Newcastle fans launch takeover campaign

From The Times, another one from George Caulkin...

The emails were dispatched at 2am on Tuesday morning. All 40,000 of them, which the Newcastle United Supporters Trust [NUST] believes might just make it the biggest-ever mail-out to football fans. In spite of the bleary-eyed hour, within the first 20 minutes, 120 people had signed up for more information and pledges of financial backing had come from as far afield as Australia.

There was a humbling message from an orphanage in Ghana, where the NUST have previously sent Newcastle shirts to disadvantaged children, kids whose lives put notions such as sport, victory and defeat into its proper perspective, with an offer to invest £5. In emotive terms, a value could not be placed on their gesture and at that moment, their challenge felt that bit more manageable.

Eight hours later, the NUST officially launched a six-week campaign to raise awareness about their ‘Yes We Can‘ proposal to buy Newcastle United from Mike Ashley. Organisers stood on the Millennium Bridge their backs to a mural on the exterior of the Baltic art gallery. “Victory to the miners,” it read. “Victory to the working class.” It felt like a symbolic message.

Their scheme is bold and it has to be, but it has not been formulated on the back of a cigarette packet. Over the past few months and weeks, they have spoken to fans‘ groups, local businesses (it is understood that Barry Moat, whose recent takeover attempt failed, is not one of them), institutions and politicians about the viability of their project and how to take it forward. As they put it, “It’s about reclaiming our football club for the city".

They mean business. About £35,000 will be spent on an advertising campaign, the initial aim of which is to raise enough money (£10million would be a decent start) to demonstrate their intent to larger investors who, the NUSC insists, are already committed in principle. And, indeed, to Ashley. They have, they say, some impressive partners on board, whose identities will be revealed over the coming days.

The ultimate goal is fan ownership of Newcastle, a model operated, famously, by Barcelona, but also elsewhere, with a president voted for by members who would themselves be able to stand for election to the trust’s board. It will require investment from individuals, from a minimum £1,500 in cash or the reallocation of pension funds. All of that information can be found here.

Could it work? Yes. Will it? That, of course, is the £80m question (or however much Ashley now values Newcastle at), and it is not coincidental that the NUST have appropriated Barack Obama’s optimisitc, against-the-odds campaign slogan for last year’s American presidential election: ‘Yes we can’. What cannot be doubted is that they are good, decent, serious people who adore their football club.

A lot has been written and said about Ashley’s stewardship of Newcastle (even he has called it “catastrophic”). Most depressing about it is that alternatives have dissolved away. Aside from apathy or anger for the sake of it, only one remains. What follows is a brief chat with Mark Jensen, editor of the respected fanzine The Mag, who is acting as a spokesman for the campaign.

What is ‘Yes We Can’ all about?

MJ: “Everybody has seen the protests, both verbal and visible, against Mike Ashley and what’s happened at the club, but it’s not just about him. For years before him, the club wasn’t run in the way it should have been in most people’s eyes and the biggest protest comes now: the fans are leading the way in looking to buy the club. It sounds very ambitious, but everything we’ve done in the last few months behind the scenes - the research we’ve done with businesses and supporters - leads us to believe that it's definitely achievable. We’re putting the final touches to the business plan and this six-week campaign will see us advertising in the local media and doing various events to raise awareness. The first base is to get a seat at the table whereby representatives can negotiate with Mike Ashley the full amount to buy the club then that would become the target. In private, we've been meeting with very, very credible local businesses and people. They’ve assured us that as long as the fans have the appetite to raise X amount, they’ll come in behind it and make this all a reality.”

How do you persuade people that buying the club is a viable proposition?

MJ: “You only have to go back to 1997, when the club was floated on the Stock Market: the fans bought 10 per cent of the club then and, actually, the offer was oversubscribed. They were prepared to raise money then. The point has been reached now where everybody who is willing and able to could and should invest in the club. We’ve got an opportunity for Newcastle United to be the shining light in this country, as to how a club should be run. That’s the carrot being dangled in front of everybody; as well as having a club that could hopefully go on to win things, it would also be run in the right way and for all the right reasons. It isn’t just a few fans expecting to turn up and the run the club. It’s about fans giving the platform whereby fans, businesses and local institutions could all invest to make a viable club and then appoint people who could run it on a day-to-day basis. Nobody could tell me that what we’ve got in mind wouldn’t end up being better than what we’ve got now.”

So it’s about giving the club back to the city?

MJ: Reclaiming it, yes. That’s it in a nutshell. People are so fed up. But it’s been unbelievable this season. If you’d told me in the summer that Newcastle would be averaging crowds of more than 40,000 in these circumstances ... People are showing their opposition to Mike Ashley but also showing their support for the team and there was no better example of that than on Saturday. The atmosphere was brilliant and we were playing Peterborough United with nearly 44,000 people there. It was more than Liverpool had at home in the Premier League on Monday night. If anybody asks ‘how can Newcastle be a success in the future?’, that tells you everything. The fans desperately want to go and support their team and this is their opportunity to have much more than that.”

Newcastle are top of the league, but how perilous is the club’s position away from that?

MJ: “In the short-term you can look at the results and how we’re doing in the Championship and think that things aren’t too bad, but the more games we win and the more that promotion becomes a reality, the more it looks as though we would have to buy pretty much a whole new team. Judging on their past performances, I don’t think anybody would have faith in Ashley or Derek Llambias to successfully do that. People have been hoping that some white knight would be out there, but they have to accept that it’s very unlikely to happen. And that’s how we once felt about Ashley, too. He’s proved to be anything but. Maybe the salvation for Newcastle United is with the people who care most about it, ordinary fans and business people.

You’re asking for a big financial commitment from people. What guarantees do they have that their money will be looked after properly?

MJ: “Firstly, it’s not a case of fans looking after other fans’ money. It’s about appointing proper professional people, the best people possible, to do that job. As things stand, is Derek Llambias the best qualified person to be in control of the money that comes into the club now? I think we know the answer to that. We would emulate what successful clubs have done and learn from them - up until now, Newcastle haven’t done that and that’s why we’ve ended up in this position.

So you have substantive people waiting in the background who will become involved?

MJ: “Yes. Newcastle is a damaged brand - that’s one of those phrases we have to use these days - it’s a business and to be successful on the pitch, it has to be successful off it. There are very, very credible people from the local business community - names that people will recognise - who are committed to coming on board. But they need the fans to show they’ve got the appetite to do their bit and then, together, we can turn the club around. Maybe it wouldn’t work for those businesses to come in by themselves. Why can’t we create something much bigger and better than just expecting local businessmen to come in and do everything? Why shouldn’t we do our bit and, potentially, have a really sound, long-term investment in a club we all invest in week after week?

Long-term is the key, isn’t it?

