Going to Gori: Scenes from the Stalin Museum

'Some good, some bad,' our driver Giorgi uttered with a slight frown and arched lips as he described the opinions Georgians today hold of Joseph Dzhugashvili, the Soviet dictator more commonly known as 'Joseph Stalin'. A poll conducted a couple of years ago in Georgia found that about 45% of Georgians viewed Stalin favourably. Giorgi continued, 'But he is a big man in world history. He won Hitler. If it wasn't for him, history could have been very different.' I'm not the keenest person on counterfactuals, but few would deny that Stalin stands as one of the colossal figures of the twentieth century. As a History teacher - the kids here in Singapore who elect to take History study Stalin's USSR at Upper Secondary level - and as someone who's held a life-long interest in the Soviet leader (this goes back to my Red-Alert-playing days), a trip to Gori, Stalin's birthplace and the location of the Stalin Museum, was too enticing to resist. A tremendous amount of scholarly work has been done on Stalin and I don't claim to have new insights on the man. This entry is merely a humble attempt at sharing our experience in Gori.

With Giorgi

We made our way from Tbilisi to Gori, driving along the expressway past snow-covered fields and hilltops obscured by the morning mist. 'Miserable weather,' Giorgi remarked as our Subaru made its way under grey skies, enduring light but incessant precipitation. Thousands of visitors are attracted to Gori every year for the very same reason as we were and it's not unsurprising that many locals in Gori hold Stalin in high esteem. After all, a son of a cobbler and a dressmaker, born in a humble and little-known Georgian town, ended up becoming the undisputed leader of the Soviet Union. When his statue which dominated (no prizes for guessing this correctly) Stalin Street in Gori was taken down in 2010 by the pro-western government, the authorities had to do so at night. The statue's removal was met with outrage, a reflection of the attitudes the Gori locals have towards Stalin. We entered the quiet town and after a making a right-turn, were greeted by a huge poster of Stalin hanging from a three-storey building, as if the Soviet leader was displaying the famous Georgian hospitality by welcoming us to his hometown. As we got closer to the poster, the caption below Stalin's face became intelligible to our eyes. Alas, it read 'Souvenirs Here'.

A two-metre tall Stalin statue greets you as you make you way up to the exhibitions

Before visiting the museum, we gathered some information about the museum from our guidebook and from reviews written by those who have visited the place. We read that the Stalin Museum, opened in 1957, four years after the aspiring-priest-turned-atheistic-dictator's death, was not really a museum but a massive shrine for the Soviet leader. The exhibits were said to present a flagrantly one-sided view of the 'Man of Steel'. We also read that guides who took visitors around were often individuals who appeared to be completely convinced and converted by Stalinist propaganda. We didn't mind such warnings as we felt that having such a guide would only add colour to the experience of visiting the museum.

Our guide was a tall, grave-looking man of about thirty named Goga (I might have misspelled his name) who proudly claimed to be from Gori. He spoke in a low monotone and maintained a singular, solemn facial expression for most of the tour. He spoke without a tinge of enthusiasm but yet, did not sound bored. Facts and figures lay at the tip of his fingers, suggesting that he was a seasoned guide. Contrary to what we'd read though, Goga provided a more balanced view of Stalin's leadership. In addition to mentioning important dates, the figures of those who lost their lives while living in Stalin's USSR, the deliberately-starved Ukrainians, gulag prisoners, uncooperative peasants, victims of World War Two (known in parts of the former USSR as 'The Great Patriotic War'), rolled off his tongue as if it had been greased by olive oil. It would have been easier to digest a large khachapuri than the copious amount of information he was feeding us.

High-profile Georgian victims

At a corner of the second room, he referred us to a showcase of portraits, highlighting that they were of notable Georgians who perished under the communist regime. One of them was the influential Georgian writer Mikheil Javakhishvili, a victim of the purges. Goga then turned our attention to a photograph of Stalin presiding over the signing of the Nazi-Soviet Pact, a momentous event apparently not given enough attention in Georgian history textbooks. These books seem to amplify Stalin's role in defeating Hitler without sufficiently considering how his earlier actions had encouraged the Nazis to start the war in the first place.

