Everything's Getting Older

At 11.25pm on Friday December 21^st, David Charlton (25) was stabbed to death at the junction of Stanhope Road and Boldon Lane in South Shields, having recently left the Last Orders pub with his girlfriend; two teenagers have been charged with his murder. On Saturday December 22^nd, 33 year old David Scott died of knife wounds he suffered in an attack in the back lane behind Rose Street in Stanley; police are looking to speak to two men seen running away some time close to the discovery of Mr. Scott’s body shortly before midnight. On Sunday December 23^rd, Lee Houchin (35) died on his way to hospital, having been stabbed on Wallsend High Street at 4.00pm; a 29 year old local man has been charged in connection with this death. At 10.40am on Monday December 24^th, police were called to a property in North View, Hunwick near Crook, where they found the body of 48 year old Lesley Caile; her 46 year old partner, who was taken to hospital with self-inflicted injuries, has subsequently been charged with her murder. As I type, we remain in the midst of what we must call the Festive Season, when drink, drugs and knives combine to create individual human tragedies of unimaginable sorrow and emotional desolation for the loved ones of those who lost their lives. Even petty criminal, heroin addict and alleged child abductor John the Badge didn’t deserve the fate that befell him the week before, when he was found dead of head injuries in his house in Winlaton, though seeing an effusive, mawkish web eulogy to him was more than a mite excessive. Still, Merry Christmas everyone and Happy New Year to you all.

My Christmas present to myself was triple pronged; Laura and I had arranged the Christmas shop trip to Sainsbury’s for Thursday December 20^th, meaning I couldn’t get to Newcastle University 5 Cullercoats 0 on the Coach Lane AstroTurf under lights, so I had to be satisfied with a trident of selfish treats.  Firstly, a trip to Hebburn against Team Northumbria on December 18^th; what a tremendous game it was. Ending 2-2, the contrast between Hebburn’s muscular, macho, no-nonsense approach and Team North’s cerebral passing game was a joy to behold. Secondly, Roddy Doyle’s mini-book, Two Pints; 90 pages of a year’s worth of Irish news, told entirely in dialogue between two middle aged blokes in a Dublin pub. Published in weekly instalments on Facebook, it is laugh out loud cynicism and naivety in equal measures; never mind the quality, feel the innovation. I read it on the Metro to Hebburn, while listening to my final purchase of the year; Everything’s Getting Older by Bill Wells (National Jazz Trio of Scotland) and Aidan Moffat (Arab Strap), which is by turn, the most beautiful, melancholy and disturbing record I’ve heard in a long, long time. The elegiac instrumental Tasogare is followed by the superb observational ordinariness of the spoken word The Copper Top, which gives way to the menacing, fearful narrative of Dinner Time, meaning I can understand exactly why this was named Scottish Album of the Year for 2011, which makes the realisation I didn’t catch them in Newcastle on October 15^th 2011 even harder to take. It was the day we drew 2-2 with Spurs and Shola’s superb equaliser must have turned my head, deflecting me from attending the show.

Shola scored a similarly sublime winner against QPR on Saturday 22^nd December. Feeling decidedly ropey (though not as bad as poor norovirus-stricken Laura) after a terrible, terrible Olympic themed work Christmas do that was followed by a pub crawl around the decent, if packed, bars by the station and a wonderful curry at Akbar’s, where my stand-out starter was rabbit tikka, the QPR game did nothing for my mood. At first we had to endure some Carol singers at the side of the pitch; naturally, as an atheist, I found this deeply offensive and began booing them. An arsey steward came over to question me about this, asking if I had a problem, so I explained I had. Not only was this the nadir of the modern football experience, it was also in direct contrast to my personal beliefs; he requested me to stop booing immediately “or else.” I asked him whether he’d be saying the same to the 45,000 who’d be booing Williamson the minute the game kicked off and he shrugged his shoulders, wandering away, muttering I needed to take it up with the club.

For the first hour, I was deeply regretting not taking in North Shields Athletic Reserves versus Wooler in the NFA Minor Cup at Valley Gardens School on the 4G pitch (it ended up 3-2) or Benfield’s away trip to Durham City, even if they lost 4-0. Indeed I was only at SJP because everything else was off on account of the rain, which fell like the tears of all the angels in heaven, crying over John the Badge, and my time could have been better employed by writing out Christmas cards or a letter of complaint to the club about the Christmas carols, until Pardew realised his tactics weren’t working and took off Cisse, to a storm of boos, for Shola. The booing was not for Cisse, but in relation to the introduction of Shola; then again, you can never discount any outbreak of mass idiocy among our lot if things aren’t going well. There’s always the chance, if the amount of fools on the way up to the ground who were discussing Ba as if he’d already left the club or wasn’t trying all game was anything to go by, that some people actually want Pardew removed.