MJ: “How quickly things can happen will depend on how many people respond. We’ve sent out 40,000 emails to names we’ve collected over the last few months and we’ve already had a very good response from them. The financial plan will be ready in six to seven days’ time, whereby people will have all the information they need as to how they can go about making an investment. We’ll be pointing towards independent financial advisors, because the level of investment possible depends on individual circumstances, but if it’s right for them, hopefully they’ll come on board. The committee members are all putting money into it - it's not throwing money down the drain, it’s about investing in what could be a great club again and a very successful business.”

Babbling of my two-year old daughter...

I love Kevin Keegan, love him

Seven years in that city made it my home - even now when I'm away from it. I queued up in front of the gates at St. James' when Keegan returned. I took my six year old son to a reserve game where he had a glimpse of the King at the stands and he still talks about it. From thousands of miles away, I open the fanzine pages first thing in the morning. I haven't seen a premier league game since the beginning of the season, but check out the championship results on a match day even from my mobile phone - such is the "pull" of this city.

Following is another excellent piece from George Caulkin - about my home and my home town football club, and the man who won't be forgotten...

I love Kevin Keegan, love him

- George Caulkin

I love Kevin Keegan, love him. I don’t love him because he has been attempting to wrest compensation from Newcastle United and I certainly don’t love him because I’ve got a Messiah complex (and it would be greatly appreciated if somebody, anybody, took notice of that). I don’t love him because he left the club at a difficult moment a year ago, nor do I love him because he has held his tongue since doing so.

Before anyone gets any funny ideas, I love other football people, too.

In no particular order, I love Niall Quinn, Steve Gibson and I ****ing love Peter Reid. I desperately love Sir Bobby Robson, I love Alan Shearer and I’ve got a feeling that I’m going to love Steve Bruce and Darren Bent. I’m pretty damn keen on Steve Harper and Gareth Southgate. I love Newcastle, Sunderland and Middlesbrough. I love my home.

But this is a column about Keegan, who has been thrust back into the headlines recently. I loved him as a player, the belief that everything begins with hard work, the (Mag)Pied Piper qualities he demonstrated at St James’ Park. I love him because of his approach to football, the freedom he nurtured in his teams, the self-respect. When he returned as manager, I love it that the first thing he did was fumigate the dressing-rooms.

After he dragged Newcastle off their knees, I loved 1992-93, when the side shimmered with neat, quick, triangular football and were promoted as champions. I loved it because Keegan urged supporters to gaze at the stars and believe anything was possible. I love it even more now, because so much of football feels hemmed in. I loved it that the glorious mania prompted rogue sightings of Roberto Baggio in Wallsend chipshops.

I loved it when Keegan opened Newcastle’s training ground to fans and hundreds of them turned up. From a professional point of view, I loved it that he welcomed reporters to Maiden Castle every day, where they could tap players on the shoulder and, if they agreed, talk to them. From a personal point of view, I loved it because one of those players became my best man, even if our friendship lasted longer than my marriage.

I loved hearing about Keegan’s powers of persuasion, convincing Robert Lee that Newcastle was closer to London than Middlesbrough and then moulding him into an England international. I didn’t care that his tactical prowess was mocked, because he made players feel like gods and somehow prompted them to overachieve. I loved his unshakeable faith in attacking football.

I loved the headlong tilts at the title, the acquisitions of Les Ferdinand, David Ginola and Shearer. I wish that Newcastle had grasped the championship ahead of Manchester United, although I loved that season anyway and never winning anything but singing regardless is now ingrained as a defining feature of those born with a black-and-white lifetime sentence.

I didn’t love it when he took his leave of Tyneside in 1997, although I understood it. In the space of five years, the club had been transformed beyond all recognition and in the rush to embrace the City, they would be transformed further. I never loved the Hall or Shepherd families, although like many people, I was blindsided by the ambition, the changes to the ground and convinced myself that the shares, dividends and salaries were forgivable.

In the face of widespread bewilderment - including my own - I loved it when Keegan came back to Gallowgate in January 2008. Anybody who was present in the city on that heady day will have felt something similar; a veil lifting, eyes opening, hearts beating. It had not been that way for a very long time and this was a reminder that football could be fun, impetuous, beautiful, mad.

For similar reasons, I loved it when Keegan said the following in an interview with this newspaper: “I want people to dream about their football club. They should, we should all be dreamers at heart. Some people are the opposite and say ‘we can’t do that’, but when you ask them why, they can’t give a reason. Well, I say, ‘Why not?’”. He talked about “unfinished business” and I think he believed he could charm and cajole Mike Ashley.

I detested the way Keegan was treated. Having embraced Geordie sentimentality and appointed a man who dealt in dreams, Ashley strapped his manager into a straitjacket. He brought in Dennis Wise as executive director (football), roles were not defined with any clarity, Keegan was slapped down in public and ultimately left when - allegedly - players were signed without his approval. It was nonsensical and, this time, not in a good way.

The last 12 months have not been kind to Keegan, but that is not his fault. When Sam Allardyce was sacked as manager, his contract was settled within days, but a dispute over whether Keegan resigned or was pushed has meant a long, bitter process. As Newcastle struggled and then suffered relegation, it was natural that some sympathy would swing against him, although he has not been able to speak out. He remained silent in the face of briefings against him.

Keegan stood up for principle; managers should manage. The man Ashley hired might have been weathered by his experiences with England - I would term his decision to step down as honest, not weak - but he had always used his power as a bargaining chip (Freddy Shepherd claims to have letters of resignation from him framed on his toilet wall). For better or worse, he then stood up for what he thinks he is owed.

What I hate is that a day before the Premier League arbitration panel which has been hearing Keegan’s case was due to break up and consider their verdict, a story leaked that Newcastle would be threatened with administration should their former employer win. Derek Llambias, the managing director, had already stated publicly that such a measure was not being considered and the timing felt both risible and transparent.

A source close to the takeover saga at Newcastle (some doubt the veracity of ‘sources’ or ‘insiders’, but there are people who will only speak to journalists on the basis of anonymity - honest), insists that Keegan’s claim is not a concern within Seymour Pierce, the bank charged with handling the club’s sale, and that Barry Moat’s bid is ongoing. But 12 months on - four after their demotion - and suddenly administration is an issue!

For all their heartening success on the field since August, Newcastle is still a club being run by men asleep at the wheel, full of contradiction and questions; a club where ‘Malaysian’ businessmen, who Seymour Pierce said had made no contact with them, can be shown around the ground, where Ashley and Llambias can heap praise on Shearer and then let him dangle. And too many other things, whether before or afterwards.