Stalin's work desk from the Kremlin

We were also introduced to items Stalin used in his everyday life. Goga pointed to a photograph depicting Stalin in the modest act of cleaning his own car. Continuing to impress us with his numerical memory, our guide informed us in his typical deadpan manner, 'The metal, 3mm thick. The glass, 6mm thick. Bulletproof. Not bad.' With a subtle raising of his eyebrows, he led us into the next room.

Stalin's car

'The Gallery of Gifts'

Being such a prominent world leader during his time, Stalin was not unexpectedly showered with gifts from many other countries. This was especially the case when he reached the age of 70. Elegant pipes from Italy, skillfully-woven carpets carrying his image from Central Asia, a grain of rice with words of adulation and blessing precisely inscribed on it from India and an intricately-embroidered portrait of the leader made in Mao's China were just a few of the numerous gifts on display. 'Unfortunately, nothing from Singapore,' Goga remarked in a matter-of-fact manner. Stalin passed away in 1953 when Singapore was still a British colony. We reckoned our colonial masters would have presented Stalin with a gift on our behalf. I asked if Stalin had received anything from Britain. Goga's eyes squinted as he turned to look at the gallery, carefully scanning the place and his impeccable memory of things Stalin for an answer. 'Oh yes. The British gave Stalin something. An ashtray,' he successfully recalled. 'A cheap gift,' he said disapprovingly as he expressed emotions for the first time during the tour.

Cigars from Cuba and a 'cheap' English ashtray

Stalin's death mask

The last room on the first floor of the museum contained Stalin's death mask, according to Goga, the sixth of the nine which were made after his passing. It was displayed at the centre of the red-carpeted room accompanied in the room by a few exhibits documenting mournful responses to his demise. A family, not Georgian, which had entered the museum after us decided that Stalin's death mask was worth taking photos with. An older lady, probably the grandmother, prepared to take a picture of the others who stood in between the slender pillars which surrounded the main display, arranged in a manner which resembled prison bars, feigning anguish while stretching their hands towards the death mask as if desperately reaching out for a final blessing. All of a sudden, the lights went out. The museum was hit with a blackout and the family's hopes of getting their carefully-choreographed tableau photographed were dashed. To one familiar with Stalin the man, it seemed entirely appropriate. Even in death, the Soviet dictator would not tolerate being subject to such cringe-worthy exploits.

Our last stop was Stalin's bulletproof train car which stood just outside the museum building. The train car, built for Tsar Nicholas II, Russia's last monarch, in a somewhat symbolic act, was given to Stalin who hated flying. It would be the armoured train car which would take Stalin to the Yalta Conference in 1945. We were given a brief tour of the interior; we caught glimpses of his workroom, bedroom, bathroom, and conference room. I found the train car's bedroom surprisingly small for someone of Stalin's (or for that matter, Tsar Nicholas II's) stature, too cramp for comfort. That was before we had to take an overnight train from Tbilisi to Baku, aborted an hour into the journey due to visa issues. 

Although the museum has apparently remained largely unchanged since the 1970s, and a vast majority of the exhibits serve to glorify the Soviet leader's strong leadership and achievements, it's perhaps encouraging to note that a more balanced presentation of his regime is emerging. The ability to more readily accept and present the adverse impact of the dictator's actions would help make the Stalin Museum in Gori, more than just a tourist attraction, an actual place of education. The historical pedestal Stalin is raised on is not merely composed of his considerable achievements as the leader of the Soviet Union for about a quarter-century; beneath these lie the remains of the millions who perished in the name of 'progress'. Remembering the successes of a historical figure like Stalin is certainly important but it's equally, if not more, crucial to not forget the tragic costs incurred during his regime.

Venice: Impressions

Imitation is the best form of flattery and it's arguable that the greatest testimonies to Venice's awe-inspiring and unique beauty are the flattering sobriquets given to places like Malacca and Suzhou (just two among many described as 'the Venice of the East'), as well as northern counterparts St. Petersburg and Stockholm. Many writers from other parts of the world like Hemingway, James and Goethe lived in Venice and have written in glowing terms about her appeal.

A not-too-uncommon feedback I've received from friends who have visited the lagoon-city run along the lines that Venice is criminally expensive and grossly overrated. However, having studied the former medieval republic's past when I took university modules on the early Renaissance and the Crusades, I was eager to gain a firsthand experience of the place. Sadly, we were not afforded the luxury of time and visiting Italy as autumn was giving way to winter meant that daylight hours were relatively scarce, every minute more precious with each passing day.

