‘how can I know what I think till I see what I say?’ (e.m. forster) - semi socratic dialogues and diatribes on the subjects of cricket, football, music, ireland, culture and politics by ian cusack
Wednesday, 29 December 2010
Read all about me.....
Friday, 24 December 2010
Hyde & Freak
By profession I’m a lecturer in Further Education, so under the terms of my contract I am forced to head back to College on the day immediately after the Summer Bank Holiday. On Tuesday 28th August 2007, my return to work coincided with the last time I would ever buy “The Guardian,” a newspaper I’d read avidly and defended vigorously since my stridently left-wing views had codified during my mid teenage years, which fell on the cusp of the 70s and 80s. Sunday August 26th 2007 was also an important date for me, as it would be the last time I attended an away league game supporting Newcastle United. On that date, we Magpies, unaware as yet just how unimaginably catastrophic the Ashley administration would be, nor being fully immersed in the hateful anti football of the Allardyce interregnum after an acceptable start to the season, travelled 40 miles down the A19 to face Middlesbrough. The game ended in a surprisingly entertaining 2-2 draw, but the real story that emerged in the days ahead was to be found off the pitch, in the shape of deplorable chants by certain sections of the Newcastle support and the despicably opportunistic response to this by “The Guardian” and sections of the Boro support, both of whom seemed to glorify in the chance to have a go at Newcastle United to satisfy their own sometimes complementary, sometimes conflicting agenda. I’ll be honest; I don’t like Middlesbrough. However, that has nothing to do with regional rivalry as I’ve no concept of Newcastle v Boro being a derby game; our derby is against the Mackems, theirs is against Leeds (this season) or Hartlepool (next season). I dislike Boro partly because of arriving at Thornaby on the rattler in February 83 as a nervous 18 year old and being told by the local top plod “we can not guarantee your safety once you leave this train,” in advance of the most frightening 4 hours of my life, and partly because of Boro’s post 1995 reinvention as the epitome of wacky Sky TV fans in replica shirts, giant foam hands, curly wigs and face paint. Games between Newcastle and Boro, despite their enthusiastic adoption of a Ronald MacDonald style couture, have been played in an ever more poisonous atmosphere during the time I’ve been watching them. To be fair the ultraviolent ambience hasn’t been helped by Newcastle fans’ insistence on constantly singing about Dr Marietta Higgs and the 1987 Cleveland Child Sex Abuse scandal. These chants may have been topical once, but they have never been funny nor acceptable; however, the mindset of fans desperate to get a reaction from the opposition means that apparently no subject can be ruled as being beyond the bounds of taste or social acceptability, regardless of legal niceties. Consequently, Boro sought to trump such insults and raise the bar in terms of offensive ripostes during the October 2003 game at the Riverside, which took place after the ultimately unfounded “roasting” allegations against several Newcastle players, including Jenas, Bramble and Dyer,. This game saw the three mentioned booed mercilessly and constantly referred to as “rapists,” as were other black Newcastle players who had not been subject to any accusations, including Olivier Bernard and Shola Ameobi, who scored the winner. In the aftermath of that game, I had a long, frank conversation with Boro fanzine editor Rob Nichols and we both agreed that an atmosphere like that actually impaired our enjoyment of the game. It just wasn’t on; loads of idiots on both sides trying to outdo each other in terms of nastiness. However, it wasn’t the Nuremberg Rally; football matches seldom are cauldrons of hate speak. Here is perhaps not the place for a Gramscian analysis of social hegemony and how it relates to the implied and presumed power roles among football fans and their place within the Capitalist social matrix. Suffice to say such a complex deconstruction of the motivations and effects of attendance and conduct at football matches is the stuff of a PhD thesis. Broadly, my instincts are that football crowds nowadays are more representative of the entire spectrum of society than they were when I first started watching Newcastle in 1973. Obviously it is undeniably a good thing that football is a more inclusive spectator sport, though it does mean there may be a mismatch between what is seen as acceptable conduct to those who perhaps unknowingly march under the banner of workerist traditionalists, many of whom remember the 1970s as a time for trading punches and throwing petrol bombs with opposition football fans, and the more politically correct whose ideology has been inspired by those who had more dealings with Red Lion Square than the Red Army and spent the decade reading Socialist Challenge and Spare Rib, perhaps identifying enemies not by the colour of their football favours but by their political hues. Nowhere was the results of this mismatch more pronounced than in the fallout from the August 2007 game at the Riverside. The opposition centre forwards that day, who both found the net, were Mark Viduka, who’d arrived at St. James Park on a free transfer from Middlesbrough a month previously and the Egyptian former Spurs man, Mido. From the very start, Viduka was “a fat Aussie bastard” in the eyes of the Boro faithful, while Mido was “a paedo,“ according to a proportion of the away support. My recollections of the game were that in the first half, Charles N’Zogbia gave Newcastle the lead, before Mido equalised. His response to the goal was a frenzied in your face celebration in front of Newcastle fans, among whom he’d few friends following some theatrical diving during his time at White Hart Lane the season before. Mido was yellow carded for his celebrations and the away support upped the ante considerably, both in terms of noise and in terms of abuse. Possibly a quarter of the away support began to chant “shoe, shoe, shoe bomber” at Mido, because of his apparent resemblance, though it’s lost on me, to Richard Reid, described by Wikipedia as “a self-admitted member of al-Qaeda who pled guilty in 2002 in U.S. federal court to eight criminal counts of terrorism stemming from his attempt to destroy a commercial aircraft in-flight by detonating explosives hidden in his shoes…. Reid was born a British citizen in Bromley, South London, to Leslie Hughes, who was of white English descent, and Colvin Robin Reid, whose father was a Jamaican immigrant of African descent. “ The chanting at Mido was intense but sporadic; I didn’t join in, nor did I’d estimate at least half of the away following, though pro Newcastle songs were more popular. I didn’t join in because I thought the chant was stupid, offensive and unnecessary, though I did utter several loud “leave it out for fuck‘s sake“ at those in front of me (I was near the back of the away section) who were chanting it. I’ve no problem with telling racists to shut up at the game, or even having a quiet or less than quiet word with clowns who think they can get an easy laugh by making such comments, whether they believe what they are saying or not; in fact, in all sections of my life, whether I’m at work, in the pub, doing my shopping or walking down the street, I’ll stick my oar in when I hear an offensive remark. I think all anti racists have the same responsibility. Incidentally, not one person has ever stuck one on me for challenging their attitudes. Like much of the chanting at a football game, the “shoe bomber” references did not continue throughout the whole match. When Viduka put Newcastle ahead, the home fans again reminded us he was “a fat Aussie bastard” and when former Sunderland man Julio Arca tied things up at 2-2, he was informed that he was a “dirty Mackem bastard,” though the