I have an ambivalent relationship with the devoted followers of Newcastle United, ‘The Magpies’, as I do with the sport itself. As my home team of the past 48 years I suppose I should have some loyalty – wish them well at least? Living as I do, within the sound of the cheers when their team scores and their boos when they don’t, fighting through the crowds before and after matches as I walk to and from the City Centre, big matches can hardly pass me by altogether.
But do I own a £659 yearly season ticket? No. Do I attend matches? Very rarely. Perhaps I’ve seen only five in all my time here – about once every ten years!
So, my outing in early February of this year to watch United’s lacklustre performance against Norwich City was a labour of love rather than a routine pilgrimage. My son-in-law Ben, a Norfolk boy, is an exiled fan of Norwich City – ‘the Canaries’.
Daughter Jenny, a Geordie (born within the smell of the Tyne, so to speak) has a passing interest in her local team similar to my own. Ben, dressed in Norwich colours, joined the three thousand or so enemy supporters at the far end of the massive stadium. I sat with Jenny, dressed in her Newcastle top and scarf, on carefully chosen end-of-row seats at the Home end, Gallowgate, carefully chosen as Jenny was already 38 weeks pregnant and we wanted a quick and easy get-away should the need arise. Ben being otherwise engaged, I was there for company, not as an ardent fan. At times the game, far below, resembled something on a Subbuteo pitch.
I first attended a game back in the early 1970s with my father, visiting during my student days. He saw this as essential ‘quality time’ together. A strange departure for one who had never once taken me to see our local home team (that was York City mind you!). Back then it was standing room only, literally so, in a crowd of around 30,000. My memories are of swaying to and fro, dodging empty beer glasses (real glass) or half eaten pies, and cringing in my father’s presence at the very non-PC chants of the crowd. The wrongs of racism and sexism were not appreciated back then by most spectators, and a flying banana was not uncommon.
Nowadays, St James’ Park is an all-seater stadium, a sophisticated high-tech sports venue. Developments over the decades have increased its capacity. ‘The Gate’ for the Newcastle-Norwich match was an impressive 52,205. The newest stands include lifts, and stalls on each level for hot snacks as well as beer and other drinks (now in plastic glasses), as well as hospitality suites. As the propaganda suggests, it’s not just a trip to the match, but a total experience. I doubt I shall ever share the fervour of the loyal fans who follow the team through its worst as well as its best times, (love is blind), but I begin to see where they’re coming from. Milling with others as we congregated at the interval and sat amongst them in my polyester black and white scarf (bought specially that day), I felt I adequately blended in at least, almost belonged. We were united (no pun intended) against a common enemy. I felt, for 90 minutes or so, a member of the noisy tribe.
As I have said, the no-score draw was nothing to write home about. For me and many at our end, Norwich deserved to beat their much richer cousins.
One of the things which makes me cynical about the whole thing is the money showered on the performers, come what may. The highest paid Norwich player is paid a mere £30,000 per week and they nearly won. The highest paid Newcastle player is paid around £70,000 per week and they nearly lost.
Joseph, the newborn, when he is old enough to reflect on his origins, may wonder what all that noise was about a couple of Saturdays before he was born.
It was his first home match. Will he one day join the Toon Army? We shall see.