Sir John Hall was particularly insistent. On the morning of the match, in his Park Lane hotel, he told me: ''We are not going to win today, though we will probably succeed in the rugby tomorrow. To be honest I could do without all this fuss. I wish I was watching the final back home on television.''

Could this really be the Field Marshal of the Toon Army, the man who built the Metrocentre, then re-built Newcastle United, who created Newcastle Falcons rugby team, and is the most famous figure in the North East of England? Aye, it could, bonny lad.

In truth Sir John wanted to be retired by now, sunning himself in Spain. Only the most astounding circumstances - the resignation of two club directors, one the club chairman, the other his son, after lurid tabloid revelations - had dragged him back into the chairmanship and the spotlight.

But this was FA Cup final day, Newcastle were trying to lift the trophy for the first time since 1955, attempting to put a gloss on a fairly grim season. It was time for Sir John to head for the Royal Box, Lady Mae, his Scottish wife, standing proudly at his side.

Yet this, the shrewdest of business operators, had a premonition all was not going to end happily. As the official bus was preparing to leave, his son-in-law Billy was stuck in the hotel lift.

I tried to cheer him up. ''Last night I was chatting to Roy Hodgson, the Blackburn manager. He really believes that this could be your day, that Alan Shearer could nick the winner.''

The chairman was unconvinced. ''No Keith Gillespie, no service for Shearer,'' he predicted and was proved to be exactly right.

At least Billy was eventually released. I had been enlisted in the Toon Army by my friend Alastair Wilson, the new director responsible for communications at United, who had invited me to Wembley as his guest. He adds to the Scots' ranks, joining chief executive Freddie Fletcher and manager Kenny Dalglish.

On Friday night there was a very special event at the Savoy Hotel. The brothers Paul and Ian Darling hosted a reception to honour their grandfather, a man they never knew.

He was Jack Allen, who scored two goals when Newcastle beat Arsenal in the final of 1932. It is generally agreed that, in the lead-up to the first, the cross from Jimmy Richardson had gone outside the bye-line. Being sporting chaps in these days not one of the Arsenal players raised an objection when the goal was allowed.

Alastair's party then moved to Langan's, the Michael Caine-owned eaterie, where we met Hodgson and where the entire clientele seemed to be clad in black and white.

The Newcastle supporters were going to enjoy themselves whatever the result and no matter the cost. ''Do you know Blaydon Races?'' the jazz pianist was asked. ''Nae bother, we'll play it oorsels.'' The wee, small hours came and went.

On match day they were a happy regiment. ''What team do you support? they enquired of a young man who shared a pint with them on the pavement. ''Celtic,'' came the unexpected reply. ''Stick with us and stay lucky.''

Yet we knew Arsenal were hotter favourites than the weather. Even without Dennis Bergkamp, the league champions carried more clout than a single Shearer could be expected to mount.

We made it to Wembley where the announcer told us this was the greatest cup final in the world. A bit over the top, but the atmosphere and colour could not have been capped in the Coliseum.

They belted out ''Abide With Me'', the oddest choice for a soccer extravaganza, then the teams entered the arena. Dalglish led his troops, holding the hand of a crippled youngster who was the side's mascot. ''Stand up, if you love the Toon,'' was the cry and there was not a filled seat in one end of the stadium. I saw Brendan Foster to the left, Alec Stewart, the England cricketer, to the right.

From the opening moments we knew the Gunners had more firepower. The Newcastle defence was a thing of shreds and tatters.

This was the signal for even more effort from the fans. A variety of chants were used; the simple but menacing ''Toon, Toon, Toon'' the instructive ''Attack, attack, attack'', the more melodic ''Sing you hearts out, Border lads.''

It was never going to be enough. Yet we were here to represent the city and there would be no whining. The army did not skulk from the field, they stood and applauded as the Arsenal players went up for the cup, Sir John leading the applause.

And outside, as the supporters mingled, there were even exchanges of handshakes; sportsmanship was creeping back into sport. Jack Allen, the winners in 1932, and the losing Arsenal side of that year, would have approved.

There was indeed consolation for Newcastle. The Falcons beat Harlequins 44-20 at the Stoop to clinch the rugby premier league title. ''We are going back to the North East with some silverware,'' said a delighted Sir John . . . right again.