Argentinian had no references made to his nationality nor to the Malvinas War, which no doubt amazed and devastated the staff at “The Guardian.” Post match I phoned Rob Nichols for a chat about what we both agreed had been as a canny game and he informed me he’d heard none of the chanting directed at Mido, on account of the fact his seat in the north stand is at the opposite end of the stadium. This may seem a minor point, but in the context of the media shitstorm that was about to explode, it’s important it is made. The next day, August Bank Holiday Monday, I’d taken in North Shields v Horden in the Northern League Division 2 and was helping my son to choose a new pair of football boots for his up and coming season from the Nike discount store in Royal Quays Retail Outlet near Shields, when an unrecognised number started ringing on my mobile. To my surprise it was the North East stringer for “The Guardian” and former Sunderland AFC official magazine writer Louise Taylor, who wanted to ask “a few questions“ about the previous day‘s game. Having written for Newcastle fanzines from 1989 I had been used to calls like this every so often, so I readily agreed as I’ve always been of the belief that the opinions of ordinary fans hold as much validity as jaundiced, cynical hacks. Frankly, I’ve regretted many decisions in my life, but this is one of my biggest errors; how naïve was I to believe that “The Guardian,” champion of all the socialist and democratic principles I hold dear, would represent my views accurately! In Tuesday’s paper, Louise Taylor put her name to an article that had taken my words and quoted them out of context and without explanation to suggest that I was perfectly happy for Newcastle fans to abuse Mido in the way he had been. Obviously this was not the case and I was very unhappy as being represented in this fashion. Equally astonishingly, Rob Nichols who had unequivocally told me he had not heard any chanting on the Sunday, had managed to reposition himself by 180 degrees the next day and was enthusiastically condemning the Newcastle support. As far as I’m aware the interview I gave was not taped, which is a real shame as I would love to have been able to brandish a transcript to all the cyber hardmen bloggers and polyversity Media Studies and Sociology drop outs on message boards, who judged me so harshly about things I’d not even thought never mind said. I had stated quite categorically during the interview that I was against racism and that the chants had been racist in nature, but that surely everyone was opposed to racism and would condemn such chants. In addition as a Marxist, I was vehemently opposed to the social conditions that created racist attitudes and encouraged institutional racism and individual racist attitudes, especially considering the fact that those chanting racist abuse were not necessarily racists per se but people who believed it was acceptable to say just about anything at a football ground to wind up opposition players and supporters (see examples above). Those chanting at Mido were not Fascists whose heads needed acquainting with the pavement, but ordinary football fans who needed educating about what should be acceptable conduct. I realise that sounds patronising, but I don’t mean it to be. I felt that the impact of the chants, apparently unheard by at least one end of the ground, had not ruined the game, but had created an “unsavoury” atmosphere. In addition, I also questioned why Newcastle fans would suddenly develop Islamophobic attitudes for that particular game, when Emre had been playing for Newcastle for 2 seasons without enduring any abuse at all; for some reason this was seen as the most savage indictment of my opinions and, almost 4 years on, I still struggle to understand why. Having felt like I had been hung out to dry by Louise Taylor, I made a complaint to the readers’ editor of “The Guardian,” receiving a phone call of apology by Louise Taylor the next day (Wednesday), whereby she assured me the following Tuesday’s paper would put things right. In the event, it simply clarified that I didn’t write for “The Mag,” but for “players inc” fanzine, suggesting she felt her article, which I will speak out against until my dying breath, had integrity. In a sense it had when compared to Marina Hyde’s football blog that appeared on the Thursday. Entitled “Hypocrisy needs a kick it out campaign,” Hyde, a person who has willingly had a relationship with Piers Morgan, took Taylor’s words at face value and used them as a springboard for a savage attack on what she took as my beliefs. Check out what she said for yourself at http://www.guardian.co.uk/sport/blog/2007/aug/29/hypocrisyneedsakickitout ; I still struggle to read the whole thing without alternately wanting to burst in to tears or punch the monitor until it or my fist breaks. Here’s an example of her hatchet job on me -: “Speaking to this newspaper, one Ian Cusack of the fanzine Players Inc described the chants as "unsavoury". "But I don't think they were racist," he went on. "Newcastle have Muslim players. Emre is a Muslim . . . The chants should be placed in the context of local rivalry." It takes a special sort of idiotic blindness, really, to downgrade racism to something that can be excused on account of geography, and it would be nice to think that Mr Cusack might dedicate the next issue of his magazine to expanding on this point, perhaps extrapolating his argument to notable episodes in civil rights history. In the meantime, there is only his we've-got-a-Muslim-too defence, which some might find redolent of the attempt by The Office's Chris Finch to bat away those tired charges of misogyny. "How can I hate women?" is his triumphant staple. "My mum's one." My only defence is that I did not say the things she claims I did and that I do not hold attitudes she assumes I must have, and that her colleague, either out of mischief or incompetence, was responsible for pinning such sentiments on me. I’ve never bought “The Guardian” since and I never will again. The effect of the Mido story and my part in it was to see the chin-strokers in John Lennon specs who occupy the likes of When Saturday Comes’ message board and who see attending football games as akin to appearing on EDL marches, taking time out from monotonously whining about MK Dons to applaud Taylor and Hyde for their work in exposing Newcastle’s fan base as a cabal of racist thugs. In a sense, this level of response was predictable, as it was rooted in the special kind of class and regional prejudice that the effete petit bourgeois gauleiters in cyberspace and the media specialise in. Far more depressing was the reaction of Boro fans. Ignoring their racist abuse of Newcastle players back in 2003, they climbed abroad this bandwagon as a way of trying apply a scattergun and broad brush approach to criticising Newcastle fans. The amount of witless fools who opportunistically sought to claim chants relating to the 1987 Cleveland Child Sex Abuse scandal were “racist” was enough to make me give up on football completely. I didn’t, but this was the last time I attended an away league game, the last time I bought “The Guardian” and it will definitely be the last time I speak to national media.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
And here's what I wrote at the time; this article appeared in the Percy Main v Stocksfield programme on 29th September 2007.
Who’s Sorry Now?
It’s not often I say this, but I was in the wrong the other week. This is not a misprint; I made a mistake, an error of judgement if you like, and I’m sorry. I’m not exactly sure who I should be apologising to; me, other Newcastle fans, Mido, Middlesbrough FC, their supporters and especially the editorial team of their fanzine Fly Me to the Moon, or Louise Taylor and Marina Hyde from The Guardian. Hang on: definitely not Louise Taylor and Marina Hyde from The Guardian, or the mendacious message board cyber toughs from Stockton and South Bank.
