A royal command performance from our consistently inconsistent cast then, beamed out live to a TV audience who could have been excused for checking to see whether they had in fact mistakenly tuned into the Cartoon Network, or a re-run of the Benny Hill show.

For 45 minutes of this match we were hesitant, uncommitted, artless and generally unwatchable. When a ball needed to go forward, it went back - when an astute pass was called for, it went astray and as for shots on goal, forget it senor. 

But by the end, somehow, Newcastle had served up a remarkable ending to a game which will go down as one of the most eventful of the 98 European matches we've played since 1968. 

How did they manage it? I'm still not 100% sure and I was there (and sober...).

Amongst a host of possible explanations, it can be argued that we met a more cynical, play-acting Spanish version of ourselves, eminently capable of self-destructing in frankly hilarious fashion. But the fact this was Newcastle United comes out a clear winner in the theory stakes - renowned exponents of the practice of self-abuse over the decades. 

It just wouldn't be us if we recorded an incident-free victory and avoided the sort of cliff-hanger ending that uncle Bobby no doubt enjoyed in his youth at the Saturday morning pictures (Flash Gordon Milne anyone?).

And when people ask why we travel to the back of beyond, laying out small fortunes for the privilege of standing near a plastic seat and being ignored by the players, just get the video of this game out and press play. 

Let the uncommitted watch it until Mallorca take the lead, stop the tape then lapse into Question of Sport mode - "what happened next?"

Nobody but a toon fan well versed in the ludicrous ways of the Gallowgaters would have predicted four goals in 17 minutes - especially after the sluggishness we'd shown in the first half and the fact the visitors had scored, just as we started to rouse ourselves from our slumbers and show signs of knuckling down to the task in hand.

But it was precisely what then transpired that makes this game - and this team - so bloody addictive. From the depths of despair at half time to mentally penning obituaries and calls to arms by the hour mark, to walking down Stowell Street post-match and laughing at the sheer glorious madness of the whole damn thing.

It now appears that chief amongst those who received a half-time roasting in the dressing room (stop sniggering at the back you boys) was Laurent Robert, who since Solano was deported to the badlands of Brum has barely raised a gallop, never mind shown any of his twinkle-toed talents.

So, with the Gallic equivalent of a flea in his ear, the man from Reunion Island proceeded to do what he couldn't do in the first half, namely keeping his crosses within the white lines and away from the 'keeper and his free kicks out of the middle tier of the stand. And hey presto, the magic wand started to work again.

Add in the fact that we belatedly discovered that the Mallorca goalkeeper was a holidaying deckchair attendant from Magaluf, or a duty-free taster came as a bit of a boost also. What a pity that we'd been so circumspect in the first half and utterly failed to test him....

Joe Harvey once said of a bunch of Magyars, "they'll fold up like a pack of cards" if they were got at. Thankfully we remembered that just in time and reached into the collective memory banks to score goals and look as if we were interested in the competition in which we were playing. 

We knew they weren't great, but as we stood back and allowed them to indulge in a litany of roll-overs and dives it seemed as if our meekness would prevent us from punishing their gamesmanship in the required manner. Under those circumstances, the goal from Bellamy was vital - not only to inject confidence and belief into his colleagues but also the crowd, who for once played their part in proceedings and even seemed to be enjoying it by the end....careful mind, it could become habit-forming.

Which Newcastle United we'll see at Spurs remains to be seen of course and no doubt in this space next week there'll be some fresh laments. But you never can tell what you're going to get - and therein lies the beauty and attraction, regardless of all the crap we get thrown at us by the football authorities in general and the club in particular, when it's good it's a fantastic, unique thing that sells itself and produces it's own atmosphere. 

Who knows what delights await us in Palma as we look to seal a quarter-final spot against either French or Dutch opposition without dropping any Balearics.

Lord Westwood said in the late 1960's of the then-Fairs Cup that Newcastle "were daft enough to go on and win it." Over forty years haven't made us any less bonkers, but a repeat of the first 60 minutes of this game in Mallorca may provide us with some sticky moments and will see us seriously embarrassed against any halfway decent outfit, home and away.

Time to get serious then and appreciate that we've got this far in our "exams" by the seats of our shorts. If we want to graduate with honours then we have to seriously knuckle down and concentrate on the tasks in hand, otherwise those summer holidays could well become extended ones for some of the class of 2004.