George Caulkin's new piece

[The Fish 8982]

It turned out Nero was gay.

Well, he was certainly a city-fiddler

[Park Life 70]

 

Classic wrong forum post.

[Monroe Transfer 0]

Good read. Emphasises the position Pardew has been left in. Whatever statement* he's forced to put his name to, I imagine he's seething inside. As both Edwards and Caulkin have alluded to, Pardew constantly said what he wanted, from the end of last season, to the start of the window, to the day before it. Two strikers and a CB. Maybe a winger and a replacement for any of the 'purples' should they leave (thank fuck none did). Pardew is not a stupid man, he can't suddenly be okay with it. Talk of money being an issue is nonsense - there were plenty of players we could have brought in on frees or as loans. If Remy is played as a central striker we're still only a Cisse injury away from having to partner him with Shola).

 

*The fact that statement exists is incredible to me - it's the most blatant example of acknowledgement of a mishap and wanting to excuse it... I honestly think they knocked it up a few days beforehand because they knew nothing was going to happen.

[Monkeys Fist 38703]

 

Classic wrong forum post.

Which forum was it meant for then?

[Howmanheyman 26736]

I wonder which poster would be George on here? Here's some odds;

 

JawD: 14-1

Tooj: 12-1

Paddocklad: 11-1

Chezgiven: 9-1

Deano: 50-1

CT: 500-1

[Monkeys Fist 38703]

 

It's obviously Fish- only a pro could invent someone as unfeasible as Fish

[Christmas Tree 3997]

 

Cough cough grass cough cough

[Christmas Tree 3997]

 

[Monkeys Fist 38703]

 

Sussed!

[desmondTUTU 0]

I wonder which poster would be George on here? Here's some odds;

 

JawD: 14-1

Tooj: 12-1

Paddocklad: 11-1

Chezgiven: 9-1

Deano: 50-1

CT: 500-1

 

desmond tutu 4-1

[Howmanheyman 26736]

 

[Monkeys Fist 38703]

desmond tutu 4-1

But George is funny sometimes......

[JawD 31]

 

 

Classic

[sweetleftpeg 0]

Great piece again. He's always been head and shoulders above any other North East coverage journo. Spot on with the use of the term 'disrespect' in regards to how the club is acting.

[Barney 0]

"George Caulkin is a total cunt". Not my words, the words of Englebert Humperdink.

 

[Meenzer 14030]

My two worlds collide. Mind actually blown.

[LoveTheBobby 1]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6S9ecXWCBCc

[Christmas Tree 3997]

So funny is our George

 

Bye-bye beard. I never liked you and you itched a lot. http://t.co/a0z5F8gCt2

 

[Barney 0]

Meeting Mike Ashley: Simon Bird heads in pursuit of the answers the silent Newcastle owner is unwilling to give

[PaddockLad 14574]

Meeting Mike Ashley: Simon Bird heads in pursuit of the answers the silent Newcastle owner is unwilling to give

 

 

If you'd bought £1,000 of Sports Direct shares in 2008, they'd be worth £22,000 now.

 

Check out all the latest News, Sport & Celeb gossip at Mirror.co.uk http://www.mirror.co.uk/sport/football/news/meeting-newcastle-owner-mike-ashley-2279332#ixzz2f9IDOZP8

Follow us: @DailyMirror on Twitter | DailyMirror on Facebook

[scotty84 0]

So funny is our George

 

Bye-bye beard. I never liked you and you itched a lot. http://t.co/a0z5F8gCt2

 

I've never looked at his Instagram page before, he's got some interesting photo's up on there.

[Meenzer 14030]

I've never looked at his Instagram page before, he's got some interesting photo's up on there.

 

Good call, I've only just signed up to Instagram so still sussing out who to follow. I think the only other football-related person I have so far is Sammy Ameobi.

[Howmanheyman 26736]

That article has fuck all to do with Lee Ryder being a tit though.

[David Kelly 1117]

That'll be Caulkin banned too any day now!

[The Fish 8982]

 

North East revels in misery and then Sunderland go and spoil it all

George CaulkinJanuary 08 2014 13:01PM

A gross betrayal, a perversion of nature, a laying waste of tradition. An abomination so heinous it turns blood to ice and sweet wine to arsenic. This cannot stand and it will not stand; not now, not after every other slash and slight. Not ever, but particularly not now, and fury clenches at the thought of it, how those things we cherish and know and nurture can be undermined with such callous disregard to sensitivity.

As regular readers will testify – raise your weary, battle-scabbed heads and nod – this is not an arena for chirping meadowlarks, blue skies or petals. We deal in misery here. A space had been reserved for frothing exasperation, for deadly whimsy, for sorrow and spittle, for the cadaver of Newcastle United’s FA Cup campaign, brief though it was, to be prodded and examined, sliced and chopped, the organs weighed, remains returned to the family for disposal.

This is what we do. We do not smile, we do not encourage frivolity and, by Joe Kinnear, we certainly do not laugh. Hope, you are not welcome in these parts. Optimism, thou art exiled. Positivity? We have seen your type before, felt your warm breath giggling foreplay in our ears, whispering untold pleasure, only to have our pockets plundered and idealism shattered. Nice things? Bugger right off.