However, the boss showed he’s still got the ability to pull rabbits out of hats; the appearance of Marveaux and Obertan for Tiote and Jonas sparked the team in to life and for the last 30 minutes we were at least two goals better than a hopelessly tame QPR, though only one goal came; great work by Shola as well. While I think both him and Jonas are probably better served in ambassadorial roles, handing out Christmas presents to sick bairns in the Freeman or RVI, the goal today won us 2 valuable points and probably delayed his inevitable free transfer for another 12 months or so. An important victory or a pyrrhic one; time will tell us.

And so to Boxing Day; what a terrible disappointment that was as well. The news came through on Christmas night that Benfield v Whitley Bay had been postponed, which didn’t seem right to me. Frankly the weather had been dry for over 2 days; so to say the game was off because of a waterlogged pitch appeared to be a smokescreen for the fact that Woodhouse feared a severe stuffing by a rampant Bay side. Still, there was always the Shields v West Allotment game to fall back on, with Knaggsy prepared to give me a lift. Sadly that fell by the wayside because of standing water on the pitch. I tried to persuade him that Jarrow Roofing v Horden was a good third choice; it ended up 10-2, but he said no and opted for the Man United v Newcastle game in the pub, while I made do with Final Score. I’m not sure what was worse, the gut-wrenching, inevitable disappointment of their late winner or the smug grins on the dials of the loathsome Robbie Savage and Michael Gray.

Match of the Day did confirm that we’d been heroic in defeat and could have claimed a deserved point, even if they missed several good chances. The usual shambolic dithering by Danny Simpson undid all the good work we’d put in before then. My hope was that they’d take it as a good performance and not as another setback, going in to the Arsenal game (who comes up with this fixture list?), but that was all forgotten about in the shitstorm following Ferguson’s tirade of abuse aimed at Pardew, which must have marked the final death knell of the FA’s Respect campaign.

I can’t say I like Alex Ferguson, but I do admire what he’s achieved in the game; 12 titles speak for themselves. As a fan of The Fall, I see a lot of Mark E Smith in him; megalomania, paranoia, a dishevelled appearance and the effects of too much drink. Also, like Smith, he has the ability to make ridiculous pronouncements that have absolutely no basis in reality (such as Pardew being in the officials’ faces every game or that he has helped our manager to get where he is today), which are then treated by a reverential media as if they are completely truthful (Newcastle is a “wee” club), despite contradicting almost everything he’s said on the subject in the past. Ferguson’s genius is that in acting like this he doesn’t just have influential people in the media who accept his word as law, but that he can distract attention from the actual truth, keeping both heat and light away from his team and their performances. The nonsense about van Persie being at risk of death when Ashley Williams blamed the ball off him deflected any criticism of Man United’s woeful performance at Swansea. Even worse, his tirade on Friday 28^th meant that Ferguson’s own conduct on Boxing Day, not to mention van Persie striking Colo in the face before the third equaliser or Valencia’s thuggish challenge on Anita were all forgotten about. He’s a cantankerous, intolerant liar, but he’s also Bismarck, Machiavelli and Freud rolled in to one. The bastard. The evil, bastard genius.

No-one could accuse Pardew of being a genius; nor would people claim he is an idiot, but he made an absolutely idiotic decision away at Arsenal, when substituting Bigirimana for Shola when we were 4-3 down with 10 minutes to go. The resulting hole in midfield saw us collapse and lose 7-3, against a side who’d benefitted from a rest on Boxing Day when we’d been engaged in the battle at Old Trafford. Having attended the thoroughly enjoyable Northern League Division 2 game that ended Horden 1 Morpeth Town 3, courtesy of the kindness of the Hudson brothers, I got back in time to watch the second half, before the Percy Main Christmas do. In the end, I didn’t go; too miserable at the result, but not as miserable as some of the Samaritans season ticket holders and kneejerk nappy wetters on Twitter, whose responses were worse than our defence in the last 10 minutes.

Obviously hysteria is easy after such a result; the most important thing, as far as I’m concerned, is Pardew keeps his nerve and reflects on his substitutions and the deleterious effect they had on the game. Without the changes we would probably have lost anyway, but going so gung-ho in search of an equaliser, when we failed to have any further possession in their half, caused the late collapse. This must never happen again; otherwise I may start to wonder about his judgement. I hate to say that, but we simply can’t afford such a demoralising humping again, though I wonder whether Paul Lambert feels the same way after most games? It should be remembered that in the midst of the defensive carnage, we scored 2 truly excellent goals in the second period. In December 2000: Arsenal 5 Newcastle 0 was a far worse battering than the one we endured on December 29th. In addition, don’t forget than in 1976/1977 we let in 7 at Man Utd and 5 at Arsenal, but finished 5th, so don't despair!!

While at any ordinary club, such a result as the 7-3 would be seen as reason to sign players to strengthen the team, Newcastle United are far from an ordinary club; as I type news is coming in about Ba meeting with Chelsea to discuss a transfer, explaining