The moon was full as I stood at a deserted bus stop in the damp of a misty May morning.
Wait a minute, maybe this was the moment for a bit of self-reflection. Or, in footballers’ parlance, time to take a good, hard look in the mirror after four consecutive defeats in the Premier League. Eddie Howe wasn’t the only one missing his sleep last Friday night.
Stat attack: 15 hours to St James’ Park and back on a packed coach with 65 Brighton fans; one hour 50 minutes at service stations; 04.50 depart, 00.30 return.
Most importantly, three much-needed points for Newcastle United, to the delight of this happy member of the West Sussex Toon Army.
Trains are my transport of choice from Worthing to Newcastle but with rail replacement buses and bumped up bank holiday fares I couldn’t resist a bonkers suggestion from The Mag editor to join the away fans on one of two services being run by Seagull Travel. Brighton and Hove Albion organised no official transport for the round trip of 700-plus miles, so a few passengers on my coach were also first-time Seagull customers.
Having decided discretion would be the better part of valour, I wore a non-football outfit of blue-and-white hooped T-shirt, blue patterned jumper and blue jacket, which I thought blended in beautifully with the various club tops the Albion supporters sported. The obvious bonus was it highlighted my baby blue eyes . . .
As well as this season’s Albion shirt, a few retro designs were on show, including the Skint Records classic that advertised a sponsor whose deal ended in 2008. In those pre-Amex, pre-Tony Bloom days, when Brighton were essentially homeless and on their uppers rather than on the up, Skint was an ironically fitting partner.
The cool and cloudy weather, which had obscured the first of May’s two full moons, became post-dawn sunshine long before our 08.00 stop at Peterborough services, by which time most of the slumbering fans were ready for breakfast.
When we left an hour later, the last of my picnic provisions (six mini pork pies and two tomatoes, the classic balanced diet) were nowhere to be seen without the aid of an endoscopy.
Back on the coach, the atmosphere was less than raucous. Prominent signs pointed out alcohol was forbidden by law, which might have helped to explain the lack of fervour. Perhaps things are different when the Seagulls face the Eagles in south London at the A23 derby.
A minority of one is by no means an unfamiliar position for your correspondent, so I declared my allegiance as our coach cruised up the A1M. This openness was not exactly an act worthy of the Victoria Cross: a steward was on board and the passengers ranged in age from 12 to 80-plus. Seagull Travel also forbids aggressive behaviour and intemperate language. Nobody seemed that bothered at the interloper in their midst.
Because Barrack Road, where the coaches park, is closed two hours before kick-off, there was always going to be time for a drink or two pre-match. We trundled past Washington services just after midday but the driver then took a scenic route, only 100 yards from the Angel of the North and through Low Fell, presumably to avoid MetroCentre congestion.
A big canvas sign near the river caught my eye: “Goodbye Flyover, Hello Future”. How many Mags wanted to replace the second word with “Howe”, I wondered.
Crossing the Tyne Bridge afforded an excellent view of Level Seven — “Look, that’s where you lot are going!” — and the Norman castle after which our magnificent city is named. Those foreign footballers’ Wags who prefer Harvey Nicks in Manchester or London to the delights of Tyneside clearly lack the foresight of Robert Curthouse, William the Conqueror’s son.
Unwilling to park up much before 13.00 hours, the driver then took us alongside the Town Moor — “to your right, Shearer’s cattle” — and back into the city centre. The steward made one last attempt to rouse the supporters as we pulled up but his “Up the Albion” cry was trumped by a far louder “Howay the Lads” shout from the rear seats. No microphone required . . .
Finally, a little bit of a response: “You’re bloody walking home!” though you could tell their hearts weren’t in it. I think.
A couple of pints with the lads and lasses in Bar Loco, many of whom were less than impressed with King Eddie’s line-up. “Willock again, WTF” was a common theme. I was in a minority of one, again.
As for the match, I felt it could easily have ended 7-5, though an ugly 1-0 home win would have done just fine. Little Joe had a good hour, barring one shocker of a pass, in my opinion. Osula justified his selection ahead of much more expensive teammates, Burn was excellent, Big Joe was a manic Duracell bunny.