I’m against racism, in all of its manifestations, who isn’t? But I’m also against the root causes of racism; the prevalent social attitude of intolerance, manipulated by a state apparatus and a media that seek to stigmatise Asylum Seekers, refugees and the indigenous Muslim population, is the cause of racism in our society. Football fans are not de facto racists, regardless of team they support. Any racism that individuals display is as a direct result of the attitudes of the ruling class that seek to divide any form of working class unity. It certainly is not helpful for anyone with a social conscience or a sense of natural justice and moral outrage to seek to stigmatise any set of football fans. The fight against racism, like the fight against Capitalism, is one that we should all be UNITED in. Columnists from The Guardian and on-line Boro bad lads, please read, digest and respect this paragraph.
At a rough guess, I’ve watched Newcastle play at Ayresome Park and the Riverside approximately twenty times in the past nigh-on twenty five years. The first time I went to Boro was in March 1983; 1-1, with Keegan scoring for us. In those days, football fans were seen as a kind of enemy within, without the Kremlin-sponsored ideology. To be frank, attending an away game was a dangerous thing to do in many instances and Boro was always one of the worst trips; in fact the last time I’d been to Boro, apart from this season, back in 2003, I felt physically sick with fear during the post match journey to the car. The atmosphere was ugly, evil, fetid. Back in 1983, as a naïve 18 year old, I thought it would be quickest and safest to make my way down on the train from Heworth with two similarly neophytic mates. That idea was swept out of my head as soon as the rattler pulled in. The three of us were shoehorned on to an already sardine-can stuffed two carriages. It seemed as if we were the only ones who weren’t sociopaths; that feeling of blind panic when you know you’re completely out of your depth had engulfed me before we’d even got to Pelaw.
The Police got on at Stockton, with the Inspector telling us, "As you have decided to travel independently of approved means, we can not guarantee your safety today."
It was terrifying; it was amazing we got home alive. Walking, head down, in silence from the station the two miles to Ayresome Park and back again, the air punctuated by wailing silences and indistinct, garbled, angry shouts, the fear that we’d be ambushed at each corner is the most raw feeling of terror I’ve known in my life. Perhaps because the three of us looked like refugees from a Postcard Records photoshoot, there was little chance of us dying at the feet of the Frontline. Today, in contrast, it was like a trip to Alton Towers.
Some of my very favourite people in the world are Boro fans; two of them, Rob and Andy, I met up with that day. However, they aren't the bad lads and they aren't the Riverside Stadium face paint, curly wig, replica shirt and foam hand generation. They no doubt cringe at Roary the Lion and "Chelsea Dagger" after the goals, as much as I cringed at the anti Mido chants. The fact is the contempt I feel for the Boro nouveau has nothing to do with geography and everything to do with my nostalgia for a time when football was less showbiz and more earthy. I’ve never regarded Middlesbrough as a derby game; that honour is reserved for the Mackems and the Mackems only.
That said, this game is always a highly charged affairs; Boro are always aggressive off the pitch. In October 1992 before a League Cup tie, their hooligans attacked the Three Bulls Heads in Percy Street Newcastle. I was inside at the time and have to say it was pretty terrifying, watching the windows of a pub being caved in with rocks. For that and many other reasons, each visit there is one taken with a degree of trepidation. Of course, the constant chanting by Newcastle fans with reference to the Cleveland Child Abuse Inquiry of 1987 doesn’t help things.
Of course, Middlesbrough fans are not innocent in this; in October 2003, there was relentless booing of Titus Bramble, Keiron Dyer and Jermaine Jenas. Now, for many reasons, Newcastle fans would wish to boo those three, but for completely different reasons than the spurious grounds, as later demonstrated legally, that caused Boro fans to boo that day. I’m not seeking to imply that the jeers directed at those three, nor at Shola Ameobi, who scored the only goal that day, or Olivier Bernard, who got away with a handball in the box, were in any way racially motivated. Perhaps Boro fans and agenda-pursuing office girls from the Fourth Estate may wish to reflect on this point.
On August 26th, the abuse from Newcastle fans was initially focussed on the poor attendance (they’re here, they’re there, they’re every fucking where, empty seats!), but things soon degenerated with the insertion of the word paedophiles in place of empty seats. Unpleasant? Yes. Unsavoury? Yes Unnecessary? Defintely? Funny? Depends on your point of view.
Where things became particularly intolerable was when the focus of the chanting switched to Mido, Boro’s new Egyptian centre forward. A portly, arrogant underachiever, he’d skulked in Spurs’ reserves since scoring against us when we’d won 3-2 at White Hart Lane in January. His performance on the pitch ordinarily would not have been something to worry me, but they way he got fired up when the abusive chants were directed at him proved them to be, in effect, a ridiculous own goal. It was clearly stupid, stereotypical and unnecessary to call him a terrorist and a paedophile, but there wasn’t a person in that crowd who believed there to be a grain of truth in those chants.
Of course, that isn’t the point. In hindsight I believe that those chants were racist, in effect if not intent, as well as offensive and inflammatory, although Mido has to be the one who had the final call about whether it was racist, not Louise Taylor and certainly not a hypocritical Boro fan who has no interest in confronting racism, but is sick of the big bad bullies from Tyneside taking over his club’s Meccano ground and humiliating his side on and off the pitch with endless songs about Dr. Marietta Higgs.
However, what can one person do about it? I’ve not been in a Newcastle crowd that engaged in mass racist chanting for over two decades. Certainly any racism I’ve heard in the past 15 or so years has been isolated individual idiots, all of whom I’ve either told to shut it or reported to stewards. I’ve never come to blows with anyone about it, nor do I think I’ve changed anyone’s opinions, but I’ve stopped it being said. What else can you do?
Certainly in a culture whereby prejudice towards Islam is ingrained by law, foreign policy and institutional frameworks, there is no wonder that fear and suspicion of Muslims is a serious problem. Perhaps if Blair hadn’t decided to bomb Afghanistan and Iraq the atmosphere wouldn’t be so intolerant, but there you have it. I didn’t join in these chants because, at the time, I thought they were simply unpleasant attempts at wind-ups. On reflection, I’m wrong. It was racist and I wish it hadn’t happened.
Apart from that issue, I have to say was that it was one hell of a good game; I don't like our 4-3-3 narrow formation, but I see its purpose. We were well on top for the first 20, until N'Zogbia put us ahead with a screamer, second best after Mido equalised until the hour, then in control at the end. Viduka showed strength in scoring and Arca should have been closed down when equalising. Owen ought to have won it for us in the last minute as well.
