Three things are guaranteed in life – death, taxes, and people talking about the football.

Every Monday, the weekly editorial meeting at Echo HQ wraps up with cutting barbs about the region’s football teams – and they all go totally over my head.

I don’t see what all the fuss is about; it just seems to make men sad and angry. I’ve never been to a football match and have barely ever watched one through in the telly, much to the furore of other Echo staff.

But a year into my tenure as a reporter, my colleagues have decided enough was enough, and on a Wednesday night, I find myself dutifully plodding up the 140 steps and 14 landings to my seat in the Gods at St James’ Park.

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The Northern Echo: Bewildered by the chanting and wearing a borrowed strip five sizes too big, I trooped to my seat.Bewildered by the chanting and wearing a borrowed strip five sizes too big, I trooped to my seat. (Image: The Northern Echo)

By some miracle, we’d managed to get our hands on a pair of the most sought-after tickets in the North East - to the NUFC vs PSG game. I was reliably informed that this was the “biggest deal to happen in North East football” in at least two decades.

“What a first match to go to,” one colleague comments.

“You’re going to have a brilliant time; this is one for the history books. I’ll be looking out for you on the telly when I watch it at home,” another says.

By Wednesday afternoon, I’m starting to feel like the tickets are wasted on me – a hasty explanation of the offside rule on a notepad in the office is as far as my football knowledge stretches.

Read the actual match report here. 

As we’re climbing the thousand-and-one stairs to our seats, located so high in the rafters of St James’ Park I can nearly feel my head start to spin with the altitude, the reverb of thousands of voices singing along to Blitzkrieg Bop bounces off the walls to meet us.  

The Northern Echo: St James' Park, pre-kick-off.

Our spot in the stadium’s Leazes End, is next to a young dad and his six-year-old son. Both in black-and-white strips, it’s clear they’re die-hard fans. They know all the words to all the chats, and I feel like a fraud mumbling along as quietly as I can.  

The pre-match buildup buzzes through the soles of my trainers, chants so loud you can feel it shaking the concrete. The six-year-old boy picks up a flag, and I’m told to watch my head by the dad, with a wink and a grin.

The squads arrive in a spectacular of flags and banners, shoulders squared like soldiers marching into battle – the Geordies walk out to raucous cheers; the French, to jeers and boos and obscene gestures (can it, they’re just doing their jobs).

To a (very) untrained eye, kick-off looks like carnage. I start to feel a bit peaky - what if I'm somehow the bad luck charm that sees the North East's golden boys lose to Paris Saint Germain? 

“It’s not that hard to kick a ball, like!” erupts the young dad next to us. Only moments later, like Almiron had heard him, a ball is punted past the PSG keeper. The stadium explodes, and strangers leap into each other’s arms. I’m pulled into a hug, and we jump up and down in our row.

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The goals start coming thick and fast, made all the sweeter by two flawless shots from two boyhood Newcastle fans, Sean Longstaff and Dan Burn.

My eye is drawn by Italian import Sandro Tonali – we share Mediterranean heritage, and every time he gets possession of the ball I find myself whispering “forza Azzurri”. Someone, get me to SSC Napoli sharpish.

By the third goal, the crowds are incredulous and cocky. People keep whipping their tops off and lassoing them around their heads. I get hit in the throat, but I can’t find it in me to care.

The Northern Echo: A couple of naughty PSG fans light flares after their solo goal. A couple of naughty PSG fans light flares after their solo goal. (Image: The Northern Echo)

The Parisiens score a goal, and their fans, thus far contained in their little “away supporters” corner by a corridor of empty seats and a battalion of hi-vis marshals, erupt. Flares are nearly immediately lit (come on now lads, pack it in, be sensible), and a swarm of luminous orange stewards descends on the offenders like uninvited wasps to a picnic.

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Not wanting to leave without the last word, NUFC scores again down the Gallowgate during extra time - it feels like we’ll never die.

The whistle sounds, the team all embrace, and there’s no hope of getting 52,000 ecstatic Geordies out of the cathedral on the hill just yet. I’m elated, but also feel a bit sorry for the Paris fan that’s going to have to wrestle their drum, that's pragmatically pulsed the same beat all night, through the airport in the morning.

Walking down the stairs and out of the stadium to get drinks (we later spot a bar with “no away fans under any circumstances ” signs), a bloke tells me the match was worth every step. I quite agree.