O/T: Can Life Get Any Worse for a Newcastle Fan?

[REAL_DEAL]

http://www.guardian.co.uk/football/2008 ... mierleague

[DavidPayne]

A shrewd piece of brinkmanship by Kinnear if you ask me.

What with the Errol Flynn hair-cut and the asterix spangled outburst, he's growing on me despite his appaling tenure at Forest.

I for one would love to see Newcastle win 5-0 on Saturday.

[Captain Hook]

Brilliant Kinnear....I like him even more now :)

[Carbo]

It's a great way to start a relationship with the press. That he was alowed to go on like that sums up the level professionalism that currently pervades the club.

This was not a Trappatoni style explosion, but a premeditated attack.

"Could somebody kindly introduce me to Simon Bird?"

"Yeah, that's me."

"I came here to say that you, sir, are a c*nt"

The panicked whimpering of the PR guy "oh, erm, I would like everybody's attention. Ahm, I think we can, errr, all agree that this was obviously an off the record meeting. Please." A simply pathetic, snivelling effort.

[Scrap]

I remember in the 80s Newcastle getting 10,000 turn up when they werent doing so well. Man City when they Had a Bad run still played to a Full Stadium, Im Happy for there Good Fortune they deserve it

[Everton FC]

Yes life can get worse!! Try being an Everton fan for the day..

[Chambers2]

BOING!! BOING!! I even made a rare outing from the settee and went to yesterdays Albion game, there's no way we're getting relegated this season

[yiddo14]

Yes life can get worse!! Try being an Everton fan for the day..

PER-LEASE!

Try being a fvcking Tottenham fan for a minute right now, let alone a day!

We seem intent on keeping Newcastle off the back pages with our sorry antics

[King Tubby]

Yes life can get worse!! Try being an Everton fan for the day..

PER-LEASE!

Try being a fvcking Tottenham fan for a minute right now, let alone a day!

We seem intent on keeping Newcastle off the back pages with our sorry antics

Don't panic ! Avram Grant's on his way.

[Old bones Ian]

Yes life can get worse!! Try being an Everton fan for the day..

PER-LEASE!

Try being a fvcking Tottenham fan for a minute right now, let alone a day!

We seem intent on keeping Newcastle off the back pages with our sorry antics

I see Spurs old manager Martin Jol is top of the Bundeslega, good job that Spurs got rid of him, he didn't have a clue eh!

[Scrap]

Ian that says it all

[Wales]

<clears throat>

fornicating GET IN

[mark thompson]

Yes life can get worse!! Try being an Everton fan for the day..

PER-LEASE!

Try being a fvcking Tottenham fan for a minute right now, let alone a day!

We seem intent on keeping Newcastle off the back pages with our sorry antics

what have spurs and a toothpick got in common............they both have 2 points

[J]

A Geordie lady goes to see her doctor with a peculiar problem. Upon arrival she is asked to explain the problem but instead simply shows the doctor. She drops her undergarments and reveals a cork up her arse. She then removes the cork which results in "Keegan, Keegan" being chanted. The doctor immediately explains to her that there are a lot of arseholes in the area chanting the same thing.

[jBacca]

Yes life can get worse!! Try being an Everton fan for the day..

Fer-nan-do Tor-res Liverpool number 9 !!


Went to Newcastle last weekend, frustrating having to listen to the Geordies talk absolute gonads about football.

[Carbo]

The genius that is Harry Pearson from today's Guardian

Asked why Australians are so good at sport, Dame Edna Everage replied: "Because there is nothing intellectual in Australia to distract people from it." Until the turn of the century the same held true of north-east England. Nowadays, the region is brimming with cultural distractions - The Sage, Baltic, mima, The Egg and Potato Shop - but back then it was a case of football, or eff all.

Two travellers from this less enlightened time battled their way on to the train the other day in a whirl of haversacks, Thermos flasks and muttered curses, and plonked themselves opposite me. Both had the big red faces of northern working men and voices built to be heard above the roar of heavy machinery.

The previous evening I had been in the pub talking to a bloke of the same stamp and vintage named Ossie. He had a head the size of a breeze block and when he addressed you it was like standing at the mouth of a wind tunnel. When Ossie spoke he wagged a finger in your direction. Not straight on, but with his right arm stuck out at 45 degrees to his front and his index digit cocked in towards you. You got the feeling that if you ever looked at that finger directly Ossie would smack you with a quick left hand, so you just left it out there dancing at the edge of your vision.

