Just over a year ago, for the first and so far only time in my life, I saw someone die. I’d lost grandparents, parents and other family members over the years, but always had the good fortune not to be in their presence while they breathed their last and, other than a very brief, upsetting glimpse of my maternal grandmother, laid out by Co-op Funeral Services at Windy Nook Chapel of Rest in March 1987, I’d not seen any of their corpses. The time I’m about to tell you of, I saw the rapid, undignified departure of an elderly man from this world in the distinctly prosaic surroundings of the start of Hadrian Cycleway, as it bisects the greensward betwixt St. Peter’s Basin and Walker.
It was a Sunday afternoon in November; following the discharge of familial duties, I was cycling from Swalwell to Tynemouth. With the clocks going back and winter approaching, this regular, exacting journey was becoming less enticing as the weeks went past. I had it in my mind this would be the last time I did this ride until spring and so it was to be the case, though this had as much to with emotional as climactic features. Heading east along the Quayside as the lowering sun becalmed itself in cloud at my back; I passed bars pleasantly full of relaxed Sunday drinkers, glazed in post carvery sweat and struck out towards the Coast. Less than half a mile from the start of the cycleway, a couple (I presumed them man and wife) effortlessly breezed past me. I’m a recreational cyclist: mid-range mountain bike, old trainers, muddy jogging bottoms, ragged hoodie and Ipod, while this pair were proper yellow goggles, skinny tyre road bikers; their lean forms swathed in Italian lycra. Five minutes later, I was to see them again.
The Hadrian Cycleway starts off as befits a Roman road that skirts Segedunum; so straight it seems to have been designed by spirit level. From the entrance, I saw clear passage straight ahead, deserted apart from the peloton pair, who were now off their bikes; she looming over the frame, he crouching down, poking at what appeared to be a bundle of rags. Getting closer I saw the bundle was actually an elderly man, bespectacled, not so tall, attired in a reasonably smart pinstripe suit, chest down on the path, head turned in an agonised, bloodless rictus to the right, still clutching the lead of the miniature Yorkshire terrier he’d been taking for a Sunday afternoon stroll. The dog agitatedly whimpered and licked at his available ear. His breath came in rapid, guttural heaves; his eyes showing only white. Dismounting, I stood in mute incompetence. The lycra couple knew what to do; the guy placed the old fella, now racked by convulsions, in the recovery position, while the woman used one of their phones to activate GPS to give an accurate geographical position and the other to dial 999.
The poor old bloke had obviously had suffered more than a bad turn. Possibly a heart attack, or even a stroke; it was clear he wasn’t going to make it. The heaves were replaced by gurgles that gave way to a lengthy exhalation akin to deflating a moribund whoopee cushion. Uselessly, I stood to one side, partly out of impotence, partly out of respect, saying little as the sky purpled, then blackened. It was near 4 o’clock; had the bloke been taking himself out for a post Sunday lunch stroll in preparation to sitting down in front of the football? Whatever the circumstances, he’d not planned to breathe his last here, in the open air, about 100 yards from the Tyne; alone, apart from that poor, whining pup.
Soon the Paramedics arrived (the navigational skills of the lycra lad and lass directed them to the correct spot). Seeing to the patient was their only concern, so they ignored us, before working on the old fella; this basically involved a few curt nods of the head, before putting him on a gurney and phoning the cops to ask them to “sort this end out,” before wheeling the old boy off to the ambulance. They didn’t put a white sheet over his face, which surprised me, but I’ve subsequently learned medics don’t do this except on Casualty, to avoid engendering panic in on-lookers. The Paramedics weren’t in a panic though; they idled until a youngish poliss on a mountain bike arrived. He took our names and addresses, though we were never called to any inquest. Then the concerned citizens got back on their road bikes and headed in the direction of the passenger tunnel. They were from East Boldon, in sunderland and needed to make tracks as it was near dark. Just before the Paramedics left, the poliss retrieved the old fella’s wallet, for identification purposes. He flipped it open and out fluttered a photograph of a smiling young girl, holding a Yorkshire terrier in her arms; presumably his granddaughter and the poor dog that now whined, bereft and alone in the gloaming.
The cop radioed the station to ask for a van to come and pick up him, his bike and the dog so he could “process the event.” Presumably this meant taking the dog round to who would now be the old bloke’s widow or the parent of a little girl who would now have no grandfather and breaking the news to them. This was just too fucking much to take; I didn’t know the old fella, but I was ready to burst out in choking sobs for his sake. Maybe the cop sensed this as offered me a lift back up to the station for a brew, as I looked like I “could do with a cuppa.”
Ten minutes later, I’d had my first ride in a police van and was sat under harsh fluorescent strip light glare in the canteen of Clifford Street nick, drinking tea (which I hate) with two sugars (that I never take); truly, it was the best drink of the day, though perhaps lacking the bizarre and slightly disturbing promise of a “velvety mouthfeel” that Azera coffee boasts.
I never learned that old fella’s name, or the names of the cyclists, Paramedics or the young, mountain biking copper, but as I shook his hand as I retrieved my bike from the yard of Clifford Street nick, within the arc of reflected light from Byker’s Gala Bingo that gloomy Sunday, I felt he was the best Samaritan I’d ever met. Everyone played their part that day; except me.
