, stands on the left if you are heading towards the Mucky Angel aka the South African War Memorial, an imposing tribute to those from Northumbrian regiments who died in the Second Boer War. The back of the rebuilt Central Library, which has replaced a favourite haunt of this former young fogey, was visible to the right.

But what’s this moving swiftly towards one of the small, square planting beds that give sustenance to trees in the middle of the thoroughfare? It’s a rat; and a sizeable one at that. I’m no multilinguist. A bit of French, a bit of Spanish, that’s about it. For some reason, I shouted “smorgasbord!” The nimble rodent didn’t even look my way. Totally blanked me.

No words for your humble correspondent from The Mag, eh? That was particularly galling, because Mr Rat had found the time last week to give the BBC a lengthy interview, in which he stated his move from Tyneside to Merseyside was an “easy decision”. Despite his discourtesy, I look forward to our next reunion . . .

Having avoided the paint and the local wildlife, I had little option but to visit a well-known fast food emporium, one of the few cafes offering a round-the-clock service with seating in our fair city. It was warm, welcoming and secure. Two security guards on the door discouraged ne’er do wells.

I sampled a “sausage sandwich” from the breakfast menu: a flat disc of what was presumably porcine-based with a slice of something yellow, flavour indeterminate. The highlight, apart from the friendly and efficient service, was the brown sauce. It added a certain piquancy where there had been none in the meat, the cheese or the bread.

When the patient assistant behind the counter asked: “Red sauce, brown sauce or no sauce?” I immediately thought of Danny Baker and his Saturday morning shown on Five Live. Was she a fan of the veteran broadcaster, who was fired by the BBC more than once for ill-judged comments and tweets?

Best not go there, I decided.

Because caffeine gives me the shakes, I asked for and received a carton of near-boiling water, into which I dropped a very berry teabag from a German budget supermarket. As they liked to tell me in the Boy Scout cubs, “be prepared”.

By then the sun was trying to break through after heavy overnight rain, so I strolled down to the Central Station, intending to board one of the first trains to the coast.

What did Oscar Wilde say? “I can resist everything except temptation.” As the queue outside Greggs near platform one proved, Mr Wilde was no fool.

I decided to honour the former Newcastle United manager known forever in my mind as Steve Brassica. It had to be a steak bake and a large hot chocolate.

The perfectly reasonable excuse for a second light breakfast before 7am was I had forgotten, while in McDonald’s, to take the four morning tablets intended to prevent any repeat of my September 2016 cardiac infarction. Goodness, the tenth anniversary of my minor heart attack and I felt as fit as a fiddle.

Must be the healthy lifestyle. And the seven-hour-plus coach ride from London. Saturday’s pre-match ritual would, unavoidably, involve sampling some alcohol with old friends, so I decided to get my retaliation in first, Dirty Leeds style.

After alighting at Cullercoats, I strolled energetically to Beverley Terrace and headed for Tynemouth Longsands. Speaking non-scientifically, one stride on the beach is worth at least two on the prom, probably three, so I must have done almost the equivalent of the Great North Run by the time I returned from Front Street.

It’s important to know one’s limits, mind. I felt no inclination to join the dozens of beach yoga exponents (or was it pilates?) being put through their paces by a no-nonsense instructor. They obviously all thought it was worth the effort; otherwise they wouldn’t have bothered driving to and from the pre-9am session, before parking charges kicked in . . .

That little stretch along the prom to the Rock Of Gibraltar (not open early enough} from the top of the steps at the southern end of Longsands is a surprisingly steep climb.

Small wonder I couldn’t refuse the offer of a third light breakfast, this time from my former schoolfriend Paul, whose house overlooks Cullercoats Bay. Smashed avocado, seasoned with salt, pepper and chilli flakes on seeded sourdough from the top-notch Sustenance bakery. What’s not to like: it was tasty, healthy . . . and free! Did I help myself to a banana? Probably. Washed down with more very berry tea from Paul’s branch of that German discounter. He wasn’t an accountant for nothing, you know.

Toby the black lab needed his morning constitutional. More walking. My calves were starting to ask “what’s occurring?” with a Barry Island twang.

Then we headed to the Metro, meeting Danny the engineer on the way. After a couple of hours in his company, I decided he would be well worth including in a quiz dream team; full of interesting trivia.

He knew plenty about Victoria Tunnel in Byker, where Paul had attended a gig on Friday. I have to point out, however, that Danny exaggerated the length somewhat: typical man. It was a mere two-and-a-quarter miles, running from Leazes Main colliery in Spital Tongues to riverside staithes when coal was king.

Having opened in 1842, it has outlasted the mine it was built to serve, which closed only 18 years later. In World War Two the tunnel was repurposed as an air raid shelter and the Byker section now serves as a music venue.

First stop for pre-match drinks was the Firebrick Brewery Tap in Grainger Market, where Big Nige eventually joined us after yet another fouled up morning on the trains. He is truly the Reggie Perrin of the Toon Army.

By the time we reached Bar Loco, a two-minute walk from the Leazes End turnstiles, the team news was out. Last Monday, at Elland Road, Elanga and Ramsey became unavailable before kick-off. Then Gonzalez was forced off.
On Saturday we discovered the injury curse had struck Livramento. One over the eight on the sick list. The whole nine yards. What’s more, the continued absence of big characters such as Burn and Joelinton denies the starting line-up the invaluable experience that can turn a defeat into a draw, a draw into a victory.

There was a distinct lack of optimism from Terry, Mike, Gowa, Jill, Jimmy, Annie and the rest of the usual suspects. Heading into a break of 23 days, the difference between five points from four games and eight points from five looked monumentally important.

Three hours later, sitting in The Head Of Steam opposite the Central Station, the sense of pride and relief was palpable. Some players had been better than others, with Hall and Willock attracting most nominations for man of the match, but every last Mag had put in a shift.

The two assists by Barnes in the first seven minutes disproved the theory that he’s most valuable as an impact sub. Guilty, m’lud.

Fernandez-Pardo continually sprinted to put pressure on the keeper, helping United to regain possession in the opposition half at least six times. Until he predictably went down with cramp on 72 minutes, he formed the first line of defence.

Wissa got stick for his penalty failure. What should also be noted was his vital block near the goal-line in the frantic final minutes when Hull City were camped in our territory.

I’ll spare you most of the post-match travelogue, except to mention nearly all the evidence of street art had vanished when I boarded the Flixbus back to London at 11.25pm. Just a few white smudges on the pavement.

The return leg took less than six hours and I slept soundly for nearly all of it. Sunday afternoon was spent watching and following the four remaining Premier League matches before the long break. Match-week five, as I believe it is called, included defeats for Chelsea, Spurs and Arsenal, in that order. Three cheers! Liverpool left Dorset with a fortunate three points after the Iraola derby, while Man City showed they are still vulnerable by conceding three to the Mackems despite defeating them.

The Salfords fluked a draw at Craven Cottage with a deflected late, late goal. All of which means, after the first month of Jaissle’s reign, we stand ninth, only one point short of a Champions League berth. Sunderland, burdened by a Uefa competition for the first time since the previous millennium, are four points and five places behind us.

As we all know, the table doesn’t lie . . . Have I gone too big, too early?

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