Post match it was a totally relaxed stroll to the car. There was no edge to it; I wasn’t intimidated and Gary and I happily chatted the whole way back, not trying to hide our accents. From what I heard not one Boro fan was talking about the chanting of our lot, much less being in high dudgeon about it. In fact, when we met up with Andy for a brief chat in Doctor Brown’s car park, the subject wasn’t even discussed. We had a short chat, and then bade our farewell; I was home for the second half of Man Utd v Spurs. Disappointed we didn't win, but at least we didn't lose.
On the Bank Holiday Monday following the Boro v Newcastle game, I took in North Shields at home to Horden. The game was terrible. They always are at Ralph Gardener Park. Horden won 1-0 and it could have been six. Post match, I to the Royal Quays to buy some new trainers and, standing in the check out queue at the Nike shop, I received a call.
To my absolute astonishment, it was Louise Taylor, a football writer on The Guardian, which has been my paper of choice since becoming an avowed loony lefty at the age of 12. She, of course, wanted to discuss the Mido chants the day before, asking me to condemn Newcastle fans. I didn’t, though I would do now if anyone asked me for reasons I’ve stated above. Over the course of 15 minutes I tried to explain why Newcastle fans were not racist as an entity, but would have individual racists within them. The complexities of my points appeared to be lost either by her or in the sub-editing phase, as my words appeared as the final paragraph in her article. My opinions, which followed those of my mate Rob Nicholls, the Boro fanzine editor, who had said to me in a phone call on the Bank Holiday Monday night that he hadn’t actually heard the chants as he sits in the other end of the ground, were summed up as follows -:
"The Mido chants were very unsavoury but I don't think they were racist, Newcastle have Muslim players, Emre is a Muslim. They were just a way of winding the opposition up but they didn't work as Mido scored. The chants should be placed in the context of local rivalry."
Those words seem petty, small-minded and ill judged. They also didn’t reflect what I had to say, but then again, I didn’t write the article. Even worse, the next day, a football blog on the paper’s website by gossip columnist Marina Hyde, a former confidant of Piers Morgan, had this to say -:
“It takes a special sort of idiotic blindness, really, to downgrade racism to something that can be excused on account of geography, and it would be nice to think that Mr Cusack might dedicate the next issue of his magazine to expanding on this point, perhaps extrapolating his argument to notable episodes in civil rights history.
In the meantime, there is only his we've-got-a-Muslim-too defence, which some might find redolent of the attempt by The Office's Chris Finch to bat away those tired charges of misogyny. How can I hate women? is his triumphant staple. My mum's one.”
As an aside, they also described me as a writer for The Mag, a publication I hadn’t deigned to write for in over 3 years. Happily The Guardian printed a retraction of this error and Louise Taylor had the decency to phone back twice and profusely apologise. I emailed Marina Hyde, but as yet she hasn’t got back to me; presumably she’s too busy with other important projects, such as reviewing reality TV shows or however she chooses to use her Oxford University degree.
I’m not particularly bothered that this whole episode allowed drooling inadequates from either bank of the Tees to go in to overdrive on message boards printing specious fallacies about me and my family; I just wish I’d thought the whole issue through. The chants aimed at Mido were wrong, racist and unpleasant. I sincerely hope they don’t happen again.
However, I offer no apologies to those who pursued an agenda that was anti-working class, anti-Newcastle or anti-football. My particular contempt is reserved for those football fans that used the Mido situation to pursue petty jealousies and attempt to settle scores. You should be ashamed of yourselves.
Wednesday, 22 December 2010
The Ministry of Silly Rules
In George Orwell’s seminal novel 1984, the nightmare scenario of a pervasive state machine that controls every single element of a human’s life is frighteningly explored. Published in 1949, it is set in the eponymous year and focuses on a repressive, totalitarian regime. The story follows the life of one seemingly insignificant man, Winston Smith, a civil servant assigned the task of perpetuating the regime's propaganda by falsifying records and political literature. Smith grows disillusioned with his meagre existence and so begins a rebellion against the system that leads to his arrest and torture. The novel has become famous for its portrayal of pervasive government surveillance and control, and the state's increasing encroachment on the rights of the individual.
Winston Smith is employed by The Ministry of Truth, working in an enormous pyramidal structure of glittering white concrete rising 300 metres into the air, containing over 3000 rooms above ground. On the outside wall are the three slogans of the Party: "War is Peace," "Freedom is Slavery," "Ignorance is Strength." The Ministry of Truth is involved with news media, entertainment, the fine arts and educational books. Its purpose is to rewrite history and change the facts to fit party doctrine, for propaganda effect. Within the novel Orwell elaborates that the deeper reason for its existence is to maintain the illusion that the party is absolute. It cannot ever seem to change its mind (if, for instance, they perform one of their constant changes regarding enemies during war) or make a mistake (firing an official or making a grossly misjudged supply prediction), for that would imply weakness and to maintain power the party must seem eternally right and strong.
If the Ministry of Truth were in existence today, they would find themselves challenged by the Internet. They would by panic stricken by the lack of control they would have on information, such as announcements pertaining to the postponement of Northumberland FA Senior Benevolent Bowl games. However, their panic would be perhaps understandable if matters of opinion rather than fact were the issue. For example website owners would be worried if all their contributors were posting things such as the following, which alleged account of a former Black Cats player’s behaviour appeared on a sunderland message board a few years back -:
Novice Poster Join Date: Feb 2005 Location: SUNDERLAND | Well he’s always just bein an absolute prat, he started with drugs and one night when me and my friend were out we saw him and he started on my friend so I kicked off and then he tried to grope me when I went to the loo's, its a good job he was so gone cos I fought my way out and if he gets knocked over by a bus tomorrow i shall be happy |
However, it has to be said such nonsense is a rare commodity in the cyber world. Often, the internet can provide valuable information at the touch of a button. For example, I’ll always be indebted to the Dutch newspaper Algemeen Dagblad’s English language site for their unique broaching of the subject of Patrick Kluivert’s departure from St. James’ Park -:
Kluivert definitively gone at Newcastle: Patrick Kluivert have got United of the club control of Newcastle that to hear its contract is not extended. Oranje topscorer aller tijde have not left behind the desired impression in United Kingdom. There are ready him already as much as enough clubs for.
Now Kluivert can leave therefore transfervrij, he is a wanted player. AZ have already once to him geinformeerd but also Ajax are already connected with Kluivert. Also the Turkish top clubs Fenerbahce and Galatasaray gladly would incorporate him. They say be able meet both the salary requirements of the amsterdammer.
