Thirteen first team members injured.
We’re visiting London, where we always lose.
Steve Fooking Bennet, that useless incompetent git, is the referee.
The bookies and pundeks predict a 20% chance of Newcastle winning.
Man, it doesn’t get bleaker than this. I actually would not mind losing this one, as it seemed a foregone conclusion. Tottenham fans were already licking their chops anticipating an easy three points. Thus, I sat passively, resigned to the inevitable, as I watched wave after wave of Tottenham attacks on Seamus Given’s helpless goal.
I did not even sigh when Defoe scored from an offside position. I just shrugged. Oh well, it had to happen sooner or later.
Ninety seconds later, our Huntington kiddo equalised for us. This one made me jump up and whoop. Our young leftbacks can’t stop scoring. The eternal optimist in me whispered, “Maybe, we could hang on for a draw.”
I would have been really pleased with a draw, and I guess most of the players and fans were thinking the same thing. That was until Wigan’s ugly turncoat, Pascal Chimbonda turned things around for us.
He bitch slapped Butt’s cheek.
That is not allowed. No one slaps our Butt. Monkeys maybe. But not our Butt.
The Butt slapping coupled with Berbatov’s pathetic pissing dog impressions every time Given tries to kick the ball pissed off Magpies around the world.
You wouldn’t want that. We really, really want to win now.
Tottenham fans really outdid themselves when the second half resumed. They booed Given. Who boos Given? Come on. Tottenham fans are such uncultured losers. Now I know why Arsenal fans, given a choice, would rather shag their grannies than Tottenham scum.
When Berbatov scored from a miss hit kick, I found clumps of hair in my hands. 2 - 1 to the scum. Niamahfucktiuniasengkaninabuchowcheebslanchow!
Ah, but things are about to change. *Scorpions – Winds of Change*
One moment of magic from Oba, had me jumping like a lunatic and whirling my panties around. What a rocket of a goal! 2 - 2.
I have a lot of respect for Butt. He took Chimbonda’s abuse like a man. He shoved back. Lesser men and little girls like Christina, A. Robber or R. Savage would have gone down like a sack of potatoes. I was, thus, really chuffed for Butt when he scored the winning goal. Butt Clenches Victory. Toon Butts Spurs Aside. Slapped Butt Scores. 2 - 3.
Fucking poetic justice indeed.
Moving on. I can’t help but recall the fact that Michael James Owen (aka Mr Lily Liverbird) broke his fifth metabeckswhatsit bone when Paul Robinson ran into him like a freight train during a corresponding fixture exactly one year ago. This left him out for months leading to the World Cup. Despite his lack of match fitness, Horny Sven opted to play him, and the rest is history.
With Owen on extended medical leave, we are deprived of our most potent lead striker. Thus, it would be fair to state that a significant portion of our troubles this season originate from White Hart Lane. In a way, the six points they lost to us this season is just compensation. So what does doing the double over Tottenham mean to us Geordies? Retribution. Justice. Pure satisfaction.
It is nights like this that remind me why I am proud to be part of the Toon Army. We may not win the league this season, nor any major silverware in the foreseeable future - but we get to experience the ups and downs of the most ‘entertainingest’ football club in the world. None of that boring winning-all-the-time bollocks.
As they say, there is never a dull moment when you are a Geordie hoolie.
(Bring on the abuse)