The famous Grand Canal has sidekicks in about 150 other lesser ones which form the arteries of the city on the lagoon. In the past, horses were prohibited and people had to rely on boats to carry their wares and themselves from one point to another. Today, cars, like horses in the past, are not allowed and it was a pleasant change not hearing as frequently the familiar rumbling of motor engines for two whole days. In Venice, the canals are the streets and the Grand Canal, according to French writer Philip Commines, 'the finest street in the world, with the finest houses'. The object most frequently associated with Venice is the gondola, the ubiquitous boat, slender for ease of maneuver along the narrow canals. A gondola ride costs a hefty 80 euros, and we could not afford to answer the calls of gondoliers eager for passengers during the off-peak season. The best we could do was to take a vaporetto, Venice's public bus, down the Grand Canal. At a relatively steep 7.50 euros for a one-way ticket, we had to consciously savour every second as we travelled east from Canareggio to San Marco.

St Mark's Square, where one can find St Mark's Basilica and the Ducal Palace, is probably Venice's most famous area of interest and was swarming with tourists when we arrived in the morning. So much for visiting during an off-peak season! One shudders at the thought of being in the area when tourism reaches its height during the warm summer months.

St Mark's Square

Personally, the greatest attraction of Venice lies not in her famed piazza but in the fact that her many canals and narrow cobbled lanes, lined by old conjoined buildings, a significant number dating back to the early modern period, make Venice one of the most picturesque cities I've visited. There seems to be a photo opportunity at every turn and navigating the medieval labyrinth is like finding one's way in a Renaissance masterpiece.

I've always wanted to make Venice, as predictable as this may be, my honeymoon destination but I found myself visiting her quite prematurely. After all, the water level has been consistently rising about four to five inches every century and who knows how long it would take to find one's true love? It was simply a risk I couldn't take. Unfortunately, it was a crying shame to have to leave this alluring beauty so soon, without being able to be truly free from the suffocating inhibitions of time and be entranced by the Venetian spell. 

It's the Small Things

Dear student,

When you stand up and greet me with a smile before lessons start,

You show that you’re pleased to see me; it brightens my day a fine bit.

When you write your name on a worksheet I’ve prepared for you,

You demonstrate firm ownership; you really appreciate it.

When you update your contents page and file a document,

You show that you treasure it, that you understand its importance.

When you answer ev’ry question, giving each one your best,

You make known you possess matchless grit; you’re a person of substance.

When you maintain silence and open your ears when I speak,

You show that you acknowledge my role, one as an educator.

When during discourse you speak words that bear the sweetest fruit,

You serve your duty as a student, teachers’ noble dreams you spur.

When you note the day’s assigned tasks in your student handbook,

You show that you’re responsible, self-reliant for all to see.

When you’re accountable for your work, and don’t make me chase,

You display true care for this teacher, you respect and cherish me.

You see, it’s the small things that make me want to do great things for you.

By Mr Reuben Ong, Your Teacher

My First Graduating Batch

In an ideal world where energy and time are infinite resources, I'd elect to write a blog post on a monthly basis, reflecting on the path I've taken as a History teacher. Having read Frank McCourt's Teacher Man about six years ago, I've always wanted to write a novella recounting my experiences in the classroom.

Fatigued after a long and eventful day, I decided that before I go to sleep tonight, I'd write a little about today.

4EH 2015

Today marked the end of my long journey with my first graduating batch of History students. I first took them when I did my practicum and must say that I endured a relatively indifferent start with them. Our History class comprised students from three different classes and the class dynamics weren't quite suited to group work. In fact, a good number of students gave feedback, after I'd made them do a few group assignments when I was doing my practicum, telling me of their preference for individual work. Group work was so dreaded that I used the prospect of it to threaten them once in a while! 'Not all of you are paying attention to my lecture. Perhaps it'll be a better idea for you guys to work in groups?' Needless to say, I elicited a positive reaction on their part. I also knew that a student or two preferred a more experienced teacher to take the class (they were going to sit for their 'O' Levels after all), and I guess I couldn't blame them for desiring that. I won't deny that I was hurt to hear such sentiments voiced directly to me and I knew that all I could do was to compensate for my lack of teaching experience with blood and sweat.

