First day back at Newcastle for Alan Shearer is agony for Toon boss

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They don't make Messiahs like they used to, even on the production line at St James Park.

Alan Shearer, Newcastle's latest saviour, had the animal magnetism of an accounts clerk, the jollity of a traffic warden, and the impact of a missionary in a drug den.

You can't blame him for refusing to be carried away by what even he dismisses as "the Alan Shearer thing".

He could combine the wisdom of Bobby Robson, the effervescence of Kevin Keegan, and the working class credentials of Jackie Milburn, and still be facing the most daunting two months of his life.

Newcastle have seven games to save themselves, following a 2-0 home defeat in which the Chelsea fans cheekily taunted him with chants of 'you're getting sacked in the morning'.

They are three points adrift of safety, which comes in the intriguing form of Sunderland, a club beginning to question the short term thinking which leaves a struggling team in the hands of an over-promoted coach. Shearer's managerial debut was dispiriting, even before he was afflicted by the curse of Rob Styles. The selfappointed celebrity referee disallowed a good goal, when Michael Owen's deflected shot was two feet over the line.

That's show business, folks.

The first rule of Hollywood is that the sequel is never as good as the original.

No-one remembers Rocky 4, or Police Academy 7. We'd seen this particular movie before.

This was Geordie Groundhog Day 3, featuring the same storyline, the same setting, and a cast of characters that have become tiresomely familiar.

The occasion mirrored Shearer's bland public persona.

Restrained, guarded. It was as spontaneous as a Gordon Brown speech, as inspiring as a recital of the local telephone directory. There were no grand gestures, no ritual blessings.

Dressed in crisp white shirt, grey suit, and thin grey tie, Shearer looked like an usher, who had escaped from a city centre wedding.

The Toon Army needed a rabble-rouser, a general prepared to fly by the seat of his pants. They got a bystander.

"I was determined to make it as low key as possible" he admitted. "I'll try to do everything to deflect it from myself." Shearer chewed gum furiously.

His fists were thrust deep into his pockets. He failed to respond to urgent entreaties to give the faithful a wave.

Keegan's comeback resembled a Moonie wedding. This was closer to a council meeting.

A local primary school choir sang Shearer anthems, and begged for loose change 'to pay for us to go to Holy Island'. A distinctive smell of stale chip fat assaulted the senses of those going to worship in the Milburn Stand. A samba band, whose lead drummer bore a replica barcode shirt with the legend "King Kev" battered the ear drums.

Shearer's Bar was bedlam, beseiged by ticketless fans and TV crews. Hope was lubricated by Becks and Newcastle Brown, but the hangover kicked in early.

Though Guus Hiddink was a gracious guest, praising the "extra energy" given by Shearer's arrival, his players were pleasantly surprised by the lack of atmosphere.

The poignant sight of Gazza in the stands was a powerful symbol of the region's pact with the devil whenever football is involved.Newcastle breeds players of rare talent.

The game is in the area's DNA. There is a deep yearning for success, even a morsel of respectability.

Yet, some comedy defending by Fabricio Coloccini, the only ever-present this season, led to the Frank Lampard goal that signalled an inevitable defeat.

Shearer turned to Ian Dowie, his assistant, and mouthed "all over the f****** place".

Welcome to the real world, Alan.

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