Thursday evening, at the kind invitation of Blue Kipper to The Tent for the launch of Andy Gray’s new book and words from the great man himself. Wherein I imbibed not wisely but too well and enjoyed the food, wine and new attack-shtick of comedian Sean Styles. Time was when it was considered anathema for a stand up comic to attack his audience, but times and audiences have changed. Styles made merry at the expense of those hapless enough to make their way to the loo or the bar in midact while those with common sense stayed glued to their chairs hoping he wouldn’t wander their way wielding the microphone like a cosh. At times it almost seemed as though some punters were crouching below the tablecloth sheltering from incoming. There’s nothing new in the method – the first stand up comics I saw using this style were the Americans Shelley Berman and Lenny Bruce a hundred years ago. It’s a risky method but Styles was merciless, energetic and originally funny enough to carry it off.

When Andy delivered his speech it was to an audience he described as “The far side of forty,” which was accurate enough. But so is he. And if anybody thought commercial ruthlessness and opportunism started spontaneously with the creation of the Premier League, then not only are they living in cloud cuckoo land they better hear Andy’s story about how Howard Kendall bought him when – his words – he was “finished” and then transferred him out against his wishes when the manager brought in Gary Lineker. For which details you will have to read the book or get a friend to tell you.

Blue Kipper pulled off the coup of the evening when they got Our Hero to go along with the Legend Of The Cheese started off a few years ago by Mofo at a Hall of Fame do. But Lard failed dismally in an attempt to get him to diss the pinky Keys of Sky TV during question time. Also, once again Andy confirmed Peter Johnson never offered him the job of manager, though he would have taken it if offered after meeting to discuss the situation. Anyway, he settled for taking Murdoch’s increased shilling. It was all a might-have-been. Which means sensible people forget it and get on with their footy lives.

Meanwhile, possible groundshare has raised its head again with the news of a meeting with Richard Caborne next Wednesday. We’ve been over this issue so many times it gets to be tedious. However, I reiterate my own view that I am in favour of it IN PRINCIPLE and have been for a generation. But I am not in favour of sharing the present Stanley Park scheme as it stands and certainly would dismiss the alleged terms out of hand. Imbalance (if true) in favour of the pinkies should not even be on the agenda. Anyway, sharing was at the instigation of the leadership of City Council, a couple of agencies, and the pinkies themselves. So start again, find another site and develop that to mutual advantage with the addition of European and government grants. With the golden, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of Kings Dock long lost a groundshare is the best option for both us AND the pinkies, though Parry and co. must not be allowed to get away with distorted propaganda of cause and affect. As matters stand it is the worst of all worlds in this most emotional of all subjects. Only loony chauvinists can benefit from present suggestions. For us, anything less than Kings Dock is second rate. But the chances are increasing that what we might be stuck with will be even worse than second rate. And if it is, then we can abandon any pretence at a substantial increase in our prospects let alone possibilities.

If the groundshare doesn’t go ahead – and both sets of fans are clearly against it – then the pinkies proposals for themselves must succeed for the good of the city. We are already dangerously far behind other regions in provision of modern facilities.

But all that was far from my mind on Sunday. On Saturday I had watched gloomily as English rugby union lost narrowly to the dingo shaggers after a marvellous comeback, and then rugby league got roundly trounced by the same herd of lesser ex-convicts. It hurt. My phone promptly rang out of its cradle for twenty-four hours as assorted descendants of antipodean criminals (you know who you are, bastards) got their own back for the World Cup bouncing they took in their own back yard. In this mood I would support a unilateral nuking of Oz – but not before we set the balance right and work it up them again. Trust me, friends, it’s the ONLY way to talk to and deal with the Ozzies.

Actually, I wouldn’t have gone to Newcastle at all if Paul hadn’t phoned me during the week and offered a place in a car. The idea of going through the northeast nazi police travel routine by bus was long ago rejected by me in favour of civilization. So I thought I’d give it a go and see if the experience was any better.

Sunday morning, up at six a.m., cold, dark, faint mist of rain and away up the M58 to Wigan for the meet. It isn’t only the Ozzies who are crazy. I duly arrived outside Paul’s front door, rang the bell, and waited. And waited. I rang it again. Somewhere inside, distant voices, the rumble of unshod feet on carpeted timber floors, then Paul appeared in a blue dressing gown, bare feet and eyes like pee holes in the snow. The previous night had been long and intensely convivial for him and it showed. I was spoilt with a mug of hot coffee while he got off to shower and call Sean to pick us up in his super-duper silver Mercedes go-faster fast back, into which we all fell gratefully with the addition of young Michael. Then north on the M6 as the sun came up behind high clouds and spread a deep blue light everywhere. Eventually thin slivers of pale blue sliced through the clouds as they grew grey. Conversation ebbed and flowed, suprisingly bright for the early hour. Even Michael avoided the boredom all adolescents feel in adult company. We duly breakfasted on a full English (one of our few great contributions to world food) at a pleasant little services stop at Carlisle, and then set off east on the A69 across England’s thin waist, Hadrian’s Wall somewhere on the left and post-rain crystal clear air everywhere in the beautiful border countryside. Stone built farmhouses and terraces floated past. Christ it must be really COLD when winter gets a grip up there. The sun broke through and competed briefly with showers in an even contest. It was a superb ride in a beautiful piece of engineering.

After about three hours motoring, Sean driving, we got to Newcastle’s small but quaint and cheery city centre of twists and turns, narrow streets and interesting levels changes. Last time I was there all the main buildings were black with a century of soot. Now they’ve all cleaned up beautifully and the stonework looks as good as new. The place felt good. We ended up in a Wetherspoons named Union Rooms, formerly an industrialists and business gentlemen’s institution named the Union Club. What the founders would have made of assorted blues and skunks footy shirts crowding the bars is best left to your imagination. But service was good and cheerful and the place was clean. See, it IS possible in England if you will only look. Or get lucky.

