How Malcolm Macdonald ruined my life!

I was quite a happy kid, a hell of a lot more interested in playing football than watching it. My family were Newcastle fans to a man, but to me they were just something that happened occasionally, and my grandfather would often go missing for a few hours or so every couple of weeks, and he was either in a great mood, or to be avoided for a couple of hours.

He even took me with him a few times, can’t say I remember being that bothered, in fact 90 minutes was a long time to expect my limited attention span to stay focussed.

Then something happened it was the 21^st August 1971, and I was dragged, along to St James’, I can’t actually remember the dragging part, but due to the lifelong addiction to all things Newcastle that has followed, it has been mentioned several times in the family.

I was preparing to be bored, and possibly looking for something I could destroy, when this seemingly giant of a man started tearing Liverpool to pieces, one of the goals to my faltering memory seemed to involve him going through with three Liverpool players hanging onto his back, he looked unstoppable.

That day Macdonald went on to get a hatrick, and I started a lifetime of addiction.

Addiction is a good word for it, highs and lows, more lows admittedly.

Things taken to extremes, I won’t for instance use certain brands of toothpaste because they are red and white, streaky bacon is a no go.

Every morning starts with the net, let’s see what that bloody idiot has done now (my about only printable name for our current owner), have we signed anyone? Sold anyone?

Who’s injured, who’s not.

Before the internet it was the local paper, not a hardship when you can nip around the corner, but when you’re getting the chronicle delivered to Italy, the costs mount up over a few years.

And for this love, this obsession I have been rewarded with exactly nothing, no real trophy and frankly I have enjoyed just about every moment of it.

They are my side.