I will love Kevin Keegan whatever result the independent panel come to. I will love him for reasons which Ashley and Llambias could never understand, because he gave uplift to Newcastle, hope and inspiration, he made a region sparkle and people smile. I do not, for a single moment, suggest that he is perfect, but his team came close to perfection. If circumstances ever allow it, I would love to think he’ll discuss it all.

I love him because of something Robson once wrote. “What is a club in any case? Not the buildings or the directors or the people who are paid to represent it. It’s not the television contracts, get-out clauses or the marketing departments or executive boxes. It’s the noise, the passion, the feeling of belonging, the pride in your city.”

He has human flaws. He might, indeed, have material interests. But Keegan always dealt in love.

Newcastle fans are misery-seekers, not glory-hunters

From The Times - another spot-on from George Caulkin.

Newcastle fans are misery-seekers, not glory-hunters

George Caulkin

It was some time during the late 1990s - a decade which featured the Light Brigade beauty of Kevin Keegan’s title challenge and two losing FA Cup finals - that some Newcastle United supporters of my acquaintance reached a conclusion which altered the tone of their day- to-day existence: they would win nothing during their lifetimes. All the available scientific evidence, all the heartache, offered sustenance to their argument.

At a stroke, weight was lifted from their shoulders. Tension slipped away. It was a eureka moment, a discovery which allowed football to be football again. Sometimes there is a point to embracing the unembraceable and, in this instance, there was a logic to it. If you take as your starting point that a football club will never lift a trophy then ... well, you can never truly be disappointed, can you?

Not winning something is now as much ingrained in the Newcastle psyche as the Cup-heroics of the 1950s, Jackie Milburn, black and white stripes and Alan Shearer. It is part of who they are, part of the celebration and, to digress a little, it is also why criticism of their fans for being impatient or demanding is so witless and inaccurate. Glory-hunters? Through no fault of their own, those who follow Newcastle are misery-seekers.

Those friends of mine, while accepting that any quest for silverware was doomed at the outset, had different expectations. They wanted to belong, to feel pride in their city, sing themselves hoarse and enjoy a few drinks. And if the impossible was to happen and Newcastle won a cup, they would happily have torn up their pie charts, pointed to the margin of error in any statistical undertaking and reveled in it.

You may have noticed the use of the past tense. One of those friends has had enough. Midway through last season - post Joe Kinnear and pre Shearer - he stopped going to the match. He’d been a season-ticket holder since school (more than 20 years), but now has a young family to look after. The equation was a complex one - it cost too much money and too much embarrassment - but, purely and simply, he could not do it any more.

Within his circle, the decision caused arguments and distress; give up Newcastle and you give up your essence. But then, a few weeks ago, another one dropped out. He would not be renewing his seat. Because, fundamentally, the conclusion they reached ten years ago has changed.

Following Newcastle now means an acceptance that of all the possible scenarios, the least edifying and most unpleasant will happen. That pain, the loss of faith during the last few seasons, had become too much to bear.

In the long-term, it is not a life-affirming ethos. Perhaps not all supporters accept it and the fact that more than 25,000 people have bought season tickets this summer points to a remarkable level of tolerance, but, in the short-term, it is probably sensible. This has been a summer of limbo, of rot, of waiting, of stasis, and the final outcome may well herald further disillusion.

I spoke to the director of another football club the other day. As usual, the conversation eventually turned to recent events at St James’ Park (it is not only the media who are obsessed with Newcastle). He had met Mike Ashley a few times and actually liked him, although he was less complimentary about his acolytes. “From what I've seen, I think he's a decent bloke. I just wish that one day he would wake up and make a go of things up there,” he said.

Surely it is too late now. Ashley has been incapable of stringing two good decisions together and the outcome has been utterly destructive.

He arrived preaching the long-term and then sacked Sam Allardyce. He tapped into Newcastle’s emotions by appointing Kevin Keegan and then tied his hands together. He recognised the need to have a football department, but chose Dennis Wise to lead it.

He accepted reality last autumn and decided to sell the club. But Joe Kinnear as an interim manager? He took the club off the market, promised to communicate more with supporters and then did nothing of the sort. He vowed to run a dangerously spendthrift club on a sound financial footing, but made a profit in the transfer market when the team was in dire need of strengthening.

Finally, he brought in Shearer, who could do little to prevent Newcastle’s slide into the Coca Cola Championship, but restored discipline to the training-ground, provided a link with fans and reviewed of all playing matters at the club. Ashley admitted his mistakes and said that hiring Shearer was his “best decision”. He then ignored him, putting out the for sale signs, not wishing to leave new owners in the same position he inherited. It has been a compendium of disaster.

The result, three months down the line, is that Newcastle still have no manager and have bought no new players. The season is now underway.

With the transfer market closing at the end of this month, there is only a tiny window of opportunity for Barry Moat or any other potential bidder for the club to influence matters at the club. Once that opportunity disappears, there is no incentive to push through a purchase.

Those friends who still intend to troop up to Newcastle’s ground every other weekend - and who will be there against Reading on Saturday - have already accepted that Ashley will own the club for at least another year. They believe that David O’Leary will be appointed manager (and, make no mistake, this is what Ashley intends to do should Moat not find the money). They hate the idea, but what can you do?

For now, they will put up with it, but discussions about what being a Newcastle fans entails are now commonplace. It feels unsustainable.

The performance of the team during the 1-1 draw at West Bromwich Albion offered some hope and perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, something positive may happen in the next few days. But nobody is betting on it.

This is Ashley’s Newcastle. Things can always get worse.

===========================================================

Tynesiders have been too forgiving so far with Mr. Ashley. I wonder what would have happened if this was my hometown Kolkata. I can surely say - all his Sports Direct outlets would have been mobbed, shut down - no one would work in those outlets, and he probably would never dare to step in the city. Actually, this is exactly what he deserves.

Come on Mr. Ashley - do us (and yourself) a favour and leave.

The Bobby Robson I knew and loved | Football - Times Online

The Bobby Robson I knew and loved | Football - Times Online

Spend time in his company and you grasped why all those footballers revelled under his leadership, says George Caulkin

Robson inspired loyalty and adoration because his spirit was both real and transferable

George Caulkin

To the end, he carried with him a sense of enchantment; wonder that life had offered him such a rich experience, disbelief that people should love him and venerate him in the way they did.

If it was not for the physical manifestations, you would never have known that illness had touched him, because Sir Bobby Robson was not defined by the cancer growing inside him. He was defined by energy, enthusiasm and curiosity. By enchantment.

There were flashes of frustration when the frailty of his body prevented him from driving, or playing golf or tending to his garden, but questions about his health would invariably meet with the same response. “I’m all right,” he would say. “I’m all right.”

