Some matches are forgettable. They come and go, holding the attention briefly before fading quickly from the memory on the bus home.

Games that, through some freak quirk of statistics, feature Coventry City with unfeasible frequency. Games that would apparently never have existed, if it weren’t for an obscure reminder in Rothmans at the end of the season. Games that only Paul Joannou can remember.

Other matches are special. Matches which live in the memory forever. Matches which involve more than just a good performance or a stunning goal, but have electricity and fulfilment. Atmosphere.

Memories and images of those matches quicken the pulse, send a tingle up the spine, and (in unguarded moments when watching them on the video whilst pissed) can bring a tear to the eye.

Keegan’s debut against QPR in 1982, when the Gallowgate sucked the ball off Kev’s boot and into the net. Keegan’s farewell against Brighton in 1984, when Beardsley chipped Joe Corrigan, and Kev shook the hands of all 36,286 spectators on his lap of honour, whilst wearing over 70 scarves. The promotion party in May 1993, when a breathtaking 45 minutes saw the scoreboard reading Newcastle 6, Leicester 0. And it was only half-time. Anfield, April 16th 1994 - 5 years on from Hillsborough. The final days of the glorious but doomed Kop; Keegan and Beardsley’s return to Anfield; a simple wreath in a goalmouth inscribed “Respect from the Toon Army”. Pure emotion (and an almost incidental 2-0 victory). October 20th 1996 - Howay 5-0.

And then there’s May 11th 1997.

I’d had that nightmare the night before the match - the one where it gets to 2:00pm (I suppose it should have been 3:00pm in this case, but - you know what I mean) and I’m just leaving home, and suddenly I remember it’s an away match in London. It didn’t add up to a good night’s sleep, but I took it as an optimistic omen (I admit it - I even checked the morning paper for some bizarre reason).

It all looked so unlikely on paper. Sheffield Wednesday had to upturn their recent poor form and take at least a point off Liverpool. We needed to beat Forest - and we needed to beat them by more than Arsenal would probably beat Derby. At the bottom, Boro and Sunderland had to drop points, and Coventry needed to win at Spurs. Six results had to go the right way - a betting man wouldn’t even contemplate such foolishness. Yet walking up Gallowgate, there was an eerie feeling in the air that you just knew that it was on. Atmosphere.

An improvised drum-band was giving it seven bells outside the Gallowgate End. Not your poxy snare drum or Boy Scouts big bass drum these (as practiced by a couple of misguided rhythm-less tossers at a few away games this season) - these appeared to be modified dustbins. Played with admirable violence by a group of people with soul. Real percussionists. A sizeable crowd enjoyed the spectacle, and while they weren’t exactly competing with The Strawberry, at least it gave the thirsty punters outside the pub something to take their minds off their absent, unreachable beers.

And, even better, they left the drums outside for the match (a laudable display of knowing where and when something’s right, and when it’s just shite).

Inside St. James’, there seemed to be an extra buzz. Things were different. Around me, the faces were unfamiliar - the result of a Sunday League Cup-Final somewhere in Gateshead (unlucky, lads).

Team news told us Kenny was going for it with the 4-3-3 that Keegan never quite got clicking properly. Forest were without Crossley, Pearce and Van Hooydonk, and Roy and Saunders were only on the bench (not that I’m that familiar with their regular line-up, but they seemed like big names, and I hoped they would be missed). That bastard Woan was playing, however, just to add a bit of menace and a few bad memories to the occasion.

The first 10 minutes were a bit shaky. Barton seemed to get off to his customary uncertain start with a couple of mis-controlled traps and poor passes, while Beresford seemed to slice the ball every time he touched it. Forest created a couple of chances, and Pav was forced into making a couple of saves, including a good block at the near post from a deflected shot by Gemmill.

Then Tino went on one of his mazy runs and created a couple of good shooting opportunities, before predictably twisting one time too many, and into the assembled wall of defenders. This seemed to settle the side, and it all got far more fluent. I don’t know whether news of Derby going 1-0 up against Arsenal got through to the pitch, if it did, it can only have helped.