It wasn't always easy engaging every one of them but I'm thankful, as I look back, that over time, I managed to see an improvement in most students' attitudes towards History, often deemed a half-subject. What I really began to appreciate was the fact that I could be myself in the classroom and I found myself looking forward to being there in the classroom with them. Teachers are meant to inspire their students but, sometimes, it also works the other way and I must say that I often felt inspired by this class. History may have been a half-subject but I'm glad that the amount of effort most of the kids put in did not accurately reflect the subject's status as such. Most actually came down on a Saturday for a revision lesson in May when we found ourselves short of curriculum time, having lost a lesson or two due to public holidays, and many willingly came back for extra lessons during the school holidays. A few students found the subject difficult to grasp but I was encouraged to see them persevere and I was most delighted to see a student who never really managed more than a C in previous examinations attain an A2 today.

It's very important for a young Beginning Teacher to have his or her first batch of students do well as, whether always fair or not, our efforts and successes are inevitably reflected in our students' academic performances, especially those students who took our hands and faithfully answered our call to walk the arduous mile with them. Our students' positive results do not only buttress our cherished beliefs about a student's ability to learn but also serve to affirm the time and energy invested by us teachers in our students. We love telling our kids how hard work is more important than genius and that hard work will almost always reap rewards but I think that we, as teachers, often need to be shown evidence of this ourselves. I must say that my world threatened to collapse when looking through the byzantine spreadsheet reflecting the percentage passes for each subject, I saw an ominous figure for Combined Humanities. I was glad that my colleague, Matthew, diverted my attention to the correct figure. Although the figure did not meet a lofty target I'd quite confidently set at the beginning of the year, I was pleased to note that those who worked hard saw their efforts pay dividends. The rest are just statistics. I'm also truly grateful for the amount of support I've received from my colleagues since I first joined teaching. Without my fellow History teachers in Broadrick, who have been nothing short of wonderful, I would have been a guillotined chicken attempting to lead my first graduating batch to battle. I'm thankful for the privilege of having taught this batch of kids and, being my first graduating batch, they'll always hold a special significance to me. History with me may have been half a subject to them but, to me, History with them was much much more. 

Sleeping with the Fishes: Dreaming of Sicilian Food

When I asked my B & B host, Angelo, to recommend a good trattoria, he responded confidently, saying, 'In Sicily, you cannot find bad food.' I may have been fortunate with my choices of restaurants but none of the meals I had disappointed me. Only half of those venues I visited were recommended by locals; as for the others, I simply took steps of faith.

Grilled swordfish rolls: a Sicilian classic

Any serious study of food history cannot afford to omit consideration of Sicily. Mithaecus of Siracusa, who lived during the period when Sicily was under the Greeks, is credited as the author of the first known cookbook in the Western world. After the island became the first Roman province outside the Italian Peninsula, Sicily served as Rome's breadbasket as the island's fertile soil and ideal climate enabled it to produce wheat for the empire. Interestingly, after Byzantine Sicily fell, it was the Arabs conquerors who introduced the technique of drying pasta for preservation purposes to the Sicilians. This early form of pasta became a staple for the island and it was soon exported to the mainland. I suppose that, being in a land where such historical culinary developments have taken place, one could do worse than to trust Angelo's words.

At the Ballaro` Market

Many traditional dishes of Sicily, the largest island in the Mediterranean Sea, unsurprisingly involve seafood. Walking along the slippery cobblestone streets at the Ballaro` Market in Palermo, the numerous market stalls selling seafood do not fail to attract a visitor's attention. The evocative, unmistakable smell of sea; the stalls vibrant and alluring appearance throughout the day, embellished with the myriad colours of the seafood on sale and enhanced by the warm, temperature of the light emanating from the bulbs above; stall owners yelling in macho tones the fishes available for the day; large swordfish heads placed upright, the sparkling eyes on them watching customers intently while their erect positions gave an appearance of readiness to impale market thieves; fresh mussels arranged meticulously and secured in netting as if they were disposed to stealthy escape attempts. These were but a few observations of what seemed like a typical stall hawking the products of the sea. The Catania fish market offers a similar sight but with twice the ebullience (and chaos).

When I ordered mussel and clam soup as a starter, I was expecting something similar to clam chowder. I was astonished when this huge portion of shellfish arrived - and only as a starter!