And then, with barely a pause, he would manoeuvre the conversation towards its inevitable destination. “So what’s happening at Newcastle, then?” Perhaps it was courage or perhaps it was a by-product of his age and upbringing among Co Durham mining stock. Or perhaps it was just some sorcerer’s life-affirming quality that could persuade the eyes and brain that they were being deceived. Yes, he looked poorly, yes, he was grappling with a fatal disease, but no, it would not claim him. He had an aura of indefatigability. Whatever the evidence, we thought he was invincible.

Spend time in his company and you grasped why all those footballers revelled under his leadership. Take away the nous, the years of accumulating tactical knowledge, his technical qualities as a coach and manager and you were left with an expansive personality that illuminated its surroundings. When you walked away, a bit of his sparkle clung on. It was the quality of a talisman, an Everyman.

Flags were at half-mast at St James’ Park yesterday, just as they were at the Stadium of Light, the home of Sunderland, Newcastle United’s great rivals. Red-and-white shirts mingled with black-and-white in the ground Robson first visited with his father during the Second World War and which was opened to allow supporters to pay their respects.

The sun at lunchtime was warm and blissful and the grass a tempting shade of green. Pull your boots on, son.

Tyneside has witnessed much disillusion and despair in recent months, but this was different. You could feel the history, hear the echo of past glories. Looking across the turf towards the Gallowgate End, the head spun tipsily at the expanse of dynamic space, where not all that long ago, Robson’s team had graced the Champions League. It felt like a football club. Finally, once again, it felt like a football club.

Families sat in the Leazes End engrossed in quiet contemplation. A woman in a Middlesbrough top gazed at the banks of scarves and shirts that had been looped around seats. Just as Sir Bobby straddled the generations — he had watched Albert Stubbins and worked with Alan Shearer — he was a unifying figure, of his region and also far beyond it. Here was proof, in monochrome and colour.

There had been more last Sunday and in the same place, when 33,000 people had defied the financial and, in Newcastle terms, sporting recession to watch a friendly match between England and Germany, organised to benefit the Sir Bobby Robson Foundation and in honour of its patron. It had been a near thing, but Robson had made it, receiving a tumultuous reception as he was pushed around the pitch in a wheelchair.

Robson fulfilled his final fixture, just as against the advice of his family and doctors, he had fulfilled a commitment to attend his own annual charity golf day in Portugal a few weeks ago. Those closest to him made their arguments, rolled their eyes and ultimately accepted what they always knew: he would not be told. Not when he had given his word, not when he had a challenge to complete. Call it principled stubbornness.

You do not get to where Sir Bobby got — to England, to Barcelona, to the Premier League — without sharp elbows, without necessary hardness, but he maintained his dignity, his relish and warmth. He inspired loyalty and adoration because his spirit was both real and transferable. It rubbed off.

He felt and nurtured passion, for football, for Newcastle, for hard work, for the goodness in people, for life.

His achievements in the sport are detailed elsewhere and so, too, are the wider responses to his death, but, even so, please excuse the personal nature of what follows. It is an attempt to contextualise, but also to explain the reactions Sir Bobby could dredge from you, even in a profession such as this one, where cynicism is often rampant. It is also something else: a love letter.

When I joined The Times as their North East football writer in 1998, Robson was a contributor to the newspaper. He was a hero of mine; I’d followed him to Langley Park infants school and, like him, supported Newcastle. When he was appointed as the club’s manager the next year, Oliver Holt, who then ghost-wrote his column and is now the Daily Mirror’s respected chief sports writer, bequeathed the task to me, an act of journalistic generosity that leaves me indebted for several lifetimes.

A relationship would develop, but initially it was about getting a story, pressing him for news, for stronger comments, predominantly about England. But over time and without noticing, the parameters shifted.

Listening to him speak and putting his thoughts into words provoked different motivations. I wanted to do him proud and make him proud. I wanted my efforts to be worthy of him.

It was not such an onerous challenge, because his voice was so distinctive, his turn of phrase so lyrical — although I remember one telephone conversation we had, up against the paper’s deadline, when he was simultaneously talking to Lady Elsie, his wife; he kept calling her “son” and me “love” — but it did not often happen that way.

Few people, never mind football people, make you operate solely from the heart. Last year, he asked me to assist him with a book about Newcastle — the city and the club. Even the request made me weep. It also prompted fear, not only because his autobiographies had been written so beautifully, but because it would form part of his legacy.

To call it the proudest, happiest and most terrifying episode of my career is a gross understatement.

Over the course of last summer, we met regularly at the Copthorne Hotel on Newcastle’s quayside, or at his home in Urpeth, Co Durham. Usually accompanied by Judith Horey, Sir Bobby’s wonderful, longstanding personal secretary, we would sit and chat about his childhood, the memories of Stubbins and Jackie Milburn, his first job down the pit. It was an extraordinary privilege.

The final chapter of Newcastle, My Kind of Toon centred on Sir Bobby’s lengthy tussle with cancer and how it inspired him to establish the foundation that bore his name. “I’ve had a great life, I really have,” he wrote. “When I look back on everything I’ve done and seen, the experiences I’ve had, the myriad colours and memories, I don’t feel as though I’ve ever been ill.

“I’ll puff out my chest and say to Elsie, ‘I’ve been fit all my life, I have’. She’ll look at me as if I’m daft. ‘Bobby, what are you talking about? You’ve had cancer five times’. She’s right, of course, but it rarely interrupted my work and never detracted from my enjoyment of living. If you’re 2-0 down at half-time, what do you do? You look at where the game is going wrong and why and what you’re going to do about it.”

The Foundation has raised more than £1.6 million for anti-cancer projects under the NHS banner, including a specialist research centre at Newcastle’s Freeman Hospital. As ever, the messages from donors were humbling: “You were an inspiration to so many, a true local hero. Rest in peace Bobby”; “Always smiling, passionate and a true gentleman, a credit to England & the world of football”; “In memory of Bobby and my dad”; “My grandad has started treatment at the Freeman. He is very similar to Sir Bobby — a kind-hearted Geordie”.

Typically, he was uncomfortable about the use of his name, that it somehow suggested arrogance. “Why would people want to give money to me?” he said. The answer came not only in the big cheques from powerful friends, but when he went to matches at Newcastle, Sunderland or the Riverside Stadium and left with his pockets bulging with £5 and £10 notes, given by those who could afford no more.

He threw himself into it. Behind the scenes, the likes of Lady Elsie, Judith and Liz Luff, the one-woman publicity machine, toiled assiduously for the foundation, but it would have been worthless without Robson’s determination to drive it forward, even when the news about his own wellbeing was dispiriting and, later, calamitous. He would not miss meetings or engagements, he could not contemplate letting people down.

Self-pity was never an issue and neither, amazingly, was bitterness, in any aspect of his existence. His departure from Newcastle in 2004 was a source of anger, but that quickly faded, even as he watched the club he rebuilt unravel so disastrously. You can get dizzy searching for turning points at Newcastle, but Sir Bobby’s dismissal equated to a moment when soul was lost and respect dissipated.

