Sometimes, all that is left is a howl of rage. Like when youve been on hold to a utility company or your bank for 23 minutes too long and just at that precious moment when the Muzak stops and you get through to a real-life human being, albeit one in a call centre several thousand miles away, the line goes dead. You howl and rage and bawl into the deafening silence of a phone receiver because its all you can do.
Like when youre puttering along quite nicely in traffic and some idiot pulls out in front of you without indicating; you slam on the brakes and reach for the horn and scream FOR F***S SAKE! WHAT THE F*** ARE YOU F***ING PLAYING AT YOU F***ING C***? ITS MY F***ING RIGHT OF F***ING WAY! because theres nothing else to be done (unless, of course, you go down the route of following said idiot to work, sitting in your car all day, not eating, urinating into an old cola bottle you found underneath the passenger seat, finally following the idiot home, sitting outside his house for the entire night feeling increasingly paranoid because you havent eaten and because thats how late-night call radio makes you feel, waiting until he leaves for work again and then breaking in and doing something unmentionable on his hall carpet. But I cant really recommend that, and my bloody injunction is still in force anyway).
You dont shout into the telephone because its going to persuade the ombudsman to change the regulations about out-sourced customer relations solutions, just as you dont swear at your fellow road-user thinking it will lead to a wide-ranging review of the Highway Code. You do it because its the sound that comes out of you at the time and, for all that it isnt particularly constructive and you might feel a bit daft afterwards, satisfaction can be taken from the release. So we howl.
Football makes us howl constantly. When a striker goes down like a snipers victim outside the area and a penalty is awarded against our team and we can all see it was outside the flaming area, even a blind man could see that, well OK, maybe not a blind man, but a man with a poor eyesight and anyway thats not the point it was outside the bloody area and it wasnt even a foul and we get to our feet and shout HEW MAN REF! and we gesticulate and our eyes bulge and veins pop.
We dont do that because the referee is going to reverse his decision.
We dont do it because we think Sepp Blatter will intervene on our behalf.
We do it because thats what football is illogical and passionate and standing up for your town or city and just being there and bearing witness and shouting.
Thats certainly what football is like in the North East. This isnt a region where were defined by what we win. The things we won past tense is a proud part of our history and heritage, but Newcastle United last lifted a meaningful domestic trophy in 1955, the FA Cup in 1973 is the only thing Sunderland have won since before the Second World War and, while Middlesbroughs League Cup win in 2004 is relatively recent, it is also their sole piece of silverware.
So winning, by and large, is not what we do. What we do is turn up and howl.
There are spells and eras and individual occasions when we have fun and feel a surge of momentum, but there is a lot of humiliation and dismay in there, too. Football is an extension of who we are and where we live.
We want a bit of effort and pride, something to believe in and belong to. And even when things go wrong, which they do quite often, we still turn up.
On Monday night, a few hundred Newcastle supporters turned up to the Labour Club on Leazes Park Road, a wayward free kick away (and weve seen plenty of those) from St James Park. Some came to speak, others to listen, but all were there out of frustration or concern at recent events. Some were there simply because of love. And it is fair to say that some howling was involved.
The meeting was organised by Newcastle Fans United, an umbrella group that has opened dialogue with the club while trying to collect, collate and reflect the diverse opinions of supporters. That is not a straightforward task and, as always with these things, there have been questions about agendas, motivation, why some people are involved and others arent, and what the point of it is. Those politics arent my business or interest, except to say that I know a couple of the individuals involved and would vouch for their integrity and sincerity (you can find out more here). Good people, trying to make a difference.
You cannot claim that they did not attempt to do things properly. There was a short statement about who they were and what they were doing. There was an open microphone for fans to make their points and ask questions, two representatives of the club were in the audience (Wendy Taylor, the head of media, and Lee Marshall, the PR and supporter liaison manager), as was an associate of Joe Kinnear, whose contentious appointment as director of football was one of the main reasons everybody was present.
There were frustrations, of course there were. Newcastles representatives could not answer the questions being asked of them, in part because they do not yet know what the new reality at the club actually is.
But they got there early and stayed there late and they listened and they engaged and they chatted. It was ballsy of Kinnears ally to turn up and speak, although he did not add much to the clarity of proceedings and, in the end, was effectively drowned out. A motion was called and carried requesting that Mike Ashley, Newcastles owner, withdraws.
If you were searching for a theme, it was fairly evident: anger. Anger that Kinnear, a man indelibly associated with the most toxic season in Newcastles recent history, was back at the club; anger that his interviews brought the tang of farce to Gallowgate; anger at last season; anger at Ashleys compendium of bizarre decisions.
There was anger at their own impotence, that the club might be here but that nothing would come of it. For the record, there were a few opposing views, and there a bit of anger in them, too.
Walking away, my initial reaction was conflicted. I loved some of the eloquence and the passion, the thought that had gone into planning the event (Kinnear had been invited), the push for fairness, but I was also a bit troubled by the absence of fanzines and other people I like and respect. Id seen the chaos of democracy and wondered what the message was and how you evaluate the worth.
It has taken me a few days to realise that I was wrong. Ungenerous and wrong. In spite of the motion, dialogue with the club will continue, and if that dialogue proves utterly irrelevant when it comes to Ashleys mindset and redundant when it comes to influencing him, then it shouldnt negate the fact that there are decent people at Newcastle who want to do the right thing and who have some small power to do it.
Communication is a huge issue, but talking, even in a limited fashion, is better than not talking.
I read comments about the meeting on Twitter and elsewhere. I read about a lack of dignity. I read about the Ashley motion and people wanting to know what the alternative was, and then, for a moment, I wondered at my own hypocrisy. Because I remembered a piece I had written for The Times when, in the aftermath of relegation, Ashley took Newcastle off the market and announced his intention to sell the naming rights of St James.
Id forgotten how angry I felt about that; angry for my friends, for the city I live in and one of its most iconic buildings, for the region I care about, angry at more words written on corrosion. Id forgotten how important venting can be.
Amid Kinnear, Dennis Wise, Kevin Keegan, Alan Shearer, Chris Hughton, demotion, St James, Sports Direct, Wonga and everything else, perhaps I had become numbed. (And yes, yes, yes, I know its not a one-way street.
There has been a plan and a structure recently, fifth place, good players and self-sufficiency, although where all that stands now we can only guess at.)
So I looked up that article. Time has elapsed and the world has turned and Ive probably changed, but it was how I felt back then. I can understand the people who have given up on Newcastle or are close to it and I can also understand those who grit their teeth, wipe their feet on their way into the stadium and carry on.
Equally, I have a fresh understanding of those who howl. Well played to those at the Labour Club. Well played and thank you.
From The Times, October 2009:
We may as well begin as we mean to continue: Ashley out. We may as well shed any notion of journalistic impartiality, because certain circumstances demand it: Ashley out. Just as no man is bigger than a football club in spite of what those same men might think some issues rise above work and professionalism and straddling a fence in the name of politics and this is one of them: Ashley out.
Now that he is staying, it warrants repetition: Ashley out. There is nothing to be gained by not speaking minds, even if Mike Ashleys tattered regime at Newcastle United is limping on regardless and even if supporters know damn well their battered old club has not been listening. Over the past two years, they have been stripped of their pride, dignity, status and reputation; take away the howl of rage and what are you left with?