They think?

They think they're big, they think they're loud,
But ask them who has had the biggest crowd.
They like to shout, they like to boast,
But ask them who has won the title the most.
Five one, five one you hear them bark,
But ask them who won nine one at Sid James's Park.
Their fans are thick, smelly and numb,
And that is why they get called SCUM!!!!Ha'Way The Laaads...Let battle commence...

 

Fantastic MrRAW

 

Well done, that should have them biting.

 

Very good

 

May not draw a bite as it is so true.

 

Good but nowt on wor Henry.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for Brucey, Sun'lun, and Saint Niall!'

 

Sent shivers up me spine...

 

Nice one Reginald..

If you bump into my lad tomorrow then get him to buy you a beer from me.. I will well re-imburse him..

Enjoy..

 

What does he look like Joe?

 

Good but nowt on wor Henry.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge Cry 'God for Brucey, Sun'lun, and Saint Niall!'

my god it's so good Will Shakespeare hisself would have been proud to pen such patriotic prose ;-)
cheers mate it made my night as the red wine goes down with St. Crispins eve rallying call to the English warriors,
Hic !!

 

Handsome lad, carries a good pouch, stands out in the crowd..err no thats me haha. He will be looking for you in your bright yellow attire but I'll pm a photo..

 

A little bit of Benwell stinks of ****e
A little bit of walker, what a sight,
A little bit of Byker on the dole,
A little bit of Elswick, a ****hole,
A little bit of Fawdon, burnt out vans,
A little bit of kenton, teenage grans,
A little bit of Scotswood on the run,
A little bit of this makes you all scum

FTM

 

Courtesy of Sir Winston Churchill

We have before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind. We have before us many, many long hours of struggle and of suffering. You ask, what is our policy? I will say: It is to wage war, by sea, land, and air, with all our might and with all the strength that God can give us; to wage war against a monstrous tyranny never surpassed in the dark, lamentable catalogue of human crime. That is our policy. You ask, what is our aim? I can answer in one word: It is victory, victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory, however long and hard the road may be

 

The Derby
Steam rising off the eleven thoroughbreds at the gate
Waiting to battle the eleven they’ve grown to hate,
Their veins pulsing rapidly at the surface of their skin,
Breathing deeply, waiting for the mayhem to begin.
This coming, exhausting, ninety minutes is all it takes
To make heroes of eleven men or fifty thousand heartbreaks.
The stands are packed and alive with the roker roar,
The bairns under their old man’s coats, they can’t bear it any more.
The noise is passion, deafening and heard all around
The Wear where the miners and ship builders rest in the ground.
The air is electric and lit by the sound of the valkryies
That is until the moment the earth seems to freeze.
Out come the lads, these champions of the local folk
And an animal is made of the mildest of bloke.
Wild eyed and screaming, urging on his team
Nothing else matters next to this bloodythirsty theme.
He’ll scream for the passion, the glory, the pride
And kiss the brassen foot of a hero who died
Leading their region to their greatest success.
Walking through the turnstile they’re a nervous mess,
Hand shaking, a single bead of forehead sweat hits the floor
Desperately trying to forget being beaten by four
By the heathens from the north who the City hate.
They remindsthemselves of the time that they won by eight.
And silence in their mind, a thousand thoughts seeping,
Up the concrete steps they find themselves leaping.
Just in time to hear the whistle below shrill.
The next ninety minutes hold for half death
And the other half a kind of heavenly thrill
But at that whistle’s blow, no man has his breath.

I'm nee Andrew Motion like.

 

This is bloody great mate...

We're quite a cultured bunch whilst the Skunks are just a bunch of ****s..

 

It’s the eve of the day that we just cannot bear

anticipation and expectation hanging heavy in the air

It’s not life or death it’s much bigger than that

will Samson kill the Magpie? Or will the bird do the cat?

The result of the game will add to a story,

which set of fans will bask in the glory?

At least until next time when it all starts again

and we all get to flirt with the pride or the pain

So let’s back our lads with all that we’ve got

and send Geordie home sad, humbled, and flat

while ecstatic Mackem hordes dance away from the scene

of the latest proud chapter in our history under Quinn.

And when we reflect many years down the line

On the day that we beat our old foe from the Tyne

we will all get to say “I was there for that game”,

The day we sorted Geordie….what a shame, what a shame!!!


Blackcat

Ha’way the lads!!!