But hate withered inside him; it had no fertile ground on which to grow. Instead, he reverted to his youth, travelling from Urpeth to St James’ when his health allowed, black-and-white scarf around his neck, relishing the occasion and the atmosphere. As things grew worse, he felt only sadness. When you relayed the latest gossip — usually negative — he would tut and shake his head, but he was forever optimistic.

He was eager for Shearer or, before he accepted the same post at Sunderland, for Steve Bruce to be appointed Newcastle’s next permanent manager; like him, they understand the rhythms of the North East, the yearning, the pride, the special, crazy beauty. Bruce was among the men who travelled to Sir Bobby’s home on Thursday for a last and quiet farewell.

Yet, despite the circumstances, solemnity does not quite fit. “Cancer takes no account of colour — black-and-white or red-and-white, orange or purple, young or old, male or female, weak or strong, we’re all the same,” the old pitman wrote in My Kind of Toon. “I’m desperately proud that a facility in Newcastle, my city, my father’s city, the city where football burrowed deeper into my body than any disease ever could, will bear my name, but more than that, I’m honoured and touched by the response our appeal has had across the region and beyond.

“Yes, I was born into a black-and-white world. But as my last great challenge draws to a close, I am more convinced than ever that we are surrounded by light, not darkness.”

Robson would have been touched by yesterday’s release of emotion; touched, embarrassed and faintly quizzical. Are they talking about me? He would have loved the warm words from football men such as Sir Alex Ferguson and Niall Quinn and he would love it even more if Newcastle could scrape a victory away to West Bromwich Albion next Saturday. He would have loved the cricket score, too.

Apologies are due, again, because this has been a rambling, incoherent sort of tribute — although I hope I’ve got the names right — and Sir Bobby did not take kindly to slackness. There was so much I wanted to tell him, to thank him for, to explain how it felt to be near him, to listen to, to appreciate and learn. He has gone now, but the same feeling lingers: I’m still desperate to make him proud.

Extraordinary life of a coal miner's son

At the time when Newcastle United's future hangs on a thread, courtesy a couple of incompetent fools, this came not as a shock - because it was inevitable - but as a blow to the million fans across the world - for here was a man whose heart and soul was his hometown club. RIP Sir Bobby. From The Independent -

Sir Bobby Robson was a man who never knew when he was beaten.

On the football pitch, disappointment simply spurred him on to greater things; off it, even a prolonged battle against cancer could not diminish his zest for life or the game which occupied so much of his 76 years.

Robson's death has robbed English football of one of its most enduring characters, a player who was good enough to represent his country on 20 occasions before losing his place to Bobby Moore, but a man who made an even bigger name for himself as a manager.

He had his regrets - but for Diego Maradona's infamous "Hand of God" goal in 1986 and the width of a post in Turin four years later, he might have matched Sir Alf Ramsey's achievement of winning the World Cup.

His failure to claim a trophy during a thrilling five-year spell in charge at Newcastle, the club he supported as a boy, left a yawning gap, while the old Division One title twice only just eluded him as unfashionable Ipswich threatened to upset the natural order.

However, Robson will be remembered as a man who made the impossible seem possible, a quality which endeared him to directors, players and fans wherever he went.

But while he lived out his dreams at Wembley Stadium, the Nou Camp and St James' Park, his character was formed in far more humble surroundings.

Robert William Robson was born in County Durham on February 18, 1933 and grew up in Langley Park.

Life at the coal face was not for him - indeed, he was an apprentice electrician when his big chance came along in the shape of a professional contract at Fulham at the age of 17.

He made 344 appearances and scored 77 goals in two spells at Craven Cottage either side of a six-year stint with West Brom, for whom he turned out on 239 occasions and found the back of the net 55 times.

However, for all his undoubted quality as a player, it was after making the step into management that he set out on the road to worldwide fame.

It was not always straightforward - his first job with Vancouver Royals in Canada ended in failure, while he learnt of his sacking as Fulham boss after just 10 months from a newspaper billboard.

But his career was launched in earnest at Portman Road when in January 1969, he was appointed Ipswich boss to begin a love affair which lasted until his dying day.

Robson transformed a sleepy corner of Suffolk into a major seat of domestic and European football, winning the FA Cup in 1978 and the UEFA Cup three years later.

It was little wonder the Football Association turned to Robson after Ron Greenwood's departure as England manager, and although it was a wrench, he could not ignore his country's call.

The injustice of Maradona's intervention and the penalty shoot-out misery which ended the nation's dreams in the semi-finals at Italia 90 never lost their sting for Robson, an nor really did the knowledge that, had he lifted the trophy that summer, his contract would not have been renewed.

But in characteristically philosophical fashion, Robson threw himself into club management again, cutting his teeth in European football Holland with PSV Eindhoven, whom he guided to the Dutch title in his first season in charge.

From there, he continued his education in Portugal with Sporting Lisbon and then Porto with the help of young interpreter Jose Mourinho, who would later follow him to Spanish giants Barcelona before himself moving on to greater things.

Louis van Gaal's arrival in Catalonia signalled the end of Robson's reign and a stop-gap appointment which took him back to PSV for a year seemed to have brought an end to an illustrious career.

However, at the age of 66, the one job he simply could not turn down came his way after desperate Newcastle chairman Freddy Shepherd turned to him in the wake of Ruud Gullit's disastrous reign on Tyneside.

Against the odds, he dragged a club which had flirted with relegation into the upper reaches of the Premiership and beyond that, into the Champions League with a thrilling brand of football which had Tyneside buzzing as it had during the heights of the Kevin Keegan era.

But crucially, the long-awaited silverware never arrived and in August 2004, Shepherd decided the time for change had come.

Robson, who had been knighted for his services to football in 2002, was deeply wounded by his departure, but yet again, refused to be sidelined, and after being linked with a series of managerial posts, accepted Steve Staunton's invitation to assist him with the Republic of Ireland.

But having already survived two bouts of cancer, he was struck down by a brain tumour in August 2006 and complications for once knocked him sideways before he was given the all-clear.

When asked about Robson, Shepherd once commented: "He's a one-off. When they made him, they threw the mould away. There certainly isn't another one."

Robson transcended eras, somehow managing to rationalise the relative innocence of his own playing days with the excesses of the modern game and the challenge of coaching and motivating multi-millionaires.

Today, he finally had to admit defeat in his last battle of all, but he did so having established himself as one of the most successful managers of his generation, a figure of international standing and an unabashed enthusiast to the last.

Not bad for the son of a County Durham coal miner.