Footy chat beforehand was optimistic. Once again – sign of our renewed times – nobody thought we’d lose. I thought 1-1 or a 1-0 loss, for which I was called a miserable bastard. Sean said Bellamy was the danger and we all said what a narky little shit he is and Someday Someone’s Gonna Really Do Him. Funny, but I’ve never met anybody, not even a Geordie, who actually likes him.

Then a walk up to the footy ground. It is only a few years old but the scatty detailing is already badly pattern stained and is likely to get worse during the next five to ten years. Since it is all in grey and black, and the British generally suffer sheer funk at the mere notion of primary architectural colours, the overall impression in the rain remains sombre. I still haven’t changed my mind about the design of the place (usually it is best to wait and see if a building “grows on you” after a few years) and I still consider it lopsided and mostly ungainly, saved only by the translucent roof design. Two L-shaped giant stands oppose two relatively diminutive constructions. It depends for visual impact on their disproportionate scale. It is of course much better than the old ground but it is a pity they couldn’t have obtained a more regular shaped site to help the architect. Newcastle fans haven’t changed much either. They appear to prefer booing for any reason to another noise, even encouragement. Tiresomely, the away section remains way up in the top tier in a corner. By the time we climbed fourteen flights of stairs we joined everyone else huffing and puffing and clinging to the nearest support. Still, there’s plenty of legroom and when the air is as clear as it was for this match you can see clear across the city lights during dead periods of play.

We had our strongest side out. That is, our ONLY side. They had a few missing and their excuses ready.

In the first couple of minutes we had a Marcus Bent header left side that almost floated casually into the top right corner but dropped just past the post. A couple of minutes later they went straight through the middle, Kuivert played a wall pass with Bellamy and he got clear of our centre backs, right side – well, even you and I could do that properly played in – and hit it home confidently from the right side of the D. Then they hit the bar. Then Nige made a couple of superlative saves and Stubbsy kicked one off the line. It was all go for half an hour, but all in the wrong direction. As at Brum, we just couldn’t get going. If anything, the fractious tackles and trips were mostly our doing. Tim Cahill got booked, thinking, perhaps, of the rugby. So did Hibbo, having another terrific game but obviously mightily pissed off at the wreckage around him. For all that, Kluivert aside, the Skunks didn’t look that hot. We always looked well capable of getting back in the game even when the tide was in full flood.

Ten minutes before half time we did just that and got a flurry of corners. Marcus, Stubbsy and Tim all missed clear chances with the goal yawning. After the third one went begging I said to Paul, “It isn’t going to happen this time, you know.” Piqued, he said, “Oh ye of little faith.”

During half time I found The Bus lower down the seating order and all in good spirits. Texyla beamed, “We’ll win this.” But he always says that. Mostly he persuades you it will be so.

The second half opened with a few opportunities to the Skunks, which they failed hopelessly with. Then after ten minutes a good, quick right side attack by us came to a halt with a needless grubby foul a metre outside the box. Lee Carsley took it right footed, bent it a good metre over and around their wall and it went in just under the bar with their ‘keeper helpless and unmoving. Possession and play was then equal for the next twenty minutes when we finally got into the game and played some good moves that had them back-pedalling. One move sliced easily through their left side, Marcus persistance got him clear and around the keeper, sharp angle, edge of the box, gaping goal………………………and he missed. A goal then and I’m willing to bet it was game shot.

Instead, the Skunks gave it one last heave-ho, screamed for a penalty that never was, and Bellamy missed an easy chance, dead centre, penalty spot, and hit Sandro’s back instead. But we had the final word when Leon smacked in a bobbling ground shot with a couple of minutes left and it got saved.

All told, a good point, once again it could have been three. Thus far only the Gooners and Chelsea have been better than us. Playing-wise, what more could we ask for with the current players? They are giving everything in every match. After last season, the difference is so stark as to be virtually numbing. Moyesy and the players deserve all the credit the media infoclerks try so hard to avoid giving them.

Nigel continues to be a rock, as do Stubbsy and Davey. Tony Hibbert might shoulder his way into the England squad if he keeps his form together, while Kevin Kilbane compensates for Sandro’s aberrations when he funnels back at the expense of forward runs. All midfielders are excellent when they shake themselves free of individual failings and play as a unit. Leon Osman in particular has managed to keep going where many, me included, thought he would start to fade. The Gravedigger is, well, The Gravedigger – capable of everything and nothing depending upon the tightness of his jockstrap. Tim Cahill is coming along gradually and is obviously just the kind of young player Moyesy has always said he had in mind, a bit to learn, and who he can help mould. And Lee Carsley has been phenomenal in – dichotomy coming up – a quiet sort of way, left centre mid and thoroughly reliable. The man who takes most pressure, Marcus Bent, does it uncomplainingly, week in, week out, gets some fearsome clatterings, and then gets up and gives it right back, a good, honest pro without whom the rest of the teamwork would probably falter.

I have no idea how much longer it can go on but it has to be said there isn’t the slightest sign so far of it petering out. Nevertheless, there’s a long, long way to go yet. It will be an amazing season if we can get into Europe. And if we can stay in the top four………………………well, you surely don’t need me to say it. Enjoy it while it’s there, friends. If it falters you can be sure the Melledrew Tendency will be back whining away. At which point, turn on them and give it to ‘em good style.

The journey back was warm, and in the glow of the dashboard it was possible to feel the good results might go on for much longer yet. If so, even a trip to the northeast becomes tolerable.