(Actually there wasbut I'm sure Rob would have given that had he been there. Oh and there's Spurs's decision to replace Berbatov, Keane and Defoe with, well, nowt.)
Now not so long ago I was banging on about respecting the ref. But it must be hard when Styles makes such a blatant mistake. Styles has only just saved himself from permanent linesmanship by his very sensible he gave Man U on Saturday.
So let's get this straight. Keegan departs through a curtain of banners yelling 'Cockney Mafia Out'. Ashley says he's off but in the meantime he'll keep the thing going. And who does he find as a possible candidate? Mr Lahndon hisself.
The venerable Venables. How Cockney can you get? Who's next on the board, (Although if they were brought in, it'd only be a matter of weeks before they're on a podium in the centre of St. James' Park singing 'There ain't no pleasing you!' to the Gallowgate End).
Course, Venables has made himself into something of a of English football and I'm sure the Toon Army, while not exactly unscrolling banners saying 'Cockney Geezers In!' will at least welcome someone who, when it comes to football, knows a bit about what he's talking about.
There's a lot of you out there who don't actually believe you should call golf a sport. I don't care whether it's a bleeding parlour game, you cannot knock the .
I don't know if the Beeb have it in their armoury to buy this tournament back - but along with England football internationals and home cricket series', there's a desperate need for people to get this entertainment without installing a dish.
Having said that, I listened to the 5Live coverage and then watched the highlights and you have to say golf on the radio is brilliant. It's all hushed whispers and winces as the commentators rub shoulders with the fans.
Sometimes, to put it bluntly, you can hear buttocks clenching as John Murray or Andrew Cotter do their best Ted Lowes over the latest European eight-footer.
Is it me or did the Premier League season appear to start with ? There has even been, glory be, an understanding that referees and their assistants (whilst being short-sighted slapheads to a man of course) are human beings capable of the odd error.
People like Keane, Hodgson, Southgate, Scolari etc have not, so far, resorted to calling for stocks to be reintroduced so that we can all throw rotten vegetables at Alan Wiley as he's pedaled through the street.
Referees have not studied films to discover how to take out a pursuing mass of Chelsea defenders 'cos they happen to have written one of their names down in their little book.
Of course, I was deceiving myself.
I've tried loads of times to begin this blog about the but you know what - it's impossible to know where to start. so I'm going to go to the basics - the Toon Army.
Now, I know a lot of - and most of 'em have a healthy sense of humour. But put 'em in a barcode outfit and stand 'em on the terraces and they go mental.
First of all, let's get it clear. produced deathly dull football but the team weren't doing much worse than normal in terms of points.
When Big Sam was shown the door and Ashley consulted his tea leaves to get a replacement, there wasn't a thinking person in the whole country who didn't think that was going to lead to disaster.
Fabio Capello and co can gee them up all he likes, but I think the is that I said that it was time to accept that England were cack. I mean look how well Luxemburg responded to me saying they should have to pre-qualify for the qualifiers. They went and beat Euro 2008 co-hosts Switzerland.
I'm the first to admit that England looked solid, then settled, then superb, then spectacular, then downright ruddy Samba-esque - but I'm not getting carried away.
since the velociraptors in Jurassic Park, but I'm not getting carried away.
Rooney, on his way from Shrek to the donkey before the game, was more like that Spanish cat on the night: crafty and thoughtful. I have to say it does help the bloke when he's not having a bunfight with Frank Lampard, Steven Gerrard and even Joe Cole for the right to play in the hole. Sometimes you'd think it was a black hole with the amount of players that get sucked in there.
Let's get the out the way first. A win is a win. We'll take the three points. There are no easy games in international football. We all gave two million per cent.
Now let's get real. are rubbish. It's not surprising. All the men of marriable age play international football. Frankly there is no point whatsoever in a team like that playing dozens of qualifying matches.
They are about as likely to win an international football match as is to win a beauty pageant.
A while back, , some bloke handed me a pamphlet called 'The gospel according to St. James's'.
Some of you enjoyed it, others struggled to read it because some of the words came in a different order to how we use them nowadays and it was a little too much for your brains when you're only having a quick shufti at a footy blog while you should be bloody well working.
Any road, it turns out that this fella didn't give me the whole story, so here's Part II. You Magpies must be gagging for a guy like up there.
"And lo, King Kev didst stay amongst the throng that did mass in black and in white in the land of tabs and birds and .
"For many long nights did he vow to rest there. And though points were scarce yet he held his faith and by and by there came a front three of Viduka, Martins and Owen, and much joy didst they bring. And King Kev did open his arms to the sick, the stupid, and the sinful (well, , really) and all would be well on the Tyne.
I've met three fans since Monday and each one of them has this strange dreamy face on, their eyes wide and unblinking, their arms prepared at any moment to lift their whole selves off the ground and float off into the clouds. I've seen similar expressions on them weird Yank evangelist preacher shows.
Frankly it's sickening. But on the other hand, if a businessman who earns more money per second than a Buddhist has earned in a thousand lifetimes is prepared to chuck his cash at a Premier League club then he couldn't pick a better club (apart from Boro). City, the also-rans, the yapping Chihuahua to United's wolfhound, the comical sideshow in the hotbed of the north west.
City fans'll tell you that they're the true Mancunians, that they're happy that way, that they don't need an international brand and borrowed loyalty from the other side of the globe.
Now then. I've been quiet for a fortnight 'cos the wife booked us in to a holiday home in for two weeks. "A gite for a git" is how she rather ungraciously put it.
It's windy, wet and rocky - it's Cornwall with an even funnier accent. I was getting footy updates through me Tees mates and I managed to catch up with Usain Bolt on French TV - well I say 'catch up', that would be impossible - but the rest of their coverage was a tad, well, French.
You'd be two thirds of the way through a semi-final and they'd whizz across to the Water Cube for some ladies with more make-up on their chops than the winner of the 1897 Strumpet of the Year competition doing the synchronised swimming.
Soft target I know, but there's only one word for synchro - and it also starts with "s".
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I'm Derek Robson. People call me Robbo. Legend has it I was raised in the furnace and smog of Teesside. Some might say I took the hard road. I like to tell folk I had trials for Middlesbrough, for Hartlepool and for burglary (not guilty). I've always loved sport. My job is to say it as I see it - whether it's in the bar of the Blue Bell or on this blog. You won't find me calling a spade a soil-redistribution implement.
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