By Big Mac, the OAP Blogger from Byker

Right then, pet, pull up a chair and stick kettle on, ‘cause Big Mac’s got summat to say about this lot in black an’ white.

Ah divvent care what any pundit on the telly says, man, this run of defeats from Newcastle United is nowt to dee wi’ tired legs, small squads, Mercury in retrograde, or the price of Greggs pasties. These lads are paid more in a week than ah got in forty year at the shipyard, and ah managed not to fall apart every time someone put pressure on us.

Up front, we’ve got all the menace of a wet digestive biscuit.

The ball goes oot wide, comes back in, nowt happens. Again. And again. It’s like watchin’ someone try to open a tin of beans with a spoon. There’s graft, aye, but absolutely nee progress. Striker’s stood there surrounded by defenders like he’s lost at Eldon Square on a Saturday. Midfield? Miles away. If they were any deeper they’d be in Sunderland.

And dinna get us started on creativity. Used to be we’d have lads stormin’ into the box like bargain hunters at a Boxing Day sale. Now it’s all polite, like they’re queuin’ for the post office.

Then yesterday against Everton, wor back four went from solid brick wall to soggy Rich Tea in about five minutes.

Full-backs both halfway to Whitley Bay when we lose the ball. Centre-halves lookin’ at each other like, “You gan, nah you gan,” while some Everton lad just strolls through the gap like he’s walkin’ his dog on the Town Moor. Defensive midfield screen? Missing. Probably stuck in traffic on the Tyne Bridge.

It was pure panic stations. Not organised panic like a fire drill. Proper kitchen-on-fire panic.

Pressing’s gone all to pot as well.

One lad charges in like an overexcited labrador, the rest stand off like they’ve just remembered they left the iron on. Opponents ping two passes and suddenly they’re in acres of space, and wor defence is backpedallin’ faster than me when ah accidentally liked a Facebook post from 2012.

That famous intensity? Looks less like controlled aggression and more like eight blokes chasin’ the same carrier bag doon Shields Road.

Confidence, mind, that’s the sneaky one.

Ye can see it. Extra touch here. Wrong pass there. Shot when they should pass, pass when they should leather it. It’s like they’re all tryin’ not to be the one who messes up, which of course guarantees somebody will.

Football’s a simple game made complicated by overthinkin’. And right now, this lot are thinkin’ so hard they could power the Metro.

But here’s the thing, pet.

This isn’t a bad team. Not even close. It’s a good engine runnin’ slightly out of tune. Timing off. Distances wrong. Press half a second late. Runs half a yard short. At this level, that’s the difference between lookin’ like world-beaters and lookin’ like you’ve accidentally wandered into the wrong five-a-side pitch.

Give them a spark, one scruffy win, one moment where the ball pings in off someone’s backside, and suddenly they’ll look like Brazil ‘70 again.

Until then, Big Mac will be here in his armchair, mutterin’ into his tea, shoutin’ at the telly, and wonderin’ why nobody ever just shoots when ah tell them to.

Because honestly, pet…

It’s not complicated.

Put ball in net.

Stop other lot puttin’ ball in net.

Try not to defend like you’ve just met each other in the car park.

Haway The Lads!