What I.Saw: Finally We Believed But It Was Too Little Too Late

Newcastle. The train takes the strain. It's a clean machine. It's on time too.

Newcastle, JG Windows, Central Arcade, some things never change.

Newcastle, Tilley’s Bar, real ales and Trappist brews.

Newcastle, St James’s Park towers over Gallowgate.

St James’s Park. Lift. No question.

Coors the only beer. No taste.

Team news. No Camara, no ambition.

We watch the game like we would ants, our subbueto sets seemed bigger. Even when we were small.

My newt. Yet with seconds gone we see Russell slip. It looks serious. Treatment needed. He carries on. Of a fashion. It's not one I'd subscribe too.

We sit. We defend. Our stall set for the draw.

We aren't playing that badly we just have no threat.

Newcastle close, pressure, keep tight. Ince’s man is manacled to his behind. It works, Ince doesn't.

It's scrappy, punctuated with stoppages; we admire the Sage, the bridges over the Tyne. All that's missing is the aeroplane flying below us. Arguably the biggest legal high we will ever have.

We keep them at bay, long range shots that trouble no one.

Then on twenty seven it changes. A deflected shot, the ball spins, Carson can't meet it and we are a goal behind. We watch the big screen replay to see the detail. Matt Ritchie has scored.

We remain slow. We offer no options with the ball. We are not close enough without it.

We reach half time without conceding a second. We are lucky.

Seconds away. As is Bryson, De Sart takes over. A Magpie misses an open goal. We aren't learning.

On the hour mark we call for Camara. Our calls are heard.

Within minutes our gilt edged chance arrives. Camara inch perfect cross for Ince. Six yards out, any firm contact and Darlow is dust. Ince looks to the linesman for a flag. There is none. Eye off the ball, he fluffs. A four year old would have scored. We didn't.

The last ten all the Rams. Camara finds Anya similar position this time Darlow’s on it.

And in the closing moments. Pearce a centre forward. Carson a goal hanger. Bent a header off the line.

Finally we believed. It was too little too late.

We deserved a draw at the end. We deserved a draw from playing for fifteen minutes. It begs the question what would we have achieved had we played for ninety? On the front foot from the off.

Over to you Steve McClaren!

Over a pint at the Station, the Geordies felt they were lucky and whilst we could have snatched a point, we got what ultimately any team who lack fight, fire and flare deserve.

We got nothing.

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