On The Premier League:Never go back. It's the immutable law of life, let alone sport, but since when do men like Kevin Keegan or lunatic asylums such as Newcastle United invest their faith in something as downright dull as common sense? Keegan's return to St James' Park last week was a shock. Very unshocking, however, was the frothy-mouthed excitement and wide-eyed hysteria generated by his heavenly descent - by helicopter, as it happens, although at one point I could have sworn a sweaty-browed Sky Sports News reporter claimed Keegan was set to alight on St James' Park by his own accord, like some great, bubble-permed Angel of the North.
And, sadly, it's equally predictable that the whole Second Coming (or is it third, I lose track?) will almost certainly end in crashing, crushing disappointment, with Keegan slumped, disconsolate, over an advertising hoarding while a mob of angry fans brandishing broken bottles of Newky Broon chase Mike Ashley into the North Sea.
How can it come to anything else? Keegan is still damned by the verdict he delivered on his own tactical shortcomings when resigning as England manager in 2001. "I have come up short," he said, to barely a murmur of protest.
And, by his own admission, he hasn't seen Newcastle - or anyone else, for that matter - play live since leaving Manchester City in 2005, something which at least puts him on a level footing with Gallowgate regulars, who have spent most matches in the last two years with their heads buried in their hands.
After all the interminable hype of the previous few days, Saturday's drab draw with mighty Bolton was probably an appropriate start to Keegan's second reign: after all, it is surely inconceivable that Tyneside will not be swamped by another tsunami of tears by the time he stages his next abrupt walk-out, probably some time next season.
If this all sounds rather cynical, that is because I - and most of the English-speaking world - are suffering from chronic Toon Fatigue, a common affliction which causes the victim to suffer uncontrollable surges of rage whenever they hear the phrases "Geordie", "Messiah" and "hot-bed of football" lumped together in the same sentence.
There really has been some arrant nonsense spoken in the last five days and quite a lot of it has come from the Saviour himself. "Newcastle supporters work every day of the week and then come to St James' Park on a Saturday to be entertained," he jabbered in his inaugural press conference. "It's like people down south going to the theatre every week."
Well, quite: my night out in London on Saturday was ruined by the hoards of burly, tooled-up West Ham and Millwall fans striding through the West End on their way to the revival of The Seagull. And rumour has it that Portsmouth are considering laying on shuttle buses to trundle between Fratton Park and the city's civic arts centre to catch Tom Stoppard's latest.
Is it any wonder the rest of the country loses patience with all things Newcastle United when they have to listen to such drivel.
This is a shame. There's no question the Premier League is a better place for Keegan's return. Genuine characters are thin on the ground in football's over-sanitised environment and there isn't a player, supporter or journalist who is not stirred by his passion and presence. If enthusiasm is infectious, Keegan should be quarantined.
Similarly, there is something undeniably romantic about seeing the Yorkshireman coming back to his adopted city after an 11-year absence. It is proof positive that, where football is concerned, there are some bonds which simply cannot be broken and Keegan follows the likes of Steve Coppell, Howard Kendall and Gerry Francis who found the lure of their spiritual home too strong to resist.
But the fear for Keegan, and his devoted followers, must be that whatever disasters are endured in the coming weeks and months - surely not years, given the manager's track record - will obliterate the memories of the spectacular highs of the mid-1990s when Newcastle sparkled so brightly, a rough diamond on football's coal-face.
And the road ahead is fraught with danger. For all Keegan's dewy-eyed visions of swashbuckling football, the banal reality is he is inheriting a squad which is rotten to the core.
His best striker has already articulated his disaffection with Keegan's managerial style in his autobiography, while his potentially best midfielder spends half his time in rehab and the other half in jail. And the less said about the defence the better.
These are the problems that Keegan must fix and quickly. If he doesn't, he will soon discover that dreams alone are not enough, not even for Newcastle's band of fevered fantasists.
