I don't know when this picture was taken, but it clearly shows that Sunderland-Newcastle derbies go back a long way. I was working while the match was on yesterday, teaching on a psychotherapy training course, and catching updates on my phone between pieces of supervision. Despite the late, lucky equaliser from the Mackems I was happy with the result. It suited my current ambivalence about my club. Actually, that phrase 'my club' is the problem. It's not mine. It doesn't belong to the fifty odd thousand who turn up at St James Park every home game either. It wouldn't be there without us all, and we'd be lost on a Saturday afternoon without it. And it belongs to Mike Ashley, the latest in a long line of exploitative owners who apparently have no love or understanding of the game, who openly despise the fans and who will systematically dismantle the team by selling the best players rather than build on success.
The received wisdom is that a few wins is all that it takes to erase history and bad memories from the fans' minds. We've done all right since Alan Pardew took over, and we seem to be playing decent football. We've even revived a long-standing tradition of getting humiliated by a smaller club in the 3rd round of the FA Cup. I just can't get excited about it at the moment. The sacking of Chris Hughton was dishonourable, a way of letting us all know whose club it really is, whose club it was always been. The butchers, the bakers, the candlestick makers - all those shopkeepers who fancy bigging themselves up by having a stake in the local club - the lawyers and bankers who turn it into their plaything. The owners. They've always been there, especially at Newcastle, and sometimes I wonder whether it's worth caring and getting worked up about.
Mind you, Andy Carroll might be back from injury in a couple of weeks, and I really can't fault the team.
Supporting Newcastle is a thought - provoking pursuit, never straightforward, and humiliation never feels far away.
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