Crowd surfing by wheelchair

I was either crushed in the slow moving, farting, belching mass of the jubilant Geordie fans, or risked being trampled under foot as we negotiated the flight of steps out of the stadium. Many is the time that I slipped out five minutes early, to reach the Metro before the masses, and so missed the crucial extra time winner.

I don’t have that problem any more, partly because relegation has shrunk the crowd at Newcastle, and partly because I am now a wheelchair user.As a walker, I was always very impatient. My legs didn’t last more than about 10 minutes before they went numb and I fell over, so my game plan was to get from A to B (or failing that, the nearest form of seating) as soon as possible. Despite my small size, I actually walked very fast, and shimmied around loitering shoppers with the elegance of the young Peter Beardsley (only not quite as handsome).

Groups of teenagers hang out on street corners. Old friends greet each other and block the pavement. Parents and children stretch out like a line of goslings. I sit behind and wait and fume, trickling along when I could be bowling downhill to my next overdue appointment.

Worse, I’ve realised that most people are totally oblivious to their surroundings. They veer across the pavement speaking into their mobile phones, or stop suddenly, or decide to double back on themselves, with absolutely no warning. At any moment, I expect 20 stone of idiot to come crashing round my shoulders, because someone has tripped over me without noticing that I’m there. I am forever taking evasive action or calling: “Excuse me… Hello… Can I come through please? Mind out!”

My worry, particularly on the rare occasions when I’m out in the power chair, is that I’ll run over someone or cause actual bodily harm: not because I’m reckless, certainly not, but because some other daydreaming soul has ventured carelessly across my path. When I get up a head of steam, especially down the steep hills of Newcastle, I’m like an oil tanker which needs two miles to slow down. What I would like is the proverbial man with a flag running along in front of me. Or a large klaxon. Or motor cycle outriders. As I prepare my letter to Santa (of which more next time), I think that a bull horn might be high on my wish list. Or else, those Boadicea axle scythes- blades used on Boadicea’s chariot while driving the Romans out of Britain - that every wheelchair user dreams of. Yes, you do, don’t deny it.

Without wanting to make any comment on past, present or future immigration policies or demographic trends, it is my firm opinion that this island of ours is over-crowded. Its city centres certainly are. It’s not road pricing this country needs, it’s pavement pricing. I have it on good authority that on the Statue of Liberty are engraved the ringing words:

"Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

It’s an apt description of New Castle's main shopping area, Northumberland Street, on a bad day, and as far as I’m concerned, Ms Liberty is welcome to them. As the Christmas decorations go up all over Britain, I’m staying indoors for the duration.