The first goal, started by a Pope throw, was notable for some accurate first-time passing and a superb cross by Murphy. Our £10m striker made the header look easy but his clever movement to wrongfoot the highly rated Van Hecke shouldn’t be underestimated.
There was a lot of focus on Verbruggen’s slip but players losing their balance is becoming commonplace. Is it the pre-match and half-time watering of the surface? Is it the change in pitch structure, with artificial grass being blended with traditional turf? Probably a combination of the two. I cannot remember the last time I saw a proper divot in a Premier League match.
Before the opener, Hinshelwood forced a good low save to his left by Nick Pope and Baleba hit the top of the bar with a fierce 30-yarder. Those two were probably the only Albion players to do themselves justice.
Their young manager favours a quicker, more direct style than some of his predecessors, which caused United plenty of anxious moments, but thankfully the finish was lacking. At least in the first half.
Burn showed how to score with a perfect glancing header into the Gallowgate End net from Bruno’s left-wing corner and the mood among supporters around me in the East Stand was, at that stage, as bright as the weather.
Pope’s errant kicking allowed Brighton to hit the woodwork a second time. They were unlikely to be as poor after the interval, which was why Thiaw’s failure, before it, to bury an easy chance was worrying. United have been woeful at retaining a 1-0 lead this season and we all know 2-0 is “a dangerous scoreline”.
So it proved, with Hinshelwood capitalising on another poor Pope clearance by capping a swift move that cut through our defence far too easily. Welbeck didn’t score and made little impact but his first-time assist for the young Brighton midfielder was top class.
Chances came and went for both teams in the final 35 minutes. Minteh, whose performance against his ex was the polar opposite of Burn’s against his ex, should have equalised at the far post after Brighton attacked down their left flank. The reluctance or inability of Barnes to help Miley was in sharp contrast to the substituted Murphy’s doubling up.
As ever, Howe waited until we had lost the initiative, if not the lead, before making any changes. By then, the mood had also altered. Nervous groans had replaced joyous chants.
Hall for the tiring Willock gave us extra fluidity on the left and allowed Burn to form a central three at the back. Wissa for the tiring Osula allowed our struggling striker to showcase his unfortunate ability to squander good, nay great chances.
Redemption was not long delayed, however. When Wissa chased a ball into the Milburn corner at the Leazes End and outwitted a floundering Van Hecke, St James’ Park roared. Cutting in, Wissa avoided Verbruggen’s second costly bout of rush-goalie. The crowd roared again.
The keeper might have touched the ball but it fell perfectly for Barnes to showcase his priceless ability to take good chances. Two caresses of his right foot to confound Verbruggen, then a left-footed rocket fired past two defenders and into the roof of the net to seal the points.
A stoppage-time goal that delivered joy and relief rather than misery. A more than welcome change after witnessing four consecutive single-goal defeats. A return coach journey to relish rather than regret.
Because the driver wanted a swift departure and with the “he’s walking home” joke fresh in my mind, I didn’t linger to applaud the players. Funnily enough, there were loads more home fans hanging around than after the Sunderland and Bournemouth matches. What’s that line? Success has many fathers, failure is an orphan. To which I would add: a friend in need is a friend indeed.
We left Barrack Road at 17.19, the minute the gates lifted. No Tyne Bridge to savour this time, except by looking east as we headed south.
The stop at Leicester services little more than three hours later gave me the chance to canvass a few views from Brighton fans. “You can have Minteh back for nowt, mate,” was a popular opinion. “Burn never played that well for us,” was another. Verbruggen and Van Hecke got a lot of stick. As did the Albion manager, who apparently always replaces Baleba in the second half for no good reason.
I cannot repeat a lot of the comments but the underlying theme is a common one among supporters: when we lose, it’s because we are rubbish (polite version). When we win, the team are brilliant. When we lose, the manager is a fool. When we win, he’s a genius. Rarely will the other team be given credit. The city of Brighton and Hove is the non-binary capital of England, except for football.
As for my overall impression after sharing 17 hours with their supporters: few of them seem to agree with Bill Shankly on the importance of football. They might love winning but do they hate losing? I don’t think so.