Indefensible. Incredulous. Insane. Newcastle manager Alan Pardew has been described in these terms for years, and then on Saturday he went above and beyond these words in a manner no-one really expected. Well, if you’d never seen him on the touchline. Or read an interview of his. Or seen him on TV. Or knew that he was Newcastle manager. Basically, it was coming, and anyone who didn’t spot the warning signs of his headbutt meltdown on a poor little Hull City Tigers Ltd (TIGERS! TIGERS! TIGERS!) player is more blinkered than a gimp running at Aintree.
Alan Pardew headbutted a player after little to no provocation. As if this season needed any more madness in the eyes of the press; they were busy enough with the weird travails of most of the other clubs (more of which later) that kept us all amused and kept us tweeting rubbish bullshit to craphead twitterers that never read our shitty posts anyway. But always there, overshadowed by the banner-headline-back-page-splash was Newcastle, just bubbling along with their normal amount of crazy shennanigans but hardly getting a sniff of comment.
And no headlines is bad for business. Since Mike Ashley (which sounds suspiciously like Machiavelli if you say it underwater) took over, Newcastle have had the run of the back pages every season. Proof? I give you Sam Allardyce’s 2 hours as manager, Mr Joe Kinnear and his infinite wit, Dennis Wise somehow being involved, renaming the gound after a tracksuit, Mr Joe Kinnear and his infinite contact book, consistently losing the derby and probably some other stuff that I can’t be bothered to research.
So maybe BigMan Alan wanted to be on the back pages again? He is Headline in his own mind, Hollywood in his own Folly Hood (shut up – you do better). He is an arch Narcissist, an egomaniac, a colossal prick being paid to be a colossal prick by one of the country’s most colossal pricks. The press this season are all about Man Utd’s spiralling nightmare, Cardiff City’s rent-a-villain owner, Fulham employing managers and hoping for a bulk discount, Hull City adding an animal to their name for no reason, Paolo di Canio, Arsenal continuing their world record attempt of not winning anything, anything Jose Mourinho says or thinks or eats or breathes or looks at, and far too many other cakes to bake. Pardew wants the attention, he craves it. He is the wailing baby who wants someone to come into the nursery because he’s bored.
But he thinks he’s tough – he’s got previous on the cosy touchline where he knows he’s not really going to come to any harm, like the weasly kid at school who picked on the fat kid because Mummy was watching and knew they’s be seperated before it got dangerous (I still hate that skinny bastard kid, and Facebook-stalked him recently to find that his life had completely fallen apart at the seams #I WIN MATTHEW SKINNER). He winds himself up to such a degree it’s a wonder sometimes that he doesn’t come up the tunnel attached to a Red Bull drip having sketches of his most private shames being used to give him papercuts between his toes.
But in defense of the man, look at where he is – Newcastle. Bloody Newcastle! The club where sense goes to die. They hired Mr Joe Kinnear. TWICE. Imagine if your boss was Mr Joe Kinnear; you’d headbutt old ladies on the way to work. Kinnear’s bizarre appointment as Director of Something-Or-Other, charged with making key signings and greasing the wheels of negotiation with Europe’s top clubs was probably a practical joke that got wildly out of control. He’s a man whose juju consisted of swearing and being a dick. So, Mr Joe Kinnear was a factor in Pardew’s momentary mindbent. And because of Mr Joe Kinnear’s utter incompetence, Pardew lost his best player for pennies to one of the richest clubs in the world. At the end of the transfer window. And he’s still got Shola Ameobi in the squad, somehow. THANKS MR JOE KINNEAR.
When your season is already past its best and dwindling into mid-table mediocishitty for the umpteenth time, your owner is a peddler of slutchavrags, your team is shorn of its only talent, and you’re a maniac with a nice telephone voice but desperately want to be one of the lads, what would you do?
This wasn’t ‘Indefensible’, it wasn’t ‘Incredulous’ and it wasn’t ‘Insane’. This was Inevitable.