Newcastle. It’s more than just a city; it’s a rite of passage. A place where the night never ends, where the stories write themselves, where football means everything. Growing up, it was Alan Shearer banging in goals in his final years, followed closely by the cinematic fever dream that was GOAL: The Dream Begins. Santiago Muñez made it to St James’ Park, and for every kid who loved football, that felt like a promise.
I first stepped into that cathedral on the hill in December 2011. St James’ Park, under the floodlights, a 3-0 defeat to Chelsea—who would go on to win the Champions League that season. Petr Čech, John Terry, Ashley Cole, Frank Lampard, Didier Drogba. They even had a prime Juan Mata as their number 10 and Fernando Torres waiting in the wings. But this Newcastle side wasn’t bad either. Alan Pardew at the helm, Tim Krul in goal, Fabricio Coloccini marshalling the backline, Demba Ba and Yohan Cabaye providing the magic.
That trip to the Toon feels like a lifetime ago now. The Mike Ashley era is dead, buried, and barely worth mentioning. Newcastle today? It’s something else. A phoenix rising, a juggernaut awakening. The Saudis have transformed this club into a different beast altogether. So, when Phil Hulse offered me the chance to see it all up close, there was only ever going to be one answer.
Larbert, 9am. Destination: Newcastle. Three world-class beers on the train that could have graced a World Cup Final—Hofbräu from Germany, Quilmes from Argentina. A quick detour to The Strawberry, the sacred pre-match pilgrimage, before stepping into the stadium.
And St James’ Park? Electrifying. This isn’t the Newcastle of Steve Bruce, of trudging through games, of hoping for survival. This is a side going only one way—up.
The opposition? Bournemouth. Eddie Howe’s former club. A side unbeaten since 23rd November, scalping Arsenal, Manchester City, and Manchester United along the way. Andoni Iraola has breathed new life into this south coast side, turning them into a team that thrives on chaos.
But football is unpredictable, and on this day, it was Newcastle who felt the full force of it. A 4-1 hammering. Bournemouth tearing through the black-and-white shirts like a team possessed.
Football has a way of humbling you. One moment, you’re looking up, thinking of Europe, of trophies, of what’s to come. The next, you’re walking out of the stadium, back to The Strawberry, pint in hand, asking, what just happened?