Scenes from an Italian Restaurant

On my way to Monreale on a public bus in the morning, I was an unfortunate victim of an intimidation-cum-pickpocketing attempt by four men. I will not go into the details but being cornered by four individuals who were larger than me (their puffy coats adding to their stoutness) in a foreign place left me shell-shocked and it was probably appropriate for my destination to have been the famous Monreale Cathedral with its magnificent frescoes. I must say that travelling on my own and facing such a situation for the first time, I struggled to leave the experience aside and focus attention on the beauties of the place. It didn't help that I could not be entirely sure about the men's intentions as if their main goal was to pick my pockets, they did such a ghastly job! In the evening, with the memory of the incident still etched vividly in my head but not wanting the men to have the satisfaction of marring the quality of my Sicilian experience, I decided to cast my lingering fears aside and ventured out for dinner.

Pasta with sardines

I entered Trattoria Ai Normani, not too far away from the Norman Palace in Palermo. There were no customers at the point in time. It was half-past-six in the evening, way too early for dinner in Italy. For a Singaporean not accustomed to winter, the early sunset was consistent in bringing out tummy rumbles when the clock struck six. The waiter, an eager beaver, was certainly surprised at my premature visit but broke the silence of the trattoria with warm welcome. Deciding to select pasta con le sarde, literally 'pasta with sardines', one of Sicily's signature pasta dishes, I asked the waiter for a recommendation for the second main dish. He rushed into the kitchen and, less than a minute later, rushed out and listed a few meat dishes. I can't remember what I chose then, but having made the selection, I unfolded the serviette, placed it on my lap, readying myself for the meal.

All of a sudden, a middle-aged man wearing a most endearing moustache popped into the dining area with a plate in his hand and on it, lay a raw whole fish about the length of a hand. He began enthusiastically introducing the fish in rapid-fire Italian and recommended that I tried it. The name of the fish escapes me, just like many of the words did when they were fired at such breakneck speed. Faced with a hearty display of spirit from the chef (I began noticing photographs of him hung on the wall), I couldn't say 'no'. After I had scarfed up the pasta, the chef brought the grilled fish in on table trolley. He squeezed some lemon juice on the fish and asked whether I would prefer him to do the deboning of the fish. Not wanting to create a mishap to follow the one in the morning, I left the deboning to his dexterity. He drizzled olive oil and sprinkled herbs on the fish before serving it.

I was feeling stuffed when the waiter came in to introduce the desserts on offer. These were all lined up on a trolley table. He went through each of them until he came to the cannoli when he simply said, 'And yes, you know all about cannoli.' Named after the tube-shaped shell which usually contains a rich filling containing ricotta, all Godfather fans would have been acquainted with this classic Sicilian pastry dessert through the famous line 'Leave the gun. Take the cannoli.' I was particularly intrigued by the Sicilian pear which looked like a cross between a guava and a dragon fruit, positively lethal. I elected to try the Sicilian chocolate mousse cake but the chef, who had come out of the kitchen to observe his waiter's advertising capability, instructed the waiter to let me try the cannolo too. Placing his hand on his chest while smiling heartily, he appeared to indicate: 'Leave the cost to me. Take the cannoli'.

Chocolate mousse cake and cannolo

After serving the dessert, the waiter asked me where I was from. When I told him that I was from Singapore, his immediate reply was: 'Cina (China)?' When I shook my head, he quickly made another guess: 'Giappone?' It was déjà vu; I had the exact same responses from two different post office tellers! When I told him that Singapore is a small country in Southeast Asia, he gave me a quizzical look and then said, 'Anyway, you are most welcome to Parlermo!' I departed before the place started to fill with other diners. As I walked towards the exit, I told the waiter that I was very satisfied with the meal. The chef rushed out of the kitchen and shaking my hand, thanked me and cordially bade me farewell. The decision to grab my time in Palermo by the horns had paid off.

Purple Heaven

I was also thrilled to discover that Sicily is the birthplace of Pasta alla Norma, a tomato-based pasta dish with eggplant, basil, and ricotta. Its origins lie in Catania, where the composer Vincenzo Bellini was born, and the dish is named after his most famous opera. I remember learning how to cook it several years back from an Italian cookbook a friend gave me but I was excited to try one prepared in Sicily itself. I usually prefer cream-based pasta dishes but my first mouthful of Norma, at La Tavernetta da Piero in Siracusa, sent me to purple heaven. The rigatoni was cooked perfectly al dente and the tomato puree combined well with the eggplant and basil to form a rich, delectable sauce. Being infatuated with eggplant (known as 'brinjal' in Singapore), I was to savour the dish thrice during my week's stay in Sicily. In fact, halfway through eating my second plate of pasta alla Norma, I decided that, should I have a daughter, I will name her 'Melanzana', Italian for 'eggplant', 'brinjal' or 'aubergine'. The Italian translation is certainly more charming than the latter terms.

