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A lot of things are supposed to feel like trophies in the age of vast squads and oligarchs, when the cartel of big clubs persists in hoovering up almost every available pot. Fourth place, derby wins, official potato snack partners - if you’re not enjoying real success, you need to suck any joy you can get out the game wherever you find it.

And in Newcastle, Alan Pardew leaving will probably make Margaret Thatcher’s death look like a

Pardew has endured a very strange reign in his four years at the club. He’s nearly been relegated, nearly finished in the Champions League spots, and

but has seen off about fifty Sunderland managers.

It was a rollercoaster era of triumph, disaster, Henry Winter being made to swim the Tyne,

, horses getting punched, and f***ing old c**ts being told to shut their noise. For the neutral, they were great times.

Newcastle might ultimately court as much controversy as their departing manager, but it’s probable that the only fair assessment of his reign will come by seeing what happens to his successor.

Like Roy Keane at Sunderland, he may look better in time after a plague of continued failure and mediocrity.

Row Zed:

(Image: Rex)

It would also be harsh to deny that he has faced certain off-pitch challenges. He was thrust into the job after the sacking of a manager popular with both fans and the players, has endured boycotts and protests, and had no control over transfers while his best players have been sold at odd intervals.

Yet in some way, there has been continuity.

The strangest part would seem to be that this chaos has come against the backdrop of Newcastle enjoying a remarkably uncharacteristic period of stability, apparent progression, and sensible deals in the transfer market. Bargains have been found from France and Holland, and the club very quickly returned to a position of never seriously looking like imploding on the pitch.

(Image: Getty)

The signings may owe more to Alan Carr’s dad than the manager, but there should be some credit where it’s due. It’s almost as if Pardew has taken a leaf out of Alex Ferguson and José Mourinho’s book, courting controversy to alleviate the pressure on his team, but taken it to the greatest extreme possible, cultivating an image of a Caligula-esque figure in charge so nobody notices what’s going on on the pitch. Whether by design or not, it seems to have worked to some extent.

As well as the obvious controversy, there were always rumours and suggestions of deeper, darker problems.

The classic anecdote of demanding his fitness coach swapped meals with him because “When you’re the King, you can do anything” seemed completely believable. He had become a bogeyman figure, the kind of man you’d wake up sweating in the middle of the night after having a nightmare that he’d become your mum’s new boyfriend, or even worse, your club’s new manager.

Yet despite that, someone has been prepared to pay actual money for his services. Pardew doesn't exactly fit the Sacchi/Mourinho mould of the analytical, academic manager with no playing career, but it’s equally difficult to imagine him as a player.

Pardew was once watched, applauded, cheered on, perhaps even loved. And now,

His grand gesture may be sincere or not, but either way, we’re likely to get the same rebrand, of going from a hated, arrogant pantomime villain to a man of soul and heart, going back to a club he loves in their hour of need.

Pardew might seem like the most mis-cast, out-of-place new romantic since The Krays hit the cinemas, but it makes a sort of sense.

Like everyone else, doesn’t he just need to be loved? Even if it’ll never be as much as he loves himself.