Sam Dalling was at the Etihad for TF to witness a defeat as predictable as it was disappointing.  What he saw was a glimpse into our possible football future. He didn’t enjoy it.

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Doubts as to what awaits? They dissipate swiftly as the tram rolls into view. Destination “Etihad Campus”. Here’s what you might win should you choose to accept it.

Who doesn’t, after all, want to spend their Saturdays – or Monday / Friday nights – marching monotonously to some former wasteland, miles from the city, light years from any sense of belonging?

What beats a pre-match slalom betwixt snaking queues of “users” desperately awaiting their fix of artisan coffee or sourdough pizza? Gorgonzola? Nah, give me Calvin Zola, please.

Take a second. Maybe take five. Stare at your own reflection. Pause. Ponder long. Ponder hard. What is it you want from a football club? Like, really, what does your ticker aspire to?

Not just what does the fuzzy, somewhat naive, glory-chasing version of yourself crave. What do you – the innocent child who fell daftly in love with an idea, a smell, the notion of something wonderfully hopeless – chase?

If, truly, being the “next Manchester City” is your dream, best of British, doff of the half and half beanie to you.

For me, Clive? No, ta. I genuinely pity the real City supporters, the 30,000 odd who packed Maine Road in the English third tier. They must despair.

Their reality now? Condemned to a lifetime spent surrounded by plastic bag clutching, artificial support.

Like, do any of them really have the wedge to follow up on the pre-half time adverts for waterfront apartment in the UAE? My Gutierrez senses tell me that those that do, probably aren’t being swayed into a purchase by some perimeter LEDs at an FA Cup quarter final.

Look, Manchester City are better at football than Newcastle United. That information is neither new nor surprising.

Those looking for micro-managed, financially illicit (allegedly), on field action, gather now. Max out the credit cards, gorge on your cheeseboards, and bag yourself a lovely gander at Jack Grealish’s calves. Tunnel club? Fucking do one.

Because this is what you get if you expand, if your focus becomes pulling in the corporate coin. Of course, Ange is a defender of the tourist ticket holder – that is, after all, what Spurs is built on. The one-off fan, the type who will rock up three hours early and depart with a selfie or eight, plus a pouch brimming with overpriced merch.

Look, if this feels like a rant, that’s because it is precisely that. Why do I go to football? To meet my pal at the Piccadilly Tap, to savour more whisky than is good for me, and to scream aimlessly at Jacob Murphy or Dan Burn.

And to feel a sense of belonging, a tingle of anger, of joy, of despair, of whatever the fuck it is I feel. For it to be real. For that moment to matter more, and yet matter less. To be fully invested, and to dare not dream of drifting away even when two behind. Because there is always hope, right?

Never do I want being a game from Wembley to be just to be another notch, a decision about whether to bother. Why go to a last eight tie when you can go to a final? What’s the point?

Yes, what is the point? Well, the point is this: don’t lose your soul. A trophy room brimming with silver is no use if no one actually gives a fuck any more.

So give me a knockout via a pair of deflected strikes, give me being an Isak chance away from a tangible sliver of hope, if it remains Newcastle as we know it.

I never want to turn up and simply expect, to have a sense of entitlement, to view football as some sort of product.

Be careful what you wish for, folks. There endeth the lesson.

Sam Dalling