Newcastle fan here. Hope I am not contravening rules by posting here. Below is an analysis of the game from NUFC.com. I've deleted the bits at the end wher they engage in a bit of unhelpful name calling, but that aside I'd be interested in hearing the extent that you regard it as a fair summary: Passion. A much-used word in footballing circles, whose meaning is as indefinable as the current buggers muddle that masquerades as the offside law. Mention the 'D' word (derby) though and the 'P' word inevitably follows, along with sundry other staples such as form departing through windows. Whatever it means though, a 50 year-old South Londoner and a bespectacled 60 year-old from Northern Ireland certainly found enough of it to embarrass themselves at pitchside in the manner of last bus drunks - not bad going for a noon kickoff on a Sunday... Alan Pardew and Martin O'Neill managed to wind each other up and had successfully programmed players from Stoke to Senegal and Stockton to Salford into believing the Tyne-wear hype - setting about each other with something approaching a malevolent glee from the first whistle. Lee Clattermole may have opened proceedings with a trademark scythe, but there were plenty of others on both sides just as prepared to tickle toes, aided by light rain that made the playing surface even more slide-worthy. Maybe it was the presence of an ex-Celtic boss that brought to mind comparisons with the Old Firm fixture, in particular the Souness era when Ibrox incomers like Graham Roberts and Chris Woods took the rivalry to a higher level than home-grown players had managed. Or maybe 22 local players would have gone at each other today like a regional heat of British Bulldog if this was a truly local affair... For all the sledging and posturing on and off the field though, this was still a relatively bloodless affair more akin to the Haye v Chisora kerfuffle than a genuine toe-to-toe, questions in the house, preparing files for the CPS type of slugfest as is regularly witnessed in Glasgow. The malice was more than evident, along with the suspicion this will steadily get nastier while O'Neill is winding up his lot and we're attempting to match him. Professional boxing may soon be back on Tyneside, but this was strictly amateur stuff, with the elements of wind and water as prominent as fire. Cheick Tiote crumpled to the floor in the manner of JFK (the President, not our ex-boss) when Sessegnon tapped his jaw, but it was vaudeville stuff - casual viewers in the USA may believe that this was all scripted, like their dreadful wrestling. In that quest for the other mythical prize of bragging rights, a rerun of last season's 5-1 demolition was never on the agenda, despite the red and whites arriving after their first back to back league defeats. Much has altered since ridding themselves of the pie eater, not least of which was the collective mackem mindset today - far more cold-hearted than Brucey ever managed to achieve - something which cost ultimately cost him his job. What football that was played between the hacking came mostly from the visitors though, who proved as adept as Wolves in squeezing the midfield area, isolating our forward line and picking up possession from our inevitable hopeful punts and stray passes. Going behind was still an almighty shock to the system and one that we'd only just begun to come to terms with by the break - the only real heart-stopping moment coming when the otherwise invisible Demba Ba headed Ryan Taylor's header against the crossbar. Little was seen of our Senegal strike duo, with Cisse struggling to make an impact and in a less overt way than Tiote looking as if he was playing the occasion rather than the game with some avoidable "in your face" disputes - not quite Gazza playing the flute, but maybe some misplaced effort. Hopefully he'll learn to channel that aggression better next time round. A first sign that change was afoot came during half time with Ben Arfa stripped for action and warming up on the pitch. The change when it came saw Davide Santon fail to reappear, with our number 10 slotting in at outside right and Taylor reverting to left back role that he'd scored from on wearside. That looked slightly rough on our Italian, whose attempts at pushing forward in possession during the first half had been among our more positive moves. Our money had actually been on Yohan Cabaye making way for his countryman, after another little moment when he took exception to being tackled and the Gallic lip looked to be on, as had been the case against QPR. That change - and whatever was said at half time (perhaps giving 150% instead of a mere 110%) - had an instant effect on United though and they sent a trio of range-finders past Mignolet's goal within the first few moments; more than they'd managed throughout the whole of the previous half. Renewed optimism at that point that we'd get something from the game sparked the home crowd back into life and when the mackems were reduced to ten men just before the hour mark, normal service was seemingly on the verge of resuming round these parts. That marked the end of the red and whites as an attacking force, although Krul somehow managed to prevent them taking a two goal lead shortly before Sessegnon walked, saving first from Sebastian Larsson and then hurtling across goal to deny James McClean with an even better block. Despite our overwhelming dominance of possession, the deliveries into the box remained haphazard and the inspired Ben Arfa was left high and dry on a few occasions as his colleagues again tried to bludgeon their way down the left via a succession of Gutierrez dribbles that never quite came off. Cometh the hour, cometh the Mag and our talismanic mackem knacker duly appeared from the bench to place one shot narrowly wide and then induce a rash challenge from substitute Frazier Campbell that was a far more obvious penalty than various other hopeful shouts at that end (although one handball claim was almost universally appealed for by the Newcastle players, not just the crowd). Having done the business twice before in identical situations, Ameobi enquired of the ball-grabbing Ba but having failed to persuade him to relinquish possession, saw our first choice penalty taker step up and shoot low and weakly on goal. With eight minutes of normal time remaining and what looked like a golden opportunity tossed away, one part of Level Seven was in Heaven, ready to acclaim their managerial messiah and by dint of our penalty taking choice, having seemingly broken the Shola curse once and for all. They reckoned without the remarkable powers of that particular adopted Geordie though, who once again staked a claim as the ultimate impact substitute/folk hero in the second minute of added time. Like Ian Rush appearing at Everton to score for us in the FA Cup, this has now become a self-fulfilling prophecy, with wearside the only place in the country where the name of Ameobi is feared. And as long as he can retain a modicum of mobility, there's no reason why our number 23 can't keep doing this against them for another decade - that's Sho business! What could hardly have been more of a great escape had Ameobi vaulted a fence on a motor bike then came unbelievably close to what would have been an improbable victory, time seeming to stand still as the ball got stuck under Williamson's feet deep in the box and with the goal apparently gaping.