"I tell you what lad," Ossie had bellowed, sending the froth on my pint skimming across the saloon bar like a Frisbee. "I don't care how much money that Mike Ashley has made, or how he's made it. As far as I am concerned that man is stupid. He is as thick as a Gurkha's foreskin."

The men on the train arranged themselves noisily. One stretched and groaned, the other cleared his nostrils with a noise like an emerging whale. "Did I say," the first man said, "I was talking to Peter Beardsley the other day?" "I didn't know you knew Peter Beardsley," his companion replied.

"Well, I don't know him, know him," the first man said. "But I know him, like."

"Well, obviously, man. Everybody knows Peter."

"I'll tell you something," the first man continued. "He seems a lot taller now than when we watched him playing."

"Mebbe he's had surgery," the second man said sarcastically. There was a note of peevishness in his voice. Envy, I suspect. It is always annoying when somebody else has encountered a famous person and you haven't. It is even worse when it is a footballer going about some minor domestic duty, because even though logically we know footballers have to do these things, there still seems something thrilling and illicit about catching them at it.

"I once saw Marcel Desailly," callers to radio phone-ins say excitedly, "studying the ornamental faucets in Plumb Centre."

Books have been devoted to the spotting of sports stars in mundane situations. Seeing an international centre-forward buying a coal shovel is more wondrous than watching him score a hat-trick in the World Cup. We are like servants in Camelot, hearing that one of the courtiers has come across Sir Galahad on all fours, uncaking a drain.

There was a short silence, a sort of verbal staring match, until the second man cracked and asked: "Where was this, then?"

"Kingston Park Tesco's," the first man said. "In the cheese aisle."

"In the cheese aisle?" his friend repeated.

"Don't sound so surprised. It's not as if he was in the ladies toiletries section."

"So was Peter buying cheese, like?"

"Oh, aye."

"What sort of cheese was he buying?"

"I didn't like to stare into his trolley directly in case he thought I was prying, but I got a glance in it out of the corner of my eye and I think it was that Wensleydale with cranberries."

"Aw, hey, I'm not fond of that," the second man said with feeling. "I don't like any cheese with fruit and that in it."

"Me neither. But mind, Peter's lived all over the country, hasn't he?" the first man said wisely. "Merseyside, Manchester ..."

"Carlisle," his companion added.

"Aye, Carlisle," the first man said. "So he's likely acquired a taste for that sort of thing, on his travels."

"So what did you say to him?"

"I said 'How, Peter. How are you doing?' And he said, natural as could be like, 'Fine, thanks. How about you?' And I said 'Canny, thanks Peter.' And he said 'That's good. See you then.' And off he went. What a lovely feller." The first man folded his hands across his stomach and grinned broadly.

"You weren't tempted to ask him about the situation at St James' Park then?" the other asked.

"I wasn't. And even if I had, I doubt Peter'd have said owt about it."

"Aye," the second man said, "he'd have kept his own counsel, Peter."

"Mind, if I see him again I'll likely ask him," the first man said brightly. "Now we've established a rapport."

And then they lapsed into silent contemplation of that happy moment as they train rattled onwards in the thickening darkness.

[DavidPayne]

Carbo thats a hell of a find. Classic.

[Wales]

Just got worse

Michael Owen will go for a scan today after injuring his groin in training.

Joe Kinnear fears he may be out for up to a month and is already preparing to be without him for Monday's visit of Manchester City:

"He tweaked his groin in training so he is a big doubt. It’s 50-50 whether he plays for the Man City match. He is having a scan today. Then we will find out more, we are just assessing the situation."

"I am hoping it is not as bad as it looked when he first done it. I am hoping it may have calmed down but we are worried that if the scan shows a tear then he could be out for a month."

"Hopefully it won’t be but we are in the dark until later on today."

With Mark Viduka, Obafemi Martins, Andy Carroll and Alan Smith already on the injured list that leaves us with Xisco and Shola Ameobi as our only senior strikers. Oh dear....

[jBacca]

Go for a trial.

