Off, then, to Newcastle, home of Bigg Market, the Byker bikers and a sense of proper nothernness. Maybe the south is expanding, but Newcastle feels northern. Going to St. James' Park in the '80s was not for the faint-hearted. It was never as menacing as a Chelsea, West Ham or, God help us, Millwall, but even when they were getting 15,000, they swamped the city centre and they weren't over-keen on outsiders.
Now though, it's all rather more genteel and much less dark. Back when men were men, we weren't actually that manly. Identifiable chiefly by not speaking Geordie, we used to sneak from pub to pub in small groups like wartime resistance organisations, terrified of being tripped up (in both senses) by the hordes of marauding, slightly cross beerboys before sprinting the last few yards to the away corner.
These days Plymouth fans (2000+ of them have made British football's longest trek; if I ever had something as facile as a second team it would be the mighty Bastia, but Plymouth are OK too) wander the streets in their green shirts in danger only of overdosing of keeling over with sleep deprivation since their coaches set off at 4am. As a city, Newcastle is alive and, even at lunchtime, the pubs are throbbing. Say what you like about regeneration, but better an O'Neill's pub (not that I'd drink in one, mind) than a slum, better a nice city centre than so-called character and better a Starbucks than nothing (they reheat their milk, you know)
Curiously I was never dispatched here while Newcastle were famous, but United still act like a superpower backstage and not just because they didn't return my call asking for a parking space. The hackfood is quite lavish (a sort of lamb arrangement) and, mercy me, there's garlic bread too. There's a little old to serve tea, smile and elbow me in the stomach in conspiratorial fashion. She's fantastic. I slip off the hackroom seats since they're made of shiny metal and that isn't just me. For once.
The press box is close to the pitch, but the view is fantastic, although the perspex wind/rainshield isn't laptop compatible so it's more cramped than it shoulod be. Still, there is wi-fi and I'm next to some nice, helpful Plymouth souls (Marcel Seip, their defender and son-in-law of the vice-chairman is at war with the manager which must poison everything) and Clavane of the Sunday Mirror; always a treat.
The match is hugely entertaining. Plymouth fight gamely, but they're beaten by a better side, for whom Andy Carroll, not always a model professional, is outstanding.
Afterwards Plymouth manager Paul Sturrock looks broken but when I ask him about the pressure, his words are upbeat. He thinks things are coming together. They did well today, overall, but I'm still not sure and judging by how they flagged at the death, I'm not sure how fit they are either.
In contrast, Newcastle's Chris Hughton has the air of a man who knows things actually have come together and he's the primary cause of it. No wonder nobody's talking about a new Newcastle manager any more.
It's a long way home, but, hey, I don't mind.

Playlist: Cheryl Cole's 3 Words. She's a bit Geordie isn't she? Nice pop for nice times. Really.