Pasta alla Norma served in an aubergine!

Speaking of eating like a horse, Giuliano, my host in Catania, told me that horse meat is one of Catania's most popular dishes. It was difficult to believe at first! I decided to have it as a second dish, or secondo piatto, and was pleasantly surprised by its texture. Judging from the muscular build of the animal, one would imagine horse meat to be tough but the steak I had, served medium rare, turned out to be as tender as a beef steak served in similar doneness. Lightly-marinaded with salt, thyme and olive oil, one was not distracted from the steak's natural flavour.

The frustrating thing about travelling alone is that you're inevitably limited to the variety of dishes you can savour. If you have a travel companion, the both of you could order two different dishes and each one could sneak a mouthful from the other's plate. However, I must admit that I often allowed my sense of gustatory adventure to get the better of me and succumbed to ordering at least two different courses. My taste buds would be satisfied but, like the consumed dishes on my first mouthful, my stomach threatened to burst with flavours. Travelling solo, mealtimes often witnessed the insatiable desires of my tongue exceed the capacity of my stomach. I was so inspired by the food I had in Sicily, I couldn't help but purchase a cookbook for Sicilian cuisine (I opted for an English translation as fire will be involved). 

The Day the Comedy Died: Saying Goodbye to Robin Williams

A Robin Williams fan, having placed her flower on Williams' Star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame in tribute to her departed hero, declared that 11 August 2014 was 'The Day the Comedy Died'. Growing up as a boy, Robin Williams was someone I deeply admired for his comic genius. One of the first movies I watched was Aladdin, in which Williams expertly breathed life into the Genie. I remember watching Mrs Doubtfire a couple of times and even though many have adjudged it, at least in terms of its storyline, to be a mere carbon copy of Dustin Hoffman's Tootsie (1982), Williams made the titular character his own. Good Morning Vietnam! also deserves a mention as Williams juggles his comic talents and an impeccable command of serious drama admirably in this film set during the harrowing Vietnam War. I even remember enjoying his less renowned films such as The Fisher King, Jumanji and Patch Adams and I was always amazed by the brilliantly versatile comedic actor he was. I'll admit that, at one point, he was my favourite silver screen actor and I went through a phase attempting to catch every movie he's ever been in. I even got hold of his late 1970s TV series, Mork and Mindy, where he actually plays an alien!

As a teenager, I got into his more serious films and although I came to develop issues with the film's muddled philosophy, Dead Poets' Society was an inspiration to me and I would be lying if I said that the movie played no part in my decision to become a teacher. On a less sophisticated level, the film was, to me, a bastion of educational idealism and I've to admit that I still think about how I can inspire my students like Mr. Keating did (I'm afraid to say that, for now, the only way I can make students stand on the table is to make them do so as punishment).

I read about his struggles with drugs during the early 1980s (his friend, the comedian John Belushi, died of drug overdose in 1982) but to me, because of his roles on film, Robin Williams was someone I've never ceased to, on a personal level, associate with an inexplicable innocence and a youthful idealism. In a way, the idea governing the famous line 'the day the music died' in Don McLean's 'American Pie' echoes in Robin Williams' death. Even as he struggled for critical and commercial success during his later years, I always had this feeling that, considering his talents, success was only a movie away. Hearing about his death this morning though, put these hopes to bed. It's as if a jolly avuncular figure, who spent a lot of time with you during your childhood and who's left a deep yet amorphous impression on you, has passed on. It's going to take a while for many of us who grew up watching Robin Williams' films to get used to the fact that he is gone from this world. 

Shola Ameobi: Redefining 'Legend'

'You put your left foot in,
You put your left foot out,
You put your left foot in,
And you shake it all about.
You do the Ameobi and you turn yourself around,
That's what it's all about.'