Geordie Boy to Lead The Geordie Nation

How I miss Newcastle today. Even from quite a few thousand miles I can feel the pulse of the Geordie Nation - I can see men, women and children in black and whites flocking around the gates of St. James' Park - just as they did a year ago when The King came back. Since then, they have been betrayed most cruelly...the season collapsed, and now the dream is back from despair - I miss the feel of that dream.

Here's an article from The Independent -

Shearer: 'I love this club and I believe I can help it'

As the Newcastle hero takes charge, Michael Walker reports on why he might just achieve the impossible

Thursday, 2 April 2009

They say that you should judge a man by the company he keeps – and so, when Alan Shearer makes his return to Newcastle United this afternoon, it might be worth considering the men either side of the Geordie hero as he trots up the steps into St James' Park once more. Shearer is perceived as dull and wooden by many but those who know Shearer well know a different individual – and by having Iain Dowie and Paul Ferris alongside him, Shearer is making an immediate statement.

Shearer left school in Gosforth in 1986, aged 16, to become an apprentice footballer at Southampton. He had one CSE – in English – and no interest in academia. When he sits down with Dowie and Ferris to discuss the immediate future at a football club seemingly hell-bent on hysteria, Shearer will be talking to an engineering degree student in Dowie and in Ferris a qualified barrister who has a masters degree in the history of ideas. One thing even Shearer's critics acknowledge: he is no mug.

There cannot be many more academically qualified former footballers than Dowie and Ferris, and though in time – if this eight-game spell is a success – Shearer will bring in more obvious Newcastle figures such as Rob Lee, he has in the first instance shown an ability to recognise the differing talent of others and to delegate.

That is a start. What Shearer then brings to the Newcastle dressing room – any dressing room – is a personality that fills it (not the one who looks vaguely uncomfortable on Match of the Day) and inspires it.

As Sir Bobby Robson said when recommending Shearer for the post: "Alan will make a very good manager – he's got clout. Alan might not have any experience but he knows what the club is all about, he knows the supporters, he knows how they feel and he'd be dedicated to it."

"I got a call over the weekend off Derek Llambias [managing director] and Mike Ashley and I went round for a chat," said Shearer. "They asked if I would take charge for the remaining eight games and I asked for a little time to think and spoke to a few people. It's a club I love and I, like many thousands of people, desperately don't want the club to go down and I will do everything I can to try to prevent that. It's a tough situation and I feel deeply for this club. I believe I can help it along with the players. This is for an eight-game spell, I'm looking no further than that."

What Dowie brings is coaching experience. Dowie is known and trusted but his choice is proof of Shearer's sometimes unpredictable nature. In Ferris's case, there is vast experience of football and Newcastle United, for whom he first played as a 16-year-old in May 1982. As Gary Speed put it yesterday, what Shearer has already done is reveal his "common sense".

Speed, a former Newcastle team-mate, golfing partner and close friend, is not unbiased, but Speed describes the sudden Newcastle-Shearer development as "the best thing that could have happened at this time. Imagine what the atmosphere is going to be like against Chelsea on Saturday. That is down to one man. There is a lot of talk about experience and lack of it, but how do you get it? What I'd say is that management is about leadership and character and Alan has that. He is not the man you see on the telly, but then it's not just Alan Shearer who is restrained when on TV."

The Alan Shearer that former playing colleagues know is someone who was one of the lads off the pitch. Shearer has long been fully aware of his market rate, and has transformed the fabled sheet metal-worker's son into a multimillionaire, but while always at the back when it came to running exercises in training, Shearer was to the front when Newcastle players were having nights out on the Quayside and elsewhere.

However, unless you count decking Keith Gillespie outside a bar in Dublin on one Newcastle socialising trip as reckless, Shearer has managed to stay away from the more lurid headlines that afflicted footballers, several of whom were colleagues at Newcastle. Those who know him say the common sense kicks in. He is acutely aware that he is not just the "Al" his mates know, but the public figure who is Alan Shearer.

He understood this quickly. Given his ferocious match-defining abilities, Shearer could easily have got carried away in an era when celebrity culture was beginning to infect football, but he was aware from the earliest England and title-winning days at Blackburn Rovers of the weight of his opinion. Shearer's words can cause tremors like few others' in English football and that is one reason why he became set on hiding behind a device even he called "Shearer-speak".

Among friends that iron curtain comes down and as he wades into the water of management, with its press conference treadmill, Shearer will be expected to give away little pieces of himself. But it will be little by little.

And yet amid that caginess, there is a gambler – and a romantic – to add to the professional public figure and streetwise football man.

It is not just that Shearer has an interest in horseflesh that can lead him into the betting ring: when he made the two most important football decisions of his playing career, on each occasion Shearer shunned the favourite's option of joining Manchester United. In leaving Southampton in 1992, where he and Dowie overlapped for a year, Shearer famously spurned Alex Ferguson for Kenny Dalglish at Blackburn; in leaving Blackburn four years later, Shearer bought into Kevin Keegan's vision at Newcastle rather than, again, Ferguson's trophy parade at Old Trafford. This is not ruthless career progression, this is speculation.

And it went sour. Sitting alone with Shearer at St James' one day late in 1998, he reflected that, with Keegan's departure six months after his arrival, his first bad injury and then Dalglish's dismissal, he was not experiencing "the dream sold to me by Kevin Keegan". It was a difficult period at the club and the rumour of his imminent sale was unrelenting. His tone was downbeat. It felt that a wrong choice had been made at the end of Ewood Park and that the greatest striker of his generation, arguably the greatest English player of his generation, would go unfulfilled. Shearer's response to that notion was: "The club is unfulfilled, not just me. And I'm part of this club."

Although there were excellent Champions League days under Bobby Robson, a record number of goals for the club and an unforgettable testimonial night, that reply remains almost a Newcastle motto.

Shearer is now in a position to change that. But only if his impact is instant. There is a belief that due to the state Newcastle have got themselves into, Shearer is in a win-win situation even if the club is relegated. But a couple of losses soon change opinion. Shearer may be football-smart, possess common sense and natural clout, but this is still a gamble. It is another one featuring Newcastle United.

====================================================================

All the best Newcastle - I'll see you on Saturday from few thousand miles away.

Kolkata to Chilika - a travelogue

Not many people do long drives in India - for one because you have a wide range of options for public transport - trains, buses, planes, and secondly because you don't get roads like the UK motorways or the US Interstates. Driving is a hassle here, irrespective of the newly built Golden Quadrilateral - a network of high quality roadways connecting the four corners. And that's why this first attempt of mine to drive all the way to the Chilika Lake (in Orissa) from Kolkata, a total distance of around 1200km (up and down) was unnerving to say the least. But I gathered some courage and took tips from other travellers on the Team-BHP forums and planned for the trip.