Before Kluivert came to Newcastle, he played at Barcelona. Here he however no longer belonged to to game, because scoring him went not well more finished. For that he still played at REPORTING OFFICE Milan and he zat in the Ajax that in 1995, the Champions League conquered.
I believe that Valencia, PSV and Lille, who all gladly incorporated him, eventually came to similar conclusions about the Oranje topscorer and his inability to leave a desired impression in relation to his salary requirements. In all seriousness, surely no one could possibly see any harm, other than grammatically, in allowing the above information to leak out.
In the North East, information about football at our level and above is provided by the website www.nonleaguezone.com which is completely independent and completely unofficial. The moderators provide an information service and are completely opposed to any form of debate, deleting posts and accounts if anything controversial, such as criticisms of officials, players, clubs or committee members, is aired. It is most useful when used in conjunction with the Northern League postponements line (0191 385139). Without this, many supporters, players and officials would be left making long and wasted journeys to cancelled fixtures.
There is no such facility available for Northern Alliance fixtures. While the Alliance’s website is vastly improved and a source of information about fixture changes or altered kick off times well in advance, there is nothing available in the immediate pre match period. Until (some hope!) such a facility exists, the Alliance will continue to appear to be a league for participants rather than spectators, that views punters with suspicion and opposes change on principle.
I’ve no idea if Orwell had any affection for the beautiful game at Step 7, but if he were living now, he would possibly not compare the edict banning clubs from announcing postponements on www.nonleaguezone.com to the kind of behaviour adopted by Big Brother; instead, he’d probably find a more telling comparison with the surrealist nonsense of Monty Python’s Flying Circus in this crazy, bewildering instruction.
Tuesday, 21 December 2010
Rock & Dole Years: 2006/2007
One of the things that I like about Chris Hughton is that he has a quiet dignity to his personality that shows he bears the stamp of a gentleman, much in the way that Sir Bobby did. In the recent history of Newcastle United, only one other manager stands out from the blabbering self-publicists and pretend tough guys who’ve occupied the dug out at SJP as being anywhere near as fine a fellow as the two previously mentioned; Glenn Roeder. Sadly, despite the fact he won us our first trophy since the Fairs Cup in 1969 when the Inter Toto Cup arrived on Tyneside (confusingly as a result of Livorno’s 1-0 win away to Auxerre in the final group stage match of the UEFA Cup on December 14th), Roeder was an atrocious manager once he’d been given the job on a permanent basis. If Shearer was Diet Souness, Roeder was Zero Carb McFaul.
Following the encouraging end to the previous season, Roeder continued to do good things initially by peddling the calamitously crap Boumsong to Juventus, but alarm bells pealed softly when a thin squad, now shorn of the retired Shearer, was not significantly strengthened in the striking department. Damien Duff arrived from three seasons of trophies that he’d done little to win at Chelsea, James Milner came back from a season on loan at Villa, Antoine Sibierski turned up on a free from Man City and put in a good season, leaving the club in the unique position of being the only French player whose exit from SJP saw his reputation enhanced by his time with us and we took Guiseppe Rossi on loan from Man Utd, for no readily apparent reason. The number 9 shirt was given to a £10m signing from Inter Milan whose age was either 21 or 28 depending on which paper you read; Obafemi Martins. In the course of the season, Roeder gave debuts, generally out of desperation, to Andy Carroll and Tim Krul, but also to David Edgar and Paul Huntington. Ironically, the latter two both notched crucial goals.
The season began in mid July with a dull 1-1 draw at home to Lillestrom on a warm afternoon, when Luque scored. Faced with a tricky away tie in the return, an Emre thunderbolt and a Shola finish saw us ease towards a 3-0 win. Three weeks later we joined the qualifiers for the UEFA Cup and won 1-0 courtesy of a Bramble goal away to Ventspils in Latvia, in a game switched to the capital Riga. The return saw us squeak through after an incident free 0-0 at home. The final qualifier for the group stages saw us continue our Baltic excursion with a trip to Levadia Talinn in Estonia, where a Sibierski goal gave us a narrow lead. The return was won by 2-1, courtesy of a Martins brace, including a stunner at the Gallowgate, taking us in to the UEFA group stages.
Suddenly, up against good sides, we began to click rather than stumble. Fenerbache were defeated 1-0 with a clinical Sibierski finish, Luque got the winner away to Palermo, when Krul’s debut saw him perform heroics to keep a clean sheet, Steven Taylor’s Forrest Gump celebration when scoring the winner as we triumphed over Celta Vigo 2-1 was a moment of sheer adulation and a 0-0 draw away to Frankfurt was a complete non event, though the variety and quality of local beers was apparently out of this world.
Through to the qualifying stages, with the Inter Toto Cup already won, we drew the hitherto obscure Belgians Zulte Waregem. A 3-1 away win was simplicity itself and a routine 1-0 home win set us up nicely for a place in the last 16 with Louis van Gaal’s AZ Alkmaar to come. Two years earlier and a round later, the Sporting Lisbon tie had seen us just fail to make the away game a formality; history was about to repeat itself. After 23 minutes, we were 3-0 up courtesy of an own goal and a quickfire double by Dyer and Martins; at half time a second by the Nigerian saw us 4-1 ahead. In the second half we could and should have had more, but they grabbed a second after a dubious decision against Steven Taylor gave them a free kick. No matter, 4-2 should have seen us through. However, put Glen Roeder in a tactical battle with Van Gaal and there’s only going to be one winner; Roeder opted for a 5-4-1 formation for the return in Holland that simply didn’t work and Alkmaar swamped us; the 2-0 score reflecting exactly how many attempts we had on goal. From this moment on, Roeder and the fans knew the game was up. The likeable Cockney was a dead man walking, with good reason it has to be said when the domestic form is studied.
In the League Cup, Portsmouth were despatched 3-0 on a soaking night on Tyneside, before Watford managed to lose on penalties to Newcastle. A quarter final 1-0 loss at home to Chelsea was a fairly standard pre Christmas punch in the face by the team, though a gentle slap compared to the frankly farcical 5-1 home defeat by Birmingham in the FA Cup after a 2-2 at their place. The Premier League, where we finished 13th, offered no real consolation either.
