With each passing weekend, whatever emotional connection I still possess towards Newcastle United is slowly eroding away.
Although I will always identify myself as a Geordie and NUFC supporter, Match of the Day can only occasionally be stomached on my television screen.
As many other contributors have also admitted in this fanzine over the past few seasons, I don’t seem to care about the goings on at NE1 anymore.
Whether there has been a 6-2 win or 3-0 defeat, I have nothing left to say. I can’t be bothered to be angry anymore and to repeat the same sermons that I have preached against Mike Ashley or the Premier League and its cronies. Nor do I seem to celebrate with the same glee for a fresh victory.
Since the shambles at Leicester last season I have not watched any of our live fixtures on television and my last visit to St James’ happened three seasons ago.
It started off, at least in my head, as a noble boycott against the evil Ashley empire. But now that fury has mellowed into apathy and hopelessness.
Before discovering more bad news from the BBC sport page, the results of Whitley Bay, North Shields and Gateshead are the first scores I check these days.
It didn’t used to be like that.
Nobby Solano used to be my idol. He was born a world away but fitted in perfectly to the city and culture I saw around me as a kid. Being united behind the black and white was a thrill no matter what the result. That feeling is not coming back.
Newcastle, as that crap cliché says, is a city with football as its religion. If that is true then I’ve finally stopped praying.
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