23rd January, 2009 - Kolkata to Rambha (Chilika)

It took us almost four hours till one in the morning to pack our bags after coming back from work at half-eight in the evening. And you can imagine why. It's just a couple of dresses for me and my wife, but for the kids you need a bagful of clothes. Add to that a bag of nappies, babyfood, snacks for the long drive, travel utensils contained in a bag from the National Trust (UK), two camera backpacks, a tripod and what not! The rear boot of the car (it's not a big car, a small Suzuki Swift VXi) was full, the front passenger seat packed with bags, and with three passengers (my wife, and two kids - Rik and Riti) at the back, we managed to start at six in the morning, with eyes still sleepy - an after effect of staying up till late for packing and waking up at four in the morning. It was almost quarter past seven when we hit the Bombay Road (NH6) past the Kona Expressway after filling up the tank.

The roads were still fairly empty - the tourists haven't started yet. It took us less than an hour to reach Kolaghat where we were stuck in the age-old traffic congestion because of the ongoing roadwork on a bridge which has been converted into a one-way route. They stop vehicles on both sides and release one side at a time, and it results in huge queues of vehicles which grow worse as the day breaks. You'll find vendors selling tea, coffee, snacks and what not right on the highway. We had our morning tea there, and luckily didn't have to wait for more than half-an-hour in the queue. The road was empty beyond Kolaghat again (I guess most tourists take the route towards Digha and Mandarmoni beach) and we reached near Kharagpur shortly. The NH60 starts there and runs towards Balasore - it's a nice concrete road like in the UK and fairly empty. We had our breakfast in a dhaba near Belda where the people were still cleaning their front-yard at half-nine. After crossing Belda, we reached Daton, after which Orissa starts. The first halt was Jaleswar, where the Orissa Goverment perform an "official theft" from all private registered cars with non-Orissa numberplates. Aparently, from November 1, 2008, they have implemented a law whereby all private vehicles coming into Orissa will have to pay a road tax based on the unladen weight of the car, and the minimum period of this tax is six months - even though you are going for a holiday of may be three or four days - which I think is ridiculous. I've seen some complaints about this on the Team-BHP forums and I tried to argue with the taxman, but had to give up because the rest of the travellers on other vehicles started paying out the tax, which was more of an extortion than a legal tax. But I must acknowledge that the taxman was really cool-headed as he kept on smiling and repeating the law infront of around twenty odd angry travellers swearing at him. I've atleast been able to force him to provide me with a copy of the law with his name and designation, and am thinking of filing a PIL (which people say is quite easy to file, although I have no idea what happens after that).

Anyways, we lost about an hour at the checkpost because of the arguement, and it was around eleven when at last we started on our way towards Balasore. And the normal Indian roads take over from there - a stretch of 60km from Balasore to Bhadrak. If you are only used to UK motorways, then you might find this stretch shocking, but for us, it was okay - especially because we got used to Jessore Road (NH34) which is the only way to my in-law's place. It was nothing worse than NH34, except for thirty odd diversions. The worrying bit was the driving habit of some people - throughout Orissa you'll see the four-lane NH5 being used a two parallel roads, with vehicles moving up and down on both sides - irrespective of what all the rules and your driving sense says:-) Good road starts again after Bhadrak, and we increased our speed, reaching Panikoili at around 2pm, where we had our lunch with alu paratha and kadhai paneer. Feeding the kids is always troublesome and time-consuming, and we could only start at quarter past three, with still 40km to go till Cuttack and then around 30 km till Bhubaneswar and then 100 more kilometres from there.

During all this time, it was mayhem inside the car. Whatever toy or book Rik takes, Riti will grab for it, and the reverse is also true. And if she can't get it, she will let out her patented scream, which is sort of deafening to say the least. If one falls asleep, the other doesn't like it. If Rik sleeps, then Riti climbs up on his shoulder and scream - "Iiiiiiiik Iiiiiik", and if Riti falls asleep, then Rik complains - "Why is she sleeping, when will she get up?" And if both are awake, it's a mayhem - a shouting match. After Cuttack, both fell asleep, and it was peace at last, with my ears getting a much needed rest. Sumana too was half asleep by that time. I stopped after crossing Bhubaneswar and had a cup of tea - it was already half-past five, almost twelve hours since we started, with still about 90km to go and it was getting dark. The road beyond Balugaon was again two-lane, and quite bumpy and broken at places. We crossed few hills on our way which looked fairly scenic but we didn't have time to stop and enjoy the view. It was pitch dark beyond Balugaon, and vehicles from the opposite side were coming with their lights on the full-beams (another menace on the roads here - they don't have any consideration for the others). Some drivers would lower their beam when you flick once, most won't care. In fact, a lunatic trucker rushed towards our car when I flicked and as I tried to save ourselves, our left wheels went out of the paved road onto the ground about six inches below the road level with the chasis getting rubbed on the road making a horrible screeching noise. Anyways, I had to be extra careful after that, and reached the OTDC Panthanivas at Rambha (Chilika) at quarter to eight - total time taken a little less than fourteen hours (ofcourse with a total stoppage time of nearly four hours) and a total distance of approximately 590km.

The Panthanivas was tidy and well maintained - good people and clean rooms with large balconies on the lake side. We were dead tired and simply dropped on the bed after a quick dinner.

24th January, 2009 - Rambha and nearby

I slept with an alarm set on the mobile - with an intention to watch the sun rising over the Chilika lake. At six in the morning, I woke up with my psiatic nerve swollen again - the sky was getting lighter - but it was foggy. My wife decided to watch the sunrise from the balcony and took her post there with her camera, and I walked down to the lake-side. The sun started rising soon after, and people started flocking there - wrapped in sweaters, scarves and monkey-caps (even though it was fairly warm, with the temperature at about 22/24 degrees) - trying to capture the sunrise on their fancy point-and-shoots with their flashbulbs! This was the first time I set my DSLR to the RAW mode and took quite a few snaps - and they seemed rather good.

I came back to our room, had a shower and took our breakfast of toasts-jam-butter-eggs and tea. Then I went to find out about boats for the tour of the lake. The manager of the lodge said that their boats will take us to five nearby islands - but we decided to take the boat on the next day, as firstly we were short of cash (they'd only accept cash) and secondly, it was already late in the morning, and it won't probably be that good on the lake. We thought of driving towards Satapada instead, and see if we can take a boat to the dolphin-spot. We lost an hour because of the unwanted drive to Balugaon to get some cash from the cash machines (the nearest ones) and coming back from there.