It was on a train from Durham to Newcastle on match day where I heard a few young Geordies singing these lines to the tune of ' The Hokey Pokey'. When I first started supporting Newcastle in 2001, Shola Ameobi was being touted as the 'next Alan Shearer'. A decade or so later, songs like these are being sung about our Nigerian-born but Newcastle-bred striker (the aforementioned song would sound ridiculous if you replaced 'Alan Shearer' with 'Ameobi'). Needless to say, Shola did not become the next Shearer (players of Big Al's stature are, after all, simply inimitable) but not many Geordies will disagree with me when I say that the big man has become a cult hero in his own right. Although he never turned out to become a prolific goalscorer, he did score many important ones over the years. Many may not remember this but he equalised against Barcelona in the good ol' days when we were in the Champions' League under Sir Bobby. He maintained a pretty good goal-scoring record in the Championship (before being hit by injury) which helped us win promotion at the first time asking. And of course, his goals against our fierce rivals Sunderland (only Newcastle great Jackie Milburn has scored more against our neighbours) have accorded him the nickname 'Mackem Slayer' on Tyneside. I was at the Tyne-Wear derby at St. James' in 2012 and recall how his late equaliser sent the Toon Army into raptures. The 50,000 or so home fans went absolutely bonkers; I ended up hugging everyone within a one-metre radius. Shola, a staunch Christian, was a player who had admitted to struggling with a lack of aggression and he is known to sections of supporters by the moniker 'Bambi'. When on the field against the team in red-and-white, however, he was the Incredible Hulk. Besides his goals, I believe that Shola's loyalty to the club and his attitude on the pitch (with the exception of a few matches where his horrendous performances may only be explained by possibly having consumed too much Newkie Brown Ale; he was clumsier on the ball than Joe Biden is with a microphone) were attributes which the Geordie faithful came to cherish. Fans would praise him at times and curse at him at others but I've not met a Geordie without a soft spot for the man. It was great to see him score a goal in his final home game. And I think a handful of fans must have chuckled when he appeared to talk himself into getting sent off in his last game for the club. It was as if he wanted to leave the Northeast with a statement to the fans indicating that his problems with aggression (or a lack thereof) were a thing of the past: 'Call me "Strolla". Call me "Carl Cort" [Sir Bobby used to call him that by mistake]. Call me anything. But DON'T call me "Bambi".' At the announcement of his departure, Shola was the only player in black-and-white who was around when I first supported NUFC. It will be strange not seeing him don our famous colours next season.

Now for an anecdote before I close. I was at St. James' Park in 22 December 2012 for the home game against a struggling Queens Park Rangers. It was the last game before Christmas Day. I remember walking up the snow-covered walkway to the stadium and having worn a layer too few, I sat in my seat shivering for most of the second half. With each passing minute, the fans' impatience grew as both teams struggled to fashion meaningful chances. When our gaffer elected to take striker Papisse Cisse off, replacing him with Shola, boos could be heared ringing from the terraces. A female supporter in front of me, in a shrill voice (it was so unpleasant that I can remember the sound to this very day), chanted, 'You don't know what you're doing'. The fans had no idea why our manager would replace our main striker - admittedly, Cisse was struggling with form - with someone with a less than encouraging record, with a player who had so little pace, he could, when in possession of the ball, slow a game down the way Thatcher's closing of the mines retarded the economy of the Northeast. You need to see the way Newcastle fans respond each time he manages to get past a player to understand what I mean. The fact that we hardly react (that's if we do not laugh, and we only do when we can afford to, i.e. when we're leading by three goals or more) when he trips over the ball speaks volumes. It seemed that for many of the fans, the substitution transformed the impatience into sheer resignation. In the 81st minute, however, Shola expertly side-stepped a defender and, with his left, placed the ball beyond the reach of the goalkeeper and into the bottom-corner. I can still recall the reaction of the crowd. The previously sedated stadium sprung into life like the eruption of a dormant volcano. Those very fans who were jeering his entrance joined the chorus in singing 'Oooh, Shola Ameobi'. It proved to be the winning goal. As I left the stadium, David, a lifelong fan who I had the pleasure of being seated next to for a number of home games and with whom I still keep in touch via email, said these indelible words to me: 'It's funny how one kick of a ball can change the entire festive mood.' That year, Shola helped to give many Geordies a merry Christmas.

(Photo taken from http://www.nufcblog.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2011/07/Shola-Ameobi.png)