Back in August I contributed an article to The Mag which was entitled “The Phoney War”, it was about the lull before hostilities began at the start of the Newcastle United season.

In September I contributed “All Things Bright and Beautiful”, about our promising start to the season.

We knew it could not last. Like the song goes. “We had joy, we had fun, we had Sunderland on the run, but the joy did not last, cos….”

The joy has evaporated following some horrifying Newcastle United away defeats. Some of the performances have been hair-raising. It must be Halloween.

Speaking of Halloween, I’ve had a health scare this month, playing cards with the Reaper while waiting for an ambulance in the half-light before dawn. Fortunately, I drew an ace and write this end of October article while recovering from a heart problem. That’s why this article has arrived later in the month. My apologies for the shorter read and the lower quality. The cardiologist has issued weapons-grade medication and advised plenty of rest. If Mrs Bones knew I was sitting up to a laptop writing this, she’d turn me back into a frog for my foolishness.

Halloween has changed a lot in the countless decades since I was a little devil roaming the streets with my turnip lantern. I told somebody about turnip lanterns this week and they laughed. They didn’t believe it. But readers of a certain vintage remember alright.

A harassed, time-poor Fatha carving the stubborn root vegetable into something approximating a Halloween lantern. Ma digging out candle stub from an old biscuit tin put aside to cope with the power cuts, then sparking it up with a Swan vesta before securing it ineffectually to the inside of your lantern with a few blobs of molten wax. Then out with the other young ‘uns in the dark and the cold to celebrate the season. All fun and games until the big lads came along and lobbed in a Brock’s banger, leaving you with a charred and sulphurous turnip remnant on a string.

Fast forward to October 2026, and in the words of John Shuttleworth, Newcastle United are up and down like a bride’s nightie. We’re all, quite rightly, concerned.

Some encouraging football, in patches. The first half against Hull, the second half against Palace. The return of some players to provide much-needed experience, muscle, grit and bite.

Some demoralising matches. You know the ones. Waving a tearful goodbye to the prospect of proceeding to the semis via Fleetwood Town.

We owe the ghoulish-featured Davey Moyes and his lab assistant Igor Pickford one in our next match on Monday. Frankenstein Tarkowski and all. I don’t care if we pay badly as long as we come out of that match with dignity and points on the board.

Thinking of ghosties and ghoulies and long-legged beasties there’s also a match in early December that is on our minds. It’s out of the freezer and thawing out slowly. I hope everyone at the club gets it. Maybe the manager could phone up Ruud Gullit and ask him what happens if you don’t understand the importance of the derby.

On another, equally unsettling note, has anyone else noticed that Hornicek bears more than a passing resemblance to a young Boris Johnson? Especially when he’s flustered by clownish defending. And we all know that clowns are scary. Although he’s a good lad and will go on to be a great keeper, there’s something about Horni’s hair and complexion that puts me in mind of our former PM. It’s an image with which to trouble sugar-rushing minors who turn up at your door after dark to demand confectionery with menaces. If that doesn’t work, show them the Everton highlights. Horrifying, although we started off brightly enough.

Speaking of trick or treat, here’s a trio of treats.

The Unwashed propping up the table. If they can maintain this encouraging form, a points tally of five points from nine, they should comfortably secure a berth bottom three by the end of the season. Let’s hope we can add to their woes in December.

A hat-trick of away wins in London. Delightful.

Manure. Humped at home by Dorset’s finest and then their meltdown at Stamford Bridge. Comical. Poor Michael Carrick looking haunted. Eddie, don’t do it, Jim Skeletor is the devil in disguise. And they won’t love you like we did.