Sunderland have won a game of football – in itself, this is almost unprecedented – and I’m not sure what to do. By beating Manchester United in the first leg of their Capital One Cup semi-final, they are 90 minutes from Wembley and daring to dreamldksksmdmcxd … no, sorry, the laptop will not allow it. The keys are melded and frozen from underuse. And, aside from that, the vocabulary is elusive.

It cannot be surprising that I’m peeved. I thought the region had grown out of this. We all did. Reached a level of maturity, accepted our lot and just bloody well got on with things. I’ve learnt all the clichés, studied the history and then wallowed in the misfortune. I only have words for that. Successzxczcz, or however you spell it, is beyond my pay-grade and so are trophiesxxts. If you want trovcxcxphies, go to flaming Old Trafford. Just not, perhaps, this season.

Newcastle’s defeat to Cardiff City on Saturday was perfect. I could write about their six wins in the FA Cup, their 13 finals, figures which are mesmerising given their failure to win it since 1955. I could write about Jackie Milburn and Bobby Mitchell and the Robledo brothers, about half-time cigarettes in the dressing room. I could transform my fingers into violins, all mournful notes and heartfelt loss.

I could write about a reputation as cup kings, a reputation which carried them through my youth (I was born only 15 years after their third cup win of 1950s), but whose grip has now loosened and faltered. I could write about a new tradition, the obsession with a league which strangles its siblings, about financial prudence, the baffling, corrosive decisions and cups not being a “priority”. About how finishing eighth is a new strain of glory.

That would have been fine. That would have been comfort zone luxury, akin to stepping into a pair of warm fluffy slippers and puffing on a misery pipe. Woe is my middle name (it’s actually Benjamin, but you know what I mean), and barren is my landscape, a warrior of the wasteland, doling out the dismal. Quite frankly, I want you to read this and cry. I want tears, goddammit. Salty tears of bloody grief. But, oh no, Sunderland have to go and spoil it.

True, they have been to Wembley before, much good it did them. I have worked there with Newcastle. Two cup finals, a Community Shield, but each of those experiences was so harrowing that the old stadium’s demolition felt like vindication. I was just livid they rebuilt it. I was in Cardiff when Middlesbrough had their moment of triumph in 2004 and, wondrous though it was, this was the exception to taunt us more. For them especially, now so far removed from glitz.

Notwithstanding Teesside’s childish, pathetic undermining of their long and proud history of winning nowt, sometime around the dawning of the Millennium, I found inner peace. Zen. My teenage years of screaming petulance, of spying conspiracy at every third-round knockout, were long past. My grouchy 20s, a decade of yearning and bitter disappointment, were over. Embrace your fate, accept your allotted role.

They call it expectation, but it is never that. No domestic silverware at Newcastle since 1955, none at Sunderland since 1973. One forlorn pot for Boro. Expectation? Ahahaha. You jest. The only thing we expect, no matter the allegiance, is f***-up. F***-up after f***-up. A compendium of f***-up, f***-up squared or cubed. An infinity of f***-uppery and then, just when you think you cannot stand any more f***-up, one more f***-up just to f*** you off.

So I told myself there would be no trophies and I felt a weight lift, my shoulders unbunching. Existence became bearable. I recall seeing a Newcastle fan with ‘Winning is 4 losers’ printed on the rear of his replica shirt and adopted it as a motto. Every now and again, I would forget myself – usually at the start of January, when the Cup came along – but embers of hopeful innocence would soon burn out. Black ashes where my heart once beat.

Personally and professionally, it was better this way. I would not patronise you. I would take your desolation and feed off it. I would never be reporting on a Champions League final, on an open-top bus parade, but I would be your confidante in crisis. When crushing anger made you tongue-tied, I would be your voice. I would comfort you when you were spurned, writhing and exulting in your pain. Your chronicler of misery. Me and you, chained by contempt.

Instead, we find ourselves stepping hesitantly on to virgin snow. It is a light dusting, covering the gory dismemberment of season upon season of butchered fantasy, but it is there and we are treading on it, boots crunching. A sign points Sunderland south and west and we have a fortnight to get there. Somewhere further in the distance, pale, weak winter sunlight glitters on the spires and towers of Wembley.

Mark my words, no good will come of this. Sunderland’s position at the foot of the Barclays Premier League is what we are used to, their ability to give themselves a chance and their chronic inability to take that chance. This is their story. This. At the bottom, but never quite cut adrift, their torture never fully ended, fans obliged to turn up and bear witness, grinding their teeth at the gruelling cruelty.

So arm yourselves. Paste on those rictus grins and prepare; we march on Manchester. This war can end in one of several ways. Lose at Old Trafford. Win at Old Trafford, lose at Wembley. Lose everything and go down. Just lose, for God’s sake. Lose now and forever. Lose, because this is the North East and this who we are.

If all else fails, if joy cannot be halted, if celebration is bearing down on us, dagger between its teeth, grasping for our standard, the proud, tattered flag proclaiming our loyalty to mediocrity, to scrubland, to nothing, to watching but not winning, to the purity of agony, we must have courage. Take my hand, darling, and please know that I’ve always loved you. I have been true. We must reach for the button. Blessed armageddon.