I can’t remember my first Newcastle United game at St James’ Park.
I have a vague recollection of getting the bus from the Grange Estate, growing up in the little council estate next to Coxlodge.
What I do remember though is the walk up to the ground past the Trent House and then paying into the East Stand Paddock.
My two older brothers given the cash by my mam to get rid of the kids for an afternoon. Also at this match my best mate from over the road and a group of young teenagers from the estate.
This is the early seventies, so what other superhero is there than Supermac? What a player. The number 9 epitomised the seventies. I remember being awestruck by his presence on the turf and being so close to him and all the others.
When you are young you do not pick up on the notion of villains unless it is in cartoon terms. The villain of the seventies, who I did not realise at the time, was the man who sold Supermac. Gordon Lee.
Being so young I had no idea what was actually going on but selling a prize asset like a centre forward who bags loads of goals?
The next era was the eighties, late on in that decade it was Jim Smith and Mickey Quinn.
No longer a little kid dependent on older brothers to get me to the football. I was now grown up I thought, or was I just another daft teenager moving on in life to be a twenty-something idiot.
The build up to the first game of the 1989/90 second tier season was a strange one, revolution in the air and chants of sack the board. The idea of boycotting games being chucked around. But hell, the fat lad who we had overpaid Pompey for, smashed in the goals and was an instant hero. And it was against Leeds who had brought up decent support to Newcastle, which made it all the sweeter. What a signing and what a player.
The villain of the eighties for me though is not football related, well not quite.
Staying in a flat off Osborne Road and after a big Friday night I need to wash my jeans. I only possess one pair. Bought from Kensington Market second hand 501 vintage with red stitching. Fashion is crucial when you are this age. Standing on terracing in full view of critical eyes you need to be on top form and impressive.
However, when I wake up go to get my jeans for a Saturday of beer and Newcastle United, someone has stolen my prize fashion possession. My Redwing engineer boots and mint white Fred Perry ready to go but no kecks. I’ve been robbed.
I borrow my sister’s boyfriend’s incorrect size black denim jeans (hideous) and head for High Bridge to buy the Designer equivalent 501s, they have a native American on the label for anyone who has an eighties fashion interest.
To this day I hate that villain of the eighties who on a Friday night was looking over brick walls to rob a young lad of his prized clothing possession.