That poor old fella’s death was a tragedy; a proper tragedy. In contrast, Newcastle United losing four Premier League games off the belt is a disappointment and an irritation, but it isn’t a tragedy, no matter how badly they’ve played. Those reacting on Twitter and message boards to Cameron Jerome’s late winner for the loathsome Potters in a manner akin to Macduff’s when he learns of the fate of his family in IV iii of the Scotch Play, need to take a long hard look at themselves.
Moving from Shakespeare to Dickens, I don’t want to be accused of assuming the role of a Milburn Stand Mr Micawber, but something will turn up and we’ll get through this sticky patch. If we don’t, then 2009/2010 proved that relegation is nothing to be scared of. Experentia does it, as Micawber’s wife Emma was fond of saying, a phrase which comes from the Latin experiential docet, meaning one learns from experience. This is certainly the case among the more sensible sections of the support, so long accustomed to the Miss Havisham role when trophies are handed out. Let’s hope Pardew and the players take this message on board, even if Abel Magwitch Ashley and Artful Dodger Llambias are unable to.
I’m not happy with football at the minute; two weeks in a row Heaton Winstons, Percy Main, Benfield, Hibs and Newcastle United all lost, ruining my Saturdays and Sundays for a fortnight. Frankly, I think it’s unlikely Pardew will collect Manager of the Month for November. Being serious, I don’t think anyone can be happy with a brace of home defeats to West Ham and Swansea being followed up by the absolutely witless display at Southampton that is as unacceptable as any under Pardew; the 4-0 at Stoke, the 5-0 at Spurs, the 5-2 at Fulham and the 4-0 at Wigan are the only comparable disintegrations on the scale of the surrender at St. Mary’s. Only the intervention of the post on three occasions kept the score line, if not the performance, semi respectable, though it is a savage indictment of the team that we handed Southampton their first clean sheet of the season, without them having to even graft for it.
The Stoke defeat was an awful kick in the bollocks; 81 minutes of adequate football and plenty of effort thrown away by two desperate individual errors, or so I’m led to believe; I simply couldn’t bring myself to watch it on Match of the Day. Two goals conceded in the time it takes to boil a kettle; scarcely credible and almost enough to make me throw up my hands and abandon Newcastle for December. Wigan next Monday? I’m opting for Team Northumbria versus Bishop Auckland instead. Fulham the week after? I’ll be watching Team North again, when Durham City will be the visitors. A lunchtime loss to Massive Club citeh can be avoided on the 15th by a trip to Amberley Park for Killingworth against Percy Main, who host Carlisle City the week after when QPR come to town. The Boxing Day loss at Old Trafford comes a poor second to Benfield hosting Whitley Bay and The Villagers against The (Ashington) Colliers seems a better way to end 2012 than The Gunners ploating The Magpies. Even looking in to 2013, I can see the lure of Dunston v West Auckland winning out over Newcastle versus Everton. Is this me throwing a strop and being a part timer? Well, undeniably it is part time support on my part, but I don’t think it is a strop; take a step back is my attempt to get them to win by not being there. I turned down tickets for West Ham 5-0 and Man United 3-0 in recent years, not to mention the 5-1 over the Mackems. Am I being a coward by not going? Only if we lose; if we win, I’m playing my part on turning the club fortunes around. I just can’t bear to be around whing, self-pitying morons who know less about football than I do about particle physics.
After the Maritimo game, an evening where the only positive aspect was the splendid Wensleydale Gold in the Newcastle Arms, I came out the ground absolutely furious; not only with the performance, ragged, arrogant and slipshod as it was, but also with the mindless meatheads in the Gallowgate Corner. I felt sorry for the County Kildare NUFC Supporters Club who made their maiden European trip to SJP; Tino against Barcelona this game certainly wasn’t. We’d managed to attract the grand total of 22k for a tie in a competition we’d worked our backsides off to qualify for and which the majority of our support had turned their backs on. I know of some who travelled to Bruges, without tickets, but couldn’t be bothered to attend a home tie that cost £15, preferring to watch it on ESPN instead, which meant the endless chants of your support is fucking shit by the shoe-waving shitheads to those who’d made three plane journeys from Madeira on a Thursday night for a game in a competition their team had been eliminated from, rang less than true.
Apart from wondering whether these morons in their consciously whacky Ameobi 23 shirts ever really deserved the scarcely-credible description of the cats from the Curva Nord, we have to wonder at the competence of those working in the local media who shamefully claimed the moronic songs about Danny Simpson’s latest squeeze, whoever she may be, showed the crowd were supporting him. Why, when Pardew is facing his first major test as our manager, is the personal life of a full back that is out of contract in the summer viewed as being more newsworthy than the gaping holes in the squad? Someone is pulling the wool over our eyes.
The real story should be that the shameful lack of investment last summer, allied to a massive injury list (Ben Arfa and Cabaye in particular, but also the Taylors) and key players being out of form (Colo, Cisse, Krul and Tiote), is putting Pardew under unnecessary pressure. The club has 8 top quality players on its books: Krul, Santon, Coloccini, Steven Taylor, Tiote, Cabaye, Ba and Cisse, as well as one world class one in Ben Arfa. We need them fit and in form, together with investment in a new full back, centre half, midfielder and striker in January; without that investment we will languishing around 14th, but with it we may make the top half of the table.