After an opening 2-1 over Wigan in a monsoon that saw puddles all over the SJP pitch in the second half, a lousy 2-0 loss at Villa was followed by a 2-1 reverse by Fulham, with both their goals in the last 5 minutes. A surprisingly good performance at the Boleyn Ground saw a 2-0 win and Roeder abused by all sections of the home support. More crucially Shay Given stopped being invincible; a tangle with Marlon Harewood saw him stretched off with a tear to his bowel that resulted in him never quite being the genius he was previously ever again. An idea of what we were missing came in the next game when we lost 2-0 at Anfield and Alonso beat Harper from 70 yards as we went down 2-0. Our first draw of the season was a 1-1 home to Everton, courtesy of Shola scoring from 5 yards offside, to end September in 12th place. It got worse in October; 0-2 at Old Trafford, 1-2 home to Bolton courtesy of the repulsive Doiuf, 0-1 at Smogsville and 0-0 home to Charlton.
When Sheffield United won 1-0 at SJP, on November 4th, we lay 19th in the table. A 0-0 away to Man City and a highly creditable 1-1 at the Emirates stopped the rot, before we finally won for the first time in two and a half months; Sibierski got the crucial goal at home to Pompey, then Emre’s stunner won a fabulous 5 goal thriller at home to Reading and we went to Ewood Park to turn them over 3-1 with Martins scoring an utter pearler from 40 yards. We had our usual loss to Chelsea next time out, before back-to-back home wins over Watford and Spurs, where Pavel Srnicek came on as sub for Harper to a tumultuous reception, saw us going in to Christmas in good cheer. As ever, the team spoiled any festivities, losing 2-1 at Bolton and 3-0 at Everton.
January was our last decent month of the season; David Edgar’s first goal rescued a point in a scorching 2-2 versus Man United in front of a hysterical, drunk SJP on New Year’s Day. Spurs were beaten 3-2 at the Lane; Huntington got his first, Martins scored a goal of the season contender and Nicky Butt rolled in a deserved winner. We came back from 2-0 down to draw with West Ham and edged a thrilling game 3-1 versus Villa. We stood 9th and things were looking up.
Typically, we won 2 more games this season. After losing 2-1 at Craven Cottage, we notched our last home win of the season 2-1 over Liverpool, with Nobby Solano, as so often, the hero. Then, it started to really go wrong; 0-1 at Wigan, 0-0 home to the Smogs, 0-2 in a woeful game at Charlton and 0-1 in a worse one at home to Man City brought us to Easter. Thankfully a large, loud and lairy away following at Bramall Lane saw Steven Taylor’s thumping header win us the game 2-1 and we played well in subsequent 0-0 draws at home to Arsenal and Chelsea, where Carroll was a superb home debutant from the bench, but dire losses at Portsmouth and Reading meant the 2-0 capitulation to Blackburn in the penultimate game saw Roeder fall on his sword. The final day 1-1 at Watford was notable only for misbehaviour by N’Zogbia and Martins in claiming injury and Dyer getting booed by Newcastle fans after scoring our goal.
The club was a mess and the fans were restive. Shepherd and the Halls were desperate to sell their stake and this gave us the chance to find stability in the boardroom, credibility in the dug out and support from the stands. What we got was Ashley and Allardyce. Tune in next time for the next instalment in the NUFC Relegation Rollercoaster.
Wednesday, 15 December 2010
The Maryhill Chain
I suppose it is beholden of me to comment on the latest managerial farce at Newcastle United and, to explore a Gallic metaphor, to see which fans are part of La Resistance and who are the reincarnation of the Petain administration. However, taking my lead from Zhou Enlai who apocryphally commented when asked to assess the importance of the French Revolution that “it’s too early to say,” I’ll express my thoughts on those who are now walking in a Pardew Wonderland at a later date.
Despite a marginal cessation of the climactic horror show on Tyneside in the week previous, it was clear that there would only be one game played on Tyneside on Saturday 11th December. In contrast, despite much of the Central Belt taking on the impression of the set of The Day After Tomorrow early in the week, a somewhat mind boggling 22 degree turnaround in temperatures from –14 to +8 in the space of a day on Tuesday to Wednesday, Scotland looked like a country with footballing prospects. In addition, there was the promise of Teenage Fanclub ending their tour with a Glasgow gig at the ABC on Sunday night, with a definite lift home on offer afterwards. Having seen The Wedding Present the previous Saturday and Belle & Sebastian the night after at a sold out Sage, I was on a musical roll.
I’m not as well travelled in terms of Scottish football as I should be, with only 10 ticks across the Scottish leagues and a smattering of Junior clubs, so I was theoretically spoiled for choice. My number one target was the SPL game between Hamilton and my Scottish club Hibs at New Douglas Park, but despite an army of volunteers shifting tons of snow off the pitch, the referee deemed the surface unplayable early on the Friday morning and so the game got the hook. This left me with two choices: St Mirren v St Johnstone, also in the SPL, or Partick Thistle v Ross County in Division 1. The latter clash between The Jags and The Stags was my preference as my hotel for the Saturday night was within a mile walk of Maryhill, whereas I’d have to get from Glasgow out to Paisley for the former and wouldn’t even have the company of Pasiley resident Ashington Mick, who was doing the journalism bit at Morton v Dundee, which was totally off my geographical agenda.
Thankfully, despite the pitch taking a pounding when tenants Glasgow Rugby took on Toulouse in a Heineken Cup match on the Friday, Saturday morning saw the Thistle game given the thumbs up. Of course, to be on the safe side, I had The Jags number written on the back of my hand, just in case I needed to call.
The journey up was smooth and swift; a £20 late seat in First Class saw me pile in to free coffee and orange juice, arriving at Queen Street with my ticket not having been checked, irritatingly enough. Four stops on the clockwork orange Subway to me to Kelvinbridge, a quick bag drop later and I was buying my ticket from the kiosk outside the Jackie Husband Stand for the afternoon’s entertainment.
Perhaps I’m naïve, but with only 1 game taking place in Glasgow, I’d naively thought there would be something of a walk-up crowd for this fixture, but the staggering £17 entry cost probably put more off than the weather did, with a final attendance of 1,504 being announced. Firhill itself is a good ground. Having benefited from Partick’s time in the previous incarnation of the SPL, the club sought to develop the ground with 3 all seated stands and a grass bank for advertising. Tragically, the current economic climate, which resulted in dozens of references in the programme to sponsorship opportunities and corporate packages that would help the club raise the £300,000 they need to make it through the season, allied to an unimpressive campaign that meant they could theoretically go bottom if they lost this one, meant that everyone was sat in the third full Jackie Husband Stand for this game. It is a lovely stand though it has to be said.
