22nd December 2018. I caught an early train from King's Cross to Newcastle, travelled to my mam's place to drop off my baggage, then immediately doubled back to NUFC v Fulham.
The pre-Christmas home fixture is usually one of the best atmospheres of the season, and I was attending SJP for the first time in a year. Mr Exile, the driving force behind our decision to go, bounced up to the entrance of the marvellous Town Wall pub.
"I'm dead excited," he said.
"Me too," I replied. "It's therefore important that we remember this is Mike Ashley's Newcastle, and the game will be f***ing shit."
"f***ing shit" proved to be a wildly optimistic prediction. What unfolded before us was the single worst game of football I've ever seen. It finished 0-0 because for the entire duration neither team ventured anything at all, and about 50% of their low risk manoeuvres were executed with slug-like incompetence. The crowd reached such levels of frustration they seemed in genuine danger of gnawing themselves to death.
Fulham accepted a draw because it prevented Newcastle widening the points gap between them. Newcastle accepted a draw because it prevented Fulham narrowing the points gap between them. The match amounted to an accountancy exercise that simply may as well not have taken place. Yet the combined wage bills of the two teams stumbling around the grass must have been around £50 million, and the combined fees double, if not triple that. The Best League In the World, don't you know.
November 2019, Mr Exile texted me to say, "You're going with me to the Palace game." And so here I am on the train to York, to change at Darlington, to be picked up to go on to watch a Steve Bruce team missing the player in whose absence they pretty much cannot score lamp high balls in the general direction of Andy Carroll. The opposition, meanwhile, will showcase Roy Hodgson's dreary proficiency, possibly enlivened by the one man band Zaha remorselessly targeting whoever of Manquillo or Yedlin starts at right wing back. A repeat of Palace's late 1-0 win in the corresponding fixture last season seems very plausible, adorned by a cameo from Dwight Gayle grabbing his chance to prove that when playing at this level he ceases to be able to kick a football properly.
I have had eight hours sleep in the last two days. You can all count yourselves lucky I won't have internet access for the next week to go into this occasion in depth. Have a very Corporately hollowed-out Christmas. Sorry, I think I mean Merry Christmas.