Well that was shit.


Forty-one years. Over those 41 years more often than not we’ve been humped. Newcastle United just anothervictim of the waves and waves of attacks from the imperialistic red fucking devil machine, cheered on by their crowing cretins who use Manchester United Football Club as their own personal cock extension. Not anymore. Newcastle United had a belief at the Death Star yesterday that we haven’t seen before. From the first whistle, our players patrolled the Old Trafford pitch with fluffed up semis.

Those waves of attacks never came yesterday. Newcastle  UNITED did look vulnerable from set pieces, but so does everyone else when Robin Van Persie has a dead ball at his feet. Moyes boys (where’s their song?), never really looked like getting anything from the game after Yohan Cabaye had opened the scoring around the hour mark. United sensed this was their day and it was no surprise when the industrious Moussa Sissoko burst down the right flank leaving Evra in his trail, before choosing the right ball – a cut back to Cabaye just inside the box. The Frenchman finished from there, sparking wild celebrations in a small corner of the Death Star.

United fully deserved their victory. Cheick Tiote was magnificent in the first half, harassing and bullying Man Utd’s limited midfield, while Cabaye in the orchestrator role and Vurnon Anita constantly recycling the ball always made themselves available for the pass. Our midfield is and was simply better than theirs. Sissoko, recapturing the form of his home debut against Chelsea was superb, his strong running – with and without the ball, gives Newcastle an energy and engine that has rarely been seen at SJP before. Mike Williamson was flawless. I repeat – flawless.That hasn’t always been the case, but Williamson is in the form of his life. At one point in the second half he burst over to right back at full throttle, aggressive and decisive, to successfully take Wilfried Zaha and the ball out of play.

Man Utd didn’t throw the kitchen sink at us in the last half hour. They haven’t got a kitchen sink. Their subs were gash. Ours were better – Hatem Ben Arfa playing keep ball in a Benny Hill manner, Shola Ameobi battering away with Nemanja Vidic and winning free kicks, as he does. A number of Man Utd’s cretinous support began drifting away from the Death Star with 10 minutes to go. Which is understandable, if you support a club for the reflected glory, what do you do when they cease to be successful? Walkaway.

There was a time when injury time at Old Trafford was a living hell – clinging on for dear life for a hard earned point. Newcastle United strolled through injury time at Old Trafford yesterday, with Ben Arfa and Ameobi keeping the ball in the corner by the jubilant away support. The game was up. Geordie Boys taking the piss.

The players and management staff were straight over at the end, hysterical applause, hugs, fist pumps all the shite you do when your happy at the match. A show of strength with your boys brigade. Our support was a pretty accurate representation of the hordes that have travelled away over the last 20 years. I took a moment to look around and saw – young kids recently hooked on United, with dads and mums, piss-heads, old fellas, women in pairs, young lads Stone Islanded to fuck, rum blokes bred on a diet of violence and heavy drinking. As one, in a joyous, over due moment.

One well travelled Mag amongst our group summed it up in a life coach/ pissed up jakey manner – “Life is all about moments, good or bad, you need them all. And that was a great fucking moment.”

A moment steeped in nostalgia, for everyone, for those who were at Old Trafford yesterday or not, it doesn’t matter. It was the moment we erased some of those humpings, Cantona 1-0, Cardiff ’05, Peter Schmeichel, their irredeemable fans who support Uuuu-ni-tid.

We’ve bloodied their nose at St James’ Park many times. Yesterday we knocked the cunts out at Old Trafford.

Newcastle United – Krul, Debuchy (Yanga-Mbiwa), Williamson, Coloccini, Santon, Sissoko, Anita, Cabaye (Shola), Tiote, Gouffran (Ben Arfa), Remy