Passion. A much-used word in footballing circles, whose meaning is as indefinable as the current buggers muddle that masquerades as the offside law. Mention the 'D' word (derby) though and the 'P' word inevitably follows, along with sundry other staples such as form departing through windows.

Whatever it means though, a 50 year-old South Londoner and a bespectacled 60 year-old from Northern Ireland certainly found enough of it to embarrass themselves at pitchside in the manner of last bus drunks - not bad going for a noon kickoff on a Sunday...

Alan Pardew and Martin O'Neill managed to wind each other up and had successfully programmed players from Stoke to Senegal and Stockton to Salford into believing the Tyne-wear hype - setting about each other with something approaching a malevolent glee from the first whistle. 

Lee Clattermole may have opened proceedings with a trademark scythe, but there were plenty of others on both sides just as prepared to tickle toes, aided by light rain that made the playing surface even more slide-worthy. 

Maybe it was the presence of an ex-Celtic boss that brought to mind comparisons with the Old Firm fixture, in particular the Souness era when Ibrox incomers like Graham Roberts and Chris Woods took the rivalry to a higher level than home-grown players had managed. Or maybe 22 local players would have gone at each other today like a regional heat of British Bulldog if this was a truly local affair...

For all the sledging and posturing on and off the field though, this was still a relatively bloodless affair  more akin to the Haye v Chisora kerfuffle than a genuine toe-to-toe, questions in the house, preparing files for the CPS type of slugfest as is regularly witnessed in Glasgow. The malice was more than evident, along with the suspicion this will steadily get nastier while O'Neill is winding up his lot and we're attempting to match him.

Professional boxing may soon be back on Tyneside, but this was strictly amateur stuff, with the elements of wind and water as prominent as fire. Cheick Tiote crumpled to the floor in the manner of JFK (the President, not our ex-boss) when Sessegnon tapped his jaw, but it was vaudeville stuff - casual viewers in the USA may believe that this was all scripted, like their dreadful wrestling. 

In that quest for the other mythical prize of bragging rights, a rerun of last season's 5-1 demolition was never on the agenda, despite the red and whites arriving after their first back to back league defeats. Much has altered since ridding themselves of the pie eater, not least of which was the collective mackem mindset today - far more cold-hearted than Brucey ever managed to achieve - something which cost ultimately cost him his job. 

What football that was played between the hacking came mostly from the visitors though, who proved as adept as Wolves in squeezing the midfield area, isolating our forward line and picking up possession from our inevitable hopeful punts and stray passes. 

Going behind was still an almighty shock to the system and one that we'd only just begun to come to terms with by the break - the only real heart-stopping moment coming when the otherwise invisible Demba Ba headed Ryan Taylor's header against the crossbar. 

Little was seen of our Senegal strike duo, with Cisse struggling to make an impact and in a less overt way than Tiote looking as if he was playing the occasion rather than the game with some avoidable "in your face" disputes - not quite Gazza playing the flute, but maybe some misplaced effort. Hopefully he'll learn to channel that aggression better next time round. 

A first sign that change was afoot came during half time with Ben Arfa stripped for action and warming up on the pitch. The change when it came saw Davide Santon fail to reappear, with our number 10 slotting in at outside right and Taylor reverting to left back role that he'd scored from on wearside.

That looked slightly rough on our Italian, whose attempts at pushing forward in possession during the first half had been among our more positive moves. Our money had actually been on Yohan Cabaye making way for his countryman, after another little moment when he took exception to being tackled and the Gallic lip looked to be on, as had been the case against QPR.  

That change - and whatever was said at half time (perhaps giving 150% instead of a mere 110%) - had an instant effect on United though and they sent a trio of range-finders past Mignolet's goal within the first few moments; more than they'd managed throughout the whole of the previous half.

Renewed optimism at that point that we'd get something from the game sparked the home crowd back into life and when the mackems were reduced to ten men just before the hour mark, normal service was seemingly on the verge of resuming round these parts. 

That marked the end of the red and whites as an attacking force, although Krul somehow managed to prevent them taking a two goal lead shortly before Sessegnon walked, saving first from Sebastian Larsson and then hurtling across goal to deny James McClean with an even better block.

Despite our overwhelming dominance of possession, the deliveries into the box remained haphazard and the inspired Ben Arfa was left high and dry on a few occasions as his colleagues again tried to bludgeon their way down the left via a succession of Gutierrez dribbles that never quite came off.

Cometh the hour, cometh the Mag and our talismanic mackem knacker duly appeared from the bench to place one shot narrowly wide and then induce a rash challenge from substitute Frazier Campbell that was a far more obvious penalty than various other hopeful shouts at that end (although one handball claim was almost universally appealed for by the Newcastle players, not just the crowd).

Having done the business twice before in identical situations, Ameobi enquired of the ball-grabbing Ba but having failed to persuade him to relinquish possession, saw our first choice penalty taker step up and shoot low and weakly on goal. 

With eight minutes of normal time remaining and what looked like a golden opportunity tossed away, one part of Level Seven was in Heaven, ready to acclaim their managerial messiah and by dint of our penalty taking choice, having seemingly broken the Shola curse once and for all. 

They reckoned without the remarkable powers of that particular adopted Geordie though, who once again staked a claim as the ultimate impact substitute/folk hero in the second minute of added time. 
Like Ian Rush appearing at Everton to score for us in the FA Cup, this has now become a self-fulfilling prophecy, with wearside the only place in the country where the name of Ameobi is feared. 

And as long as he can retain a modicum of mobility, there's no reason why our number 23 can't keep doing this against them for another decade - that's Sho business!
 
What could hardly have been more of a great escape had Ameobi vaulted a fence on a motor bike then came unbelievably close to what would have been an improbable victory, time seeming to stand still as the ball got stuck under Williamson's feet deep in the box and with the goal apparently gaping.

The final whistle sounded though with honours even - and added comedic value caused by Dean showing a straight red card to Clattermole as the slack-jawed mackem captain embarked upon a further bout of moaning. Perhaps he threatened to vandalise his car... 

From impending doom to glorious madness and clenched fist salutes then - all for the same return as the previous week's massive disappointment against Wolves. A draw that felt like a loss followed by one celebrated like a victory. 

Passion ruled the day today (or relief, anyway) and perspective can return for the other 36 games. 
Thank goodness there are only two of these per season though; just witnessing the damn thing takes it out of you, never mind playing in it.     

For now we'll go with the summary of old boy Lee Clark, who pinpointed shortcomings on both sides but doubted that a single player was less than totally committed to their respective cause. It's a short step though to unrestrained thuggery and at times today the lines were blurred. Never was a pre-match handshake less sincere, including that between Manchester United and Liverpool.  

This wasn't quite the incredible comeback of the Arsenal 4-4 here 11 months ago (that Bendtner watched the bench), but elements of the same "never say die" attitude that we credited Nolan and Barton with that day were in evidence here, just as they were missing last week. Somewhere in there some sort of balance has to be achieved.  

We may now be (just) back at the point of fielding our first XI, but the whole isn't quite the sum of its parts at this point, with something missing in fluidity. More work is needed to integrate our front pair with the midfield, minimise the times our defence howk random balls forward and as Pardew admitted, harness the potential of Ben Arfa. 

Avoiding defeat here should be a collective shot in the arm, but a repeat of the Fulham and Spurs implosions at Arsenal would soon wipe out any feelgood factor that this result and the confirmation of extended deals for messrs Krul and Coloccini produced. 

Eleven games to go and the positives continue to outweigh the negatives in a season that remains more than intriguing, with the carrot of Europe still dangling. This one could go right to the finish. 

Biffa