The home team made their entry to 1973 Dutch prog rock classic "Hocus Pocus" by Focus, which was quite an enjoyable blast from the past (Did you know “Live At The Rainbow” by Focus was recorded on 5th May 1973? The same day as the mackems beat Dirty Leeds in the FA Cup Final). However, surveying the crowd, I thought that Thijs van Leer’s other hit single "Sylvia" may have been more appropriate as I’ve honestly never seen such a high percentage of women fans before. Fit ones as well, in an earnest semi-left wing Glasgow Herald reading sort of way.
Frankly, despite the fact that Maryhill itself does not seem an aspirational, up and coming suburb, this was a very well heeled crowd. In fact a lot of them looked liked they would be Teenage Fanclub Fans. I suppose such a supporter demographic was inevitable as Partick is handy for the chic West End of Glasgow boho alt quarter. Passing two cheese merchants on Great Western Road, I was forced to conclude this area was more Glasgow Quiche than Glasgow Kiss. To paraphrase Fletch in Porridge “I used to think I was middle class until I went to Glasgow and I realised I was working class.”
5 seconds in to the game I’d come to see, Thistle’s Simon Donnelly, the former Celtic and Sheffield Wednesday treatment room habitué, shanked the 20 yards ball out of play when attempting to play it out wide. He was the only player I’d heard of from either squad. On a positive note, the pitch looked to be in amazing nick, considering it had been under 18 inches of snow on Wednesday and had had 30 hairy arsed rugger buggers pounding it the night before. Obviously the under soil heating, a luxurious remnant of The Jags’ SPL good days a decade and a half ago, had done an admirable job. Ross County, having travelled 6 hours from distant Dingwall to get there, looked the better side in the early parts, but it was sobering to remember that they’d reached the Scottish Cup final in May and were kicking off only a place above Thistle.
It started to look bleak for the home side, when it became 0-1 and Jags went down to 10 after 19 minutes. The referee gave a penalty for trip by Alan Archibald on Richard Brittain, who got up and slammed home the spot kick himself. While it seemed a mite harsh to issue the red card, Archibald was the last defender and it had been quite a blatant trip. The home support, previously so urbane and witty, didn’t see it that way.
On the way up, I’d read an article in WSC about the Scottish referee’s strike. Frankly so labyrinthine and recondite were the details of both this strike and the content of the article, that I found it akin to wading through a proposition from Wittgenstein, being neither enlightening nor comprehensible, though it was nice to see WSC taking time to focus on something other than their monotonous abuse of Milton Keynes Dons. Suffice to say, Scottish refs are getting a bit sick of the criticism levelled at them. They should have heard the 60-odd year old bloke 10 rows in front of me at this one.
Springing to his feet and gesticulating in the direction of the official, with an index finger trembling with anger, he launched in to a tirade along the lines of “nae wonder youse bastards get your windaes put in; nae fuckin wonder youse get razor blades through the post,” with several variations on this theme over the next few minutes. When entreated to resume his seat by those behind him, he graciously rejected this suggestion; “I will not sit down; I will have my fucking say!” For the rest of the game, every free kick to Ross County was greeted with the question “Is that no’ a penalty ya bastard?”
He did cheer up after 40 minutes when Thistle’s gangling front man Chris Erskine ran smartly on to a quick free kick from Donnelly and slammed in an equaliser from 18 yards past a sprawling Stags keeper. It considerably lightened the mood and provoked ironic chants of "Erskine for Scotland." At least I hope they were ironic. They were also the only chants of the half.
The second period saw no more goals scored, but some good pressure by The Jags, without looking likely to score. County spurned a late golden chance when Craig volleyed over with just the keeper to beat, but honours even it was.
I wended my icy way back to my hotel and proceeded to fall asleep on the bed, waking to find Newcastle drawing 1-1 with Liverpool. Showered and changed, I headed out to the Wise Monkey pub, where I was attending a charity fundraiser for Cancer Research, in memory of Tom O’Grady, a wonderful bloke and massive Teenage Fanclub fan who’d passed on in May this year, that involved a load of middle aged blokes playing TFC covers. I arrived seconds after Barton had scored the winner and, saying hello to everyone, I looked away as Carroll powered home the third. Never mind; I’d had a great football day and was about to have a great couple of musical experiences, especially TFC’s Orange Juice inspired encore of “Dying Day,” “Falling & Laughing” and “Rip It Up.” It was worth arriving home at 1.30 on Sunday morning for.
Music never lets you down, but football sometimes does, though not this weekend! Thanks to Barry for organising the night, Jim for the TFC ticket, Steve for the lift home and Teenage Fanclub for providing 20 years of musical perfection. The best fucking band in the world.
Saturday, 4 December 2010
Wicklow Mountain Language
Green Cheese, White Flags and Gold Medals
It’s Christmas Time (well, almost) and I’m off to a pop concert on Saturday; Leeds indie veterans The Wedding Present are playing the O2 Academy on the occasion of the 21st anniversary of the release of their groundbreaking “Bizarro” album that’s probably best known for the classic track “Kennedy” that was a student disco floor filler as the 80s morphed in to the 90s and well beyond. As it’s a Saturday, the doors open at 6.30 and the main band is on at 8.15, as the promoters want the gig over and done with by 9.45 to allow the youngsters to get in for their club night afterwards, providing it’s on of course as Paul Weller was off on Wednesday Dec 1st. Apparently it was to do with the weather, but it could just be because he’s shit. However, the Weddoes are made of sterner stuff and will be there and gone at a reasonable time. Suits me like; at my age I like to be home for “Match of the Day.” Mind there’s life in this old punk rocker yet!
I’ve been to quite a few gigs lately; there was the glorious sight of me, various members of FPX and the Percy Main chairman cutting a rug as former Orange Juice front man Edwyn Collins, still battling back from a life threatening brain aneurysm, charmed the birds from the trees at The Cluny, while I took the parts of Chas Chandler and Alan Hull (it’s a long story) in a theatrical warm-up piece to the Band of Holy Joy show at the Star and Shadow the day Ponteland beat us at home.
Perhaps the biggest gig I attended, in terms of venue, audience and, at 35 notes, ticket price, was Irish folk legend Christy Moore at The Sage on a chilly night at the very start of November. Arriving on stage he inquired if anyone present had seen the football the day before, to tumultuous applause, before announcing “a lot of people reckon sunderland’s an Irish club. Well I’m not so sure about that you know. I’m not a drinking man these days, but when I took a pint of porter I knew the importance of the black and the white,” to predictably raucous cheers. The audience was his after that and a grand crowd there was too.