After 20 minutes, we were well in control and Barton, who at last looked like he wanted the ball, rather than shying away from it, threaded a great pass through the Forest defence. Tino (who, it has been scientifically proven, actually runs in slow motion) outpaced and out-muscled two defenders, and chipped the keeper as if he was at Maiden Castle. 1-0.

Three minutes later, Asprilla played in Ferdinand, who rounded the keeper, and scuffed the ball towards the centre of the goal. The covering defender had one of those nightmarish moments when you’re sure you could have stopped, if only the laws of physics hadn’t been invented. As the ball fairly trickled towards his trailing foot, there was nothing he could do as his momentum whipped his body, and the despairing limb, away from the ball and into an unseemly tangle in the netting, while the ball gently rolled towards the opposite corner, nestling accusingly in the back of the net.

Another three minutes, and Barton laid another inch-perfect through ball for Les, who clinically drilled it past Fettis from the corner of the six yard box. Fifty goals in a black & white shirt. I hope there’s another 50 more.

Not too long after this, news filtered through that Coventry were one up at Spurs. Well, this was perfect. If it stayed like this, we were in the Champions League, Sunderland and Boro were in the Nationwide equivalent. No way would it last. Probably not even till half-time.

Then it was Shearer’s turn. Robbie Elliott had a powerful shot from the edge of the box, which a Forest defender got a block on. The ball took a banana of a deflection towards the back post. The first man to react was Shearer who nutted the ball into the empty net, the keeper hopelessly wrong-footed.

At half-time, everything was still working out perfectly. Coventry had got a second, even. People started discussing their pre-match bets. The lad to my right had a quid on, for 5-1 (at an unbelievably stingy 40:1), someone else had backed 7-0 (at an equally tight 50:1). On my left, a bloke with a fiver on 4-0 was looking very pleased with himself.

My own prediction of 3-0 in the scorecast at work left me feeling like a miserable pessimist. Thoughts started turning to the Leicester drubbing four years ago. Maybe even the 9-0 Premiership record...

As is so often the way, half-time just broke up the momentum, and the rhythm took time to get re-established. Forest even came close to grabbing a goal back when Allen hit the post. Dalglish took the opportunity of subbing Tino and Albert for Clarky and Gillespie. Asprilla’s ovation was well deserved; we just have to trust in Kenny that we’re given the opportunity of giving him a few more next season.

All sorts started happening now. Massive cheering greeted Peter Beardsley as he warmed up and the number 8 board appeared in Terry Mac’s hand. Batty (who had got over-excited early on and did a bit of enthusiastic Rottweilering, getting yellow-carded in the process) made way for him. If this was Peter Beardsley’s last game in a black & white shirt (and Dalglish’s recent reluctance to play him suggests it might be), then I’m proud to have been there. He has been one of the great English footballers. Ever. Long may he stay with the club.

Pandemonium broke out when rumours of a Sheff Wed goal started circulating. The guy sitting behind us with a radio insisted it was a false alarm, but literally 2 minutes later, he was off his seat. Liverpool were a goal behind.

As if in celebration, Beardsley danced, laid a ball off to Shearer in the box, who rolled it back to Elliott 25 yards out. A sweeter drive he has probably never hit, and we were 5-0 up. His bet in ruins, the bloke with a fiver on 4-0 yelled “Bastard!” as he celebrated the goal. As we sat down, radio-man told us that Leeds were beating Boro. At this point I realised that it was all just a cruel dream. Nothing is ever this perfect. 

In a minute I was going to wake up, like I did that time I won the Lottery and shagged Assumpta off Ballykissangel.

And yet... Boro equalised. Arsenal went in front (but were unlikely to get another 5 by full-time). And then Liverpool scored. That familiar pit-of-the-stomach dread grabbed hold of my guts and began to tighten. I tried to convinced myself that it was OK - a draw was more or less the same result so far as we cared.