A small road went out of NH5 at a place called Pallur Junction towards Satapada. We started on that road and soon after we entered the most remote villages I've ever seen since my childhood visit to Ramnagar, Birbhum - my grandma's birthplace. Narrow roads swerved between muddy houses with thatched roofs and I think not many cars take that route - because people were looking surprised. After lots and lots of turns, we reached the end of the road - Satapada was still 5km, but across the waterway. The next vessel would arrive after two hours - so we decided to take a local fishing boat and go towards the other islands. The boat took us to an island called the Rajhansa (meaning The Swan) - which holds a forest department villa - and a beach which happened to be the most solitary beach I've ever seen. There was miles and miles of golden sand, with not a single piece of dirt anywhere to be seen - and no people other than the four of us - and lots of yellow crabs, who seemed quite camera-shy, and scurried down towards the water as soon as I reached within twenty feet of them. Rik was half-drenched with a wave coming upon him, and Riti started crying - I guess she was scared of the waves and the sound...and didn't come down of her mum's shoulder.

After spending some time on the beach we took the reverse route on the boat again - and got to see the setting sun. The sun was the only worthwhile thing to watch on first day at Chilika - and nothing else - except a swamp - and yes, that solitary beach at Rajhansa. It was almost eight in the evening when we drove down that swerving road again to Panthanivas - had our dinner with chapati, fried potatoes, dal and fish-curry. We planned to take a short boat trip the next morning for bird watching and then drive towards our next stop at Konark.

25th January, 2009 - towards Konark

We again woke up early, had our shower and breakfast and walked down to the jetty to take a ride on a Panthanivas speed boat to the nearby islands. The boat needed to be pushed out of the shallow waters to let the propeller move freely. Even there, the water wasn't too deep and one can see the bottom quite clearly - it would probably be chest height at the most. We saw the Breakfast Island which is a small house built on the lake for the kings to have their breakfast; then an island with some caves which have some deities now; the Bird Island - where we couldn't see a single bird. We were able to see some birds, mostly seagulls on the water, but they all flew away with the boat approaching because of the noise from the boat. And the boat was bouncing so hard that I wasn't able to take proper shots at the birds with the tele lens on my camera. It doesn't make much sense to go bird watching in Chilika - probably Bharatpur is a better bet. And for us it was quite disappointing, because we have been to the Ferne Islands and Seahouses on the North Sea coast where you won't be able to see much of the land because of so many migratory birds.

We came back from the boat trip and started towards Konark, back again on NH5, now driving northwards. The original plan was to take the road towards Puri/Konark from Khurda Road, but the Panthanivas manager suggested another bypass (Jamjat or something like that), midway between Balugaon and Bhubaneswar, and unfortunately, we took that route.

The road practically doesn't exist - you'll only see potholes all over the place with few bits of original asphalt remaining. I could very well realize why Sheikh Ahamad Ali made Mujataba tie a turban on his head during his epic journey from Peshwar to Kabul - the only thing was we didn't have the turbans on our head. You can only go upto 20kmph at the most on the road, with the car swaying dangerously from side to side - almost like a boat, sometimes tilted on one side as if it would topple at the slightest touch. And this went on for about 55-60km, with dust and potholes being our only companions on the road. And then we ended up on the original road toward Puri, the same one which starts at Khurda Road, and diverts at Pipili, and way better than the road so far. We turned towards Puri and just before Puri we took the Marine Drive towards Konark and finally reached Konark at half past three in the afternoon - around five and half hours from Rambha, delayed by at least an hour and half because of the terrible bypass.

And the crowd at Konark was shocking. I've been to the Sun Temple when I was a kid, and as far as I can remember, there were only a few tourists at that time. Now, it seemed almost like the Book Fair in Kolkata with people everywhere. In fact, if you wish to take some snaps of the Sun Temple itself in peace, you'll be disappointed. I tried for hours, but couldn't take a single snap of the sculpture of the Sun God - instead had to satisfy myself with photos of the rest of the temple. We had a guide, but the guy was busy pointing to certain special sculptures (depicting scenes from the Kamasutra) and asking me to explain them to my wife. And, at last finding a place to try out their legs, Rik and Riti made us run behind them all the time...

The OTDC Yatrinivas at Konark was awful. The rooms were dirty, the bathroom shabby - with loose fittings almost out of their sockets. I asked the room service to send two cups of tea, and they probably noted the wrong room number - whatever they did we didn't get the tea. We ordered food at the restaurant at 9pm, and instead of the promised 20 minutes, we got the food at 10pm, and by that time, Riti fell asleep. To keep Rik awake, I let him watch Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets on Cartoon Network - but a couple came in and prompty changed the channel to Star Plus and started watching a wretched award ceremony, totally oblivious of the fact that several kids were watching the Harry Potter movie. We returned to our room at eleven, packed our bags as much as we could so that we could start early in the morning on our way back home - stopping at Bhubaneswar to visit the Lingaraj Temple.

26th January, 2009 - back towards Kolkata

I commented "poor" in almost all points on the comment book and the receptionist asked me why. And I vented my anger from the last night on him. We started from Konark at eight in the morning on our ay towards Bhubaneswar. There isn't much to write about the journey except for the farce about fuel. 26th January is a National Holiday, and all the petrol pumps were closed for the day. But, ofcourse people woule need fuel - especially it was a long weekend and there were loads of tourists - on cars and buses. Some people were selling petrol and diesel filled in cans and bottles infront of the closed pumps right before the eyes of the police, and that too at a higher price - and travellers were being forced to buy. This is called an emergency service, and the same excuse was used to implement ESMA to break the legitimate strike by the petroleum workers just a few days back, but on the other hand, no one cares about the black market created because of the national holiday.

I drove at around 60kmph with the AC at the minimum to save as much fuel as I could. When I started, I had enough fuel to drive upto Kharagpur, and if I couldn't get any more, we'd have to spend the night somewhere. We reached Bhubaneswar at around 10am. You can't take any cameras or mobile phones inside the Lingaraj Temple - and I felt cheated because I couldn't take any pictures, although, the temple had exquisite sculptures. You see, I'm not religious at all - in fact I'm an atheist - but I visit such places just to see the paintings and sculptures and to be able to take pictures of them. While coming out of the temple, I saw that wretched notice - "Non-hindus are not allowed inside the temple" - and my anger started growing and I made a few comments about the notice being extremely racist - and the guards became curious about me. We started from Bhubaneswar at around eleven, driving in the same manner as before - within 60kmph, minimal AC - and finally saw some open pumps after Cuttack where I refilled and was back on road full speed. And again, it was the same mayhem in the car - the shouting match - Iiiiiik etc. - bit of crying too - and we reached Kolaghat at around 7pm in the evening and was stuck in an immense congestion due to that one-way bridge. It took about an hour to get clear of the congestion - we stopped at a dhaba for our dinner with chapati and tarka - and finally rached home at 9.30pm. At last. Total distance covered - 1467km. Time to plan the next trip.

View Album

Get your own