In the context of EU banking bail-outs and economic meltdowns, it’s always nice to see a middle aged Irish bloke not being relentlessly barracked by his own kind, unlike incompetent pisshead and Taoiseach Brian “Biffo” Cowen, whose personal Facebook page proudly displayed this message, posted by one Cara Delaney of Westmeath; “you bastard, you sold us out! People DIED to claim Ireland’s independence and now you go and ruin it all! You think you’re so high and mighty but nobody likes you Cowen. TIOCFAIDH AR LA! SAOIRSE IN EIREANN GO BRACH! I speak for all my fellow patriotic Irish people when I say it’s because of clowns like you we should have a death penalty, you fat, ignorant ugly BASTARD!”
The popular press aren’t his best mates either; the Irish Daily Star had a picture of the Fianna Fail front bench captioned with the unequivocal phrase USELESS GOBSHITES. The Irish football team’s not doing too well either, with only just over 20,000 turning up to see Norway fluke a friendly win at the AVIVA the other week and Trappatoni looking every inch the same shape of elderly incompetent that Capello does. At least they can stay upright in public and don’t need a gallon of Guinness or a few verses of “The Lakes of Ponchartrain” to act as a smokescreen for their inadequacies, unlike Irish politicians, whose latest attempt at kickstarting the economy, apart from accepting £100 Billion in loans, involves distributing free cheese parcels as Christmas gifts to the elderly and unemployed. Yes, cheese; a kilo each. Honestly.
Frankly, it is time for the citizens of Ireland to respond to the IMF intervention by having another six month Bank Strike. Back in 66 it paralysed the economy, but even more importantly, it made Christy Moore stop being a teller in Newbridge, Co. Kildare; consequently, a withdrawal of labour by financial employees will both bring down The Two Brians & their Cheese Party and reinvigorate the traditional folk scene. "Ireland's difficulty is music's opportunity," so to speak.
One amazing source of adequacy and indeed optimism in Irish society that doesn’t go equally well in a salad or grilled on toast, is the domestic football season that came to a classic conclusion at the AVIVA on Sunday 14th November when a quite breathtaking 36,101 turned up to see Sligo Rovers defeat Shamrock Rovers 2-0 on penalties in a thrilling game to lift the FAI Cup. Watching it on line via www.rte.ie I can honestly say I’ve not enjoyed a goalless draw as much since we hosted Harraby; certainly it was preferable to the Newcastle v Fulham blank scoreline I’d seen the day before, on a freebie it has to be said.
The astonishing thing about this penalty shootout was that Sligo keeper Ciaran Kelly, who had been the villain last year when conceding a late spot kick as Fingal came from a goal down to lift the cup, saved all 4 of Shamrock Rovers’ kicks; I’ve never seen that before. I’ve seen kicks missed (the 86 European cup final between Steaua Bucharest and Barcelona comes to mind), but never have I witnessed a keeper quite so inspired. Having already lifted the EA Sports League Cup, this victory saw the Bit Of Red from WB Yeats County claim their second bit of silverware of the season and well done to them.
Shamrock Rovers, managed by former Newcastle striker Michael O’Neill, could console themselves with the thought that they had ended their 16 year wait for the top division title by claiming the Premier Division crown after a fascinating, titanic struggle with cross Dublin rivals Bohemian that went down to the last game of the season.
With 2 games to go, Bohs had been in the driving seat; if they won them, the title would be theirs for the third year in a row. Astonishingly, Galway United, who had already defeated Bohs 3 times already in the season, won their 4th game of the year against Big Club courtesy of two late goals that, allied with the Shams beating Dundalk, meant that the title now seemed destined for Tallaght not Phibsborough as the final fixture card came round. So it turned out, as Bray drew 2-2 with Shamrock Rovers, who trailed twice, to allow the Hoops to win the title on goal difference, despite Bohemian beating Dundalk 3-1, after going a goal down. However, during the course of the night, the title relentlessly swung between north and south Dublin; at one point the Gypsies were a point ahead, at another the Hoops led by 4. It was one of those nights.
Poor Bohs are now in dire economic circumstances as the proposed sale of their aged, decrepit Dalymount Park home and the construction of a mythical new ground out by Dublin Airport have both gone by the board. Rumour has it that if a sporting dig-out is not forthcoming, Bohemian could be relegated to the First Division, much like Cork and Derry were last year. As I write, their licence to play in the Premiuer division has not been granted and Galway United look like they need quite a sizeable amount to stay afloat too. Well they did make Nick Leeson their Chief Executive…..
At least Derry City, who claimed the title on a tense final evening as the top 4 played each other, have made it back up at the first time of asking, replacing Drogheda who, in 3 short years, have gone from the Champions League qualifiers to relegation. Mind in the same period of time, Guy Bate has gone from Hunky Dory Park to Benfield. Spare a thought for poor Shelbourne, who remain Dublin’s lowest ranked club; two years after missing out on the title after Limerick grabbed a 94th minute equlaiser in the final game of the season, they conceded 2 in the last 5 minutes to allow Waterford to overtake them.
Now, after the straight swap of Premier wooden spoonists with D1 champions, things get complex. Premier 8th place Galway hosted 9th place Bray in a one-off relegation play off, winning 1-0. This meant losers Bray were in to the repechage and were required to play the winners of the D1 play-off, where third place Monaghan triumphed 2-1 away at runners-up Waterford, in a two-legged affair. Bray were no strangers to this, having lost over 2 legs to Fingal last year, but were later reprieved because of financial impropriety by the banks of Foyle and Lee.
This year, The Seagulls came out on top. Having drawn 0-0 up in Gortakeegan at the Kingspan Century Carpets Stadium, it seemed as if Monaghan were on their way to the Premier Division when they took the lead after 117 minutes. Astonishingly, after 207 barren minutes, 2 goals came in 40 seconds as Bray went up the other end and scored. Their victory 7-6 on penalties over a Monaghan side, who’d also lost the League Cup final to Sligo, was inevitable. As Bray attract home crowds pushing a thousand, compared to the few dozen at Gortakeegan, the league were no doubt punching the air.
This isn’t quite the full story; at the foot of Division 1, Galway teams Mervue United with 19 points and Salthill Devon with 15, were cut adrift from the rest as if they’d played their home games on The Aran Islands rather than Terryland Park and Drom Soccer Pitch respectively. Anyway, Mervue were safe, but Salthill were required to play-off against Cobh Ramblers, who’d been kicked out the league for financial reasons in 2008. Same as they got past Kildare County in the play-off in 2009, Salthill Devon managed to squeeze through 3-1 on aggregate, which will give them another 12 months of being pummelled by the likes of Wexford, Limerick and Athlone.
And so, the League of Ireland goes in to hibernation until March 2011, at which time my gaze will again turn westward. Say Cheese & Up the Republic!!