[jamesmcdonnell]

The genius that is Harry Pearson from today's Guardian

Asked why Australians are so good at sport, Dame Edna Everage replied: "Because there is nothing intellectual in Australia to distract people from it." Until the turn of the century the same held true of north-east England. Nowadays, the region is brimming with cultural distractions - The Sage, Baltic, mima, The Egg and Potato Shop - but back then it was a case of football, or eff all.

Two travellers from this less enlightened time battled their way on to the train the other day in a whirl of haversacks, Thermos flasks and muttered curses, and plonked themselves opposite me. Both had the big red faces of northern working men and voices built to be heard above the roar of heavy machinery.

The previous evening I had been in the pub talking to a bloke of the same stamp and vintage named Ossie. He had a head the size of a breeze block and when he addressed you it was like standing at the mouth of a wind tunnel. When Ossie spoke he wagged a finger in your direction. Not straight on, but with his right arm stuck out at 45 degrees to his front and his index digit cocked in towards you. You got the feeling that if you ever looked at that finger directly Ossie would smack you with a quick left hand, so you just left it out there dancing at the edge of your vision.

"I tell you what lad," Ossie had bellowed, sending the froth on my pint skimming across the saloon bar like a Frisbee. "I don't care how much money that Mike Ashley has made, or how he's made it. As far as I am concerned that man is stupid. He is as thick as a Gurkha's foreskin."

The men on the train arranged themselves noisily. One stretched and groaned, the other cleared his nostrils with a noise like an emerging whale. "Did I say," the first man said, "I was talking to Peter Beardsley the other day?" "I didn't know you knew Peter Beardsley," his companion replied.

"Well, I don't know him, know him," the first man said. "But I know him, like."

"Well, obviously, man. Everybody knows Peter."

"I'll tell you something," the first man continued. "He seems a lot taller now than when we watched him playing."

"Mebbe he's had surgery," the second man said sarcastically. There was a note of peevishness in his voice. Envy, I suspect. It is always annoying when somebody else has encountered a famous person and you haven't. It is even worse when it is a footballer going about some minor domestic duty, because even though logically we know footballers have to do these things, there still seems something thrilling and illicit about catching them at it.

"I once saw Marcel Desailly," callers to radio phone-ins say excitedly, "studying the ornamental faucets in Plumb Centre."

Books have been devoted to the spotting of sports stars in mundane situations. Seeing an international centre-forward buying a coal shovel is more wondrous than watching him score a hat-trick in the World Cup. We are like servants in Camelot, hearing that one of the courtiers has come across Sir Galahad on all fours, uncaking a drain.

There was a short silence, a sort of verbal staring match, until the second man cracked and asked: "Where was this, then?"

"Kingston Park Tesco's," the first man said. "In the cheese aisle."

"In the cheese aisle?" his friend repeated.

"Don't sound so surprised. It's not as if he was in the ladies toiletries section."

"So was Peter buying cheese, like?"

"Oh, aye."

"What sort of cheese was he buying?"

"I didn't like to stare into his trolley directly in case he thought I was prying, but I got a glance in it out of the corner of my eye and I think it was that Wensleydale with cranberries."

"Aw, hey, I'm not fond of that," the second man said with feeling. "I don't like any cheese with fruit and that in it."

"Me neither. But mind, Peter's lived all over the country, hasn't he?" the first man said wisely. "Merseyside, Manchester ..."

"Carlisle," his companion added.

"Aye, Carlisle," the first man said. "So he's likely acquired a taste for that sort of thing, on his travels."

"So what did you say to him?"

"I said 'How, Peter. How are you doing?' And he said, natural as could be like, 'Fine, thanks. How about you?' And I said 'Canny, thanks Peter.' And he said 'That's good. See you then.' And off he went. What a lovely feller." The first man folded his hands across his stomach and grinned broadly.

"You weren't tempted to ask him about the situation at St James' Park then?" the other asked.

"I wasn't. And even if I had, I doubt Peter'd have said owt about it."

"Aye," the second man said, "he'd have kept his own counsel, Peter."

"Mind, if I see him again I'll likely ask him," the first man said brightly. "Now we've established a rapport."

And then they lapsed into silent contemplation of that happy moment as they train rattled onwards in the thickening darkness.

What a brilliant piece of writing, absolutely top drawer, one of those you wish you'd penned yourself.