But then radio-man said something about a Sheffield striker being in goal and constant Liverpool pressure. They were going to do it to us again. Probably 70 seconds into injury time if the form-book was to run true. Even a Wimbledon goal failed to fully ease the tension, although it did spark a refreshing new version of Peter Reid - Monkey’s Heed (“Peter Reid’s got a First Division Team, a First Division....” etc).

There was still a match going on, and although I never took my eyes off it, I honestly couldn’t tell you much about the last 10 minutes. I was vaguely aware of the lad with the 5-1 bet shouting “Go on” at what seemed inappropriate moments, but didn’t really give it much thought.

I have a faint memory of the Man of the Match award being awarded to “All 14 United Players” and cringing at the naffness of it. My mind was East of the Pennines, 120-odd miles away. I was using every ounce of my concentration, trying to turn Andy Booth into Lev Yashin. Offering prayers to David Unsworth for allowing himself to be strangled by Robbie Fowler a couple of weeks ago in full view of the referee.

At the final whistle, there was celebration - of course. What a way to end the season. 5-0. Bollocks, even if Liverpool do snatch a winner, it’s been a hell of a season. Seven times at St. James’ we’ve scored four or more goals in a game. Eight if you include Ferencvaros.

Even the Monaco result doesn’t seem too disastrous when you consider the first leg injuries, and that they’re nine points clear at the top of the French League . We all know the team is likely to be broken up in the Summer, and everyone in the ground - including a decent number of Forest fans, and fair play to them for that - stayed to pay tribute, possibly to say farewell, for the lap of honour.

And don’t let anyone get away with telling you we’re a foreign legion, there were 5 Geordies in this side today: Watson, Elliott, Clark, Beardsley and Shearer. And a sixth if you include Pav. The players returned the applause, then gathered in a nervous huddle by the touchline with Kenny, Terry Mac, Sir John and the rest.

The final scores were read out over the Tannoy. Arsenal had not scored seven (Good. Fine). Boro were down (barely restrained mirth). Sunderland had lost (cheering). Coventry were still leading 2-1 (more cheering). Sheff Wed and Liverpool were 1-1, but still playing.... It all stayed a bit quiet for a good couple of minutes, save a bit of “Peter Reid eats bananas with his feet, bananas with his...” etc.

Then a voice behind me said quietly “It’s finished”. For a second I’m sure I was the only one in the ground cheering. Fists clenched, arms outstretched, eyes shut, yelling at the Gallowgate roof. A surreal moment. Then everyone was punching the air.

Bugger me, we’ve really done it.

It was a joyous moment. Real, exultant joy. Not the smug, arrogant self-congratulation of Taggart and his Old Trafford glory-seekers. This was the genuine ecstatic celebration of unexpected victory. Hard-earned success after so many disappointments. If we ever win something....

The players set off on their lap of honour. By the time they’d got half way round my hands were raw through clapping. Tino lobbed his boots into the Milburn Stand, and the players finally disappeared down the tunnel, the ground still reverberating to the cheers.

Everyone headed for the exits, and suddenly we all remembered about Coventry. Surely this would be the slight dampener on the day. Coventry were 1/9 to go down. They couldn’t escape again, Spurs would equalise and the Mackems would stay up.

As my feet touched the concrete outside the exit, the cheering started. Spurs 1, Coventry 2. Unbelievable, just incredible. I floated towards the City Centre. It’s a while since I had felt this drunk, but I hadn’t touched a drop. Honest.

Irrational behaviour became natural. Expected, even. Almost compulsory. A ginger-haired lad with a Walkman burst out laughing and doubled over clutching his sides. “They’re interviewing a Mackem blubbing his eyes out” he announced to the world. I found myself dancing down Blackett Street, arm in arm with a fat bloke I don’t even know, singing “Geordies, In the Champions’ League”.

As he teetered euphorically towards his bus stop, and I staggered towards Monument Metro, we simultaneously gushed “It just doesn’t get any better than this.” In truth, we both knew that one day we will win the League. In truth, we both knew that one day it WILL be better than this.

But it won’t be by much.

Duncan MacKenzie