It’s a good job that football doesn’t matter, because if it did, I might be inclined to go on a rant.
And if I did, that Newcastle United rant might look something like this:
Saturday night at Anfield was infuriating. Just a rage-inducing horror.
I’m not talking about Newcastle’s performance in their biggest loss of the season – sensible people can disagree on that. We were good in the first half, worse in the second I thought.
I’m talking about everything else. Because we’re nothing but a naive gambler in Vegas, playing the occasional decent hand, but the house always, always, wins.
Firstly, had to see Alexander Isak in the stand. Banquo’s ghost, the ugly face of ambition, looking bored and indifferent to the chaos he’s caused. Did he even notice that the two strikers we had to sign at short notice, genuine triers but not up to his standard, had both been dropped?
Eddie Howe continues to work on how to play without one of the world’s most instinctive finishers – but it’s a circle that can’t be squared. I expect Isak has moved on, and honestly, I thought I had too, until this Saturday night slapped us back in our place.
Alexander Isak left because he’s more likely to win the big trophies at Liverpool (ED: As well as more than doubling his wages…). He’s right of course, because of a biased system that long ago pulled up the ladder from beneath Liverpool, Arsenal, Chelsea and the Manchester clubs. As a result, we can land the odd blow against those leading, protected clubs, but the status quo always asserts itself in the end.
Newcastle United beat Liverpool in the Carabao Cup final last year, landing an unusually exciting punch in the fight we’ll always lose. But even that was made annoying by the Liverpool fans of my acquaintance. They offered patronising congratulations (“oh I don’t mind, it’s great for the Geordies to finally win something”) knowing their ambitions are grander and not worrying too much about this background trinket.
Then there was the summer of stress, as Liverpool spent two months to do the work of an afternoon, signing our most important player. But it’s much worse than that. Flush with cash, and on a whim, they also bought the preening peroxide prat, Hugo Ekitike. Clearly a wrong-un, but a talented wrong-un, this was a player we’d tracked for years, and the obvious Isak replacement. Liverpool ended up with all the toys, because they’re a big kid, we’re not, and that’s how the big kids want it.
So it’s been clear for a while that Liverpool annoy the hell out of me. It’s possible I went into the match in a bad frame of mind.
We scored, through Gordon, and hopes rose. Not my hopes you understand, but my kids sharing the sofa seemed to enjoy it. I could see reality heading in from miles away. And of course Ekitike scored. Twice. Who else would score? The vital signing at Newcastle, the nice-to-have signing at Liverpool, was always going to torment us. What really got me though was his charmless celebration: the angry face, the furious chest bumps, the joyless looks around the stadium. He’s a pound shop gladiator, unaware the Romans have hobbled the lions.
Thierry Henry used to celebrate like that, and it’s why I could never stand him, despite his talent. The joyless goal celebrations drove me mad, and I wanted to scream: “you’re not a plucky underdog snatching an unlikely win! You’re an elite player, rolling lazily in the advantages that have been baked in since you arrived in the country!”. At least bloody smile and enjoy your success.
So when Ekitike snarls and sneers through his goal celebrations, he thinks it’s one thing but it’s really another. He thinks he’s undone an injustice – that he’s a freedom fighter putting the world back on a righteous footing. But he’s Darth bloody Vader – fronting for the evil empire – firing the Death Star’s laser at a hopelessly overpowered enemy planet. He’s a flat-track bully, bowling bouncers at the B team, in a way that was both predictable and deeply depressing.
Liverpool’s third goal was even more annoying than that.
The goal itself was a nothingness: scored at walking pace, gently rolled into the net, like a gift in the last moments of a testimonial match. But the celebrations drove me up the wall. The Liverpool players barely raised their arms, because they knew this was nothing much. It sealed a win they’d always assumed was theirs. The world was as we’d all known it to be. They walked around congratulating one another with a lukewarm enthusiasm that stuck in my throat, and when I heard the Anfield crowd’s ‘celebration’, I nearly put a foot through my TV.
Before I go on, I ask you to go back and watch the highlights. Close your eyes and just listen as that third Liverpool goal is scored. Do you hear what I hear?
I hear a quiet, pathetically weak, half-assed “yeah”, like something phoned in for an advert taping. Mirroring the players’ celebrations, the cheer is complacent and proves that even the home fans know the truth on some level: this is no real victory, and the game is rigged.
They may be in a genuine battle with the other big club bullies, but against everyone else? Not at all. They know they’ll finish above every single one of the other clubs, pretty much every year. Occasionally there’ll be an exception to prove the rule – Leicester rising out of the blue, Aston Villa on a doomed quest to break in (ED: Newcastle United finishing above Liverpool in 2022/23) , but this always rights itself after a one-season aberration. They can’t get excited for a foregone conclusion. I’m surprised the scousers bother turning up.
I gather Liverpool scored four in the end. I wasn’t watching by then, so can’t say much about that. At 3-1 the game wasn’t just lost: the defeat had been stuffed down my throat to the point I was choking. I sent myself away, thinking I should shield the kids from my extreme cynicism.
But wait! Aren’t we also a privileged club, constipated with unspendable cash and just as likely to stitch up the clubs beneath us? Yes! Yes. We. Are. I dare say Brentford didn’t enjoy our pursuit of Wissa and the clubs down in the Championship may have limited sympathy for our plight. For me, their anger is as righteous as my own – and if a Watford or Sheffield Wednesday fan wrote their equivalent of this rant, I’d nod along.
So where does this leave my fandom? Things have got better in the Eddie Howe era. That’s obvious. We have better players, win more games, play in Europe and even won something. I’m thankful for that.
But if I truly believe – and I do – that we’ll never break into the actual Premier League elite, why do I bother? I have no good answer to that and it’s hard to see this week’s match against Manchester City improving my mood.
I’d crawl into a darkened room, if I wasn’t already there.
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