All’s well that ends well after theatre of screams stages a comedy of errors | OneFootball

Football, eh? You honestly couldn’t make it up.

All week, after the narrow defeat by the Woolwich dashed hopes of a second-place finish, Newcastle United’s fans had pored over the Premier League table, pontificating on the many permutations that would produce Champions League football next season.

Starting the day in fourth place after 37 matches, we knew a win against Everton would be the perfect outcome. It would earn us a place at the high table of European club football and end a wonderful season in fitting style.

A draw would possibly be enough, though leaving United dependent on other results going our way.

How many supporters spent long considering what might happen if the pantomime villain from Sunderland kept a clean sheet while his teammates breached our defences?

The profound optimism I had felt since the League Cup triumph started to waver in midweek. Logically, this was absurd. Everton, deprived of their two best centre-halves through injury, were playing for nothing except their pride. They would finish in 13th position whatever happened at St James’ Park or elsewhere.

On Thursday the bookies were offering 7/1 against an away win. There’s a maxim that suggests backing the outsider of three sometimes pay dividends. United were big odds-on, having won their five most recent home matches. The draw was considered highly unlikely.

As one of the world’s worst punters, I had a clear duty to back Everton. Such bets are my humble contribution to a United win. Unable to cheer on the Mags in person, I feel it’s a price worth paying.

So that’s why I stuck £15 on the Toffees, even though I still believed we would fulfil our Champions League destiny. There were few other takers, because the price had drifted to 10/1 just before the 4pm kick-off. No, I didn’t double down . . .

Listening to the commentary on Talksport 2 and watching the action at the City Ground while keeping tabs on the scorelines at Old Trafford and Craven Cottage, I yearned for Isak or Tonali or Barnes or Murphy or Gordon to score.

Man City struck first, thus tightening their grip on third place. No worries, we were still fourth. And Forest v Chelsea was goalless. Little had changed. Wood, one of three ex-United starters in the Forest team, missed a decent chance just before half-time, the sort of chance he had been tucking away nearly all season.

Fourth became fifth in the 50th minute when Chelsea took the lead at the City Ground. It was also the 50th minute at St James’, because the Premier League had synchronised the restart in all three four matches that would determine who would (and who would not) finish in a Champions League place. That was why United’s and Everton’s players stood around for several minutes after re-entering the field of play.

Agonisingly, fifth became sixth 10 minutes later, when Carlos Alcaraz (the Argentine footballer, not the Spanish tennis ace) found the net at the Gallowgate End. To hell with my £15 punt, this just wasn’t funny any more.

Neither did it make sense. There were still no goals at Old Trafford, even though another of my least-favourite keepers, Martinez, had got himself sent off for fouling Hojlund. The red card was shown for the denial of a clear goal-scoring chance. Hojlund? Goal scorer? Don’t make me laugh! If ever there was a reason for the VAR to correct an on-field decision, this had to be the time. No, the red card stood and Martinez had to walk. If that proves to be his final appearance for Villa, it was certainly a memorable one.

Like all fans of the one true United, I hoped the 10 men would crumble. Then I remembered who they were up against. Forget it.

A few minutes after we conceded (can I just say Alcaraz looked a decent prospect while he was at Southampton as a 20-year-old) the dreadful afternoon’s events became truly horrific when Rogers struck for Villa. That put them on 69 points as things stood, level with Chelsea, while we floundered on 66. There seemed no way back.

Despair turned in an instant to confusion and then renewed hope. The referee at Old Trafford had blown for a foul on the keeper before the ball crossed United’s goal-line. Under the arcane VAR protocols, the decision could not be reversed.

Apparently, VAR could have intervened if the referee had blown a second or two later. That’s all I know, though from what I saw on Match of the Day last night the man in the middle made the correct call.

We’re all familiar with the traditional favouritism enjoyed by the hosts at this crumbling monolith. For once, it was working in our favour. Villa were clinging to fifth position on a notional 67 points. A goal for the Salfords would be almost priceless.

Home supporters at the so-called Theatre of Dreams have endured their worst season in more than 50 years as it has become the Theatre of Screams. Could Amorim’s allsorts do us an almighty favour while we were firing blanks?

For once, they could. And they did. Amad Diallo, an ex-mackem, stepped forward to score the all-important goal. That meant the 10 men of Villa had to equalise if they were to push us from fifth down to sixth. They couldn’t and they didn’t. Indeed, they conceded a late, late penalty that sealed their fate.

For all Villa’s protests to PGMOL, the referees’ defence mechanism, they have finished the season one place below United. Both teams accrued 66 points but we won 20 matches to their 19, we scored 68 goals to their 58 and we conceded 47 goals to their 51.

This season we played 48 games. Next season that is the minimum: 38 in the domestic league, eight in the Champions League first phase, one each in the FA Cup and League Cup. As a point of reference, Villa played 57 in 2024-25.

United’s players and management have given the fans their greatest season since 1969. It’s a remarkable achievement from a squad severely stretched by PSR restrictions and long-term injuries. While Villa, among other rivals, splashed the cash to recruit when already successful, we sold two young players in Anderson and Minteh who would have boosted the potency of our bench. There is a pressing need to expand the first-team options.

The true test of a great manager is one who gets more out of his players than they realised was possible. Kevin Keegan did it in the Nineties. Sir Bobby Robson did it in the Noughties. Now, Eddie Howe has done it. His reign at St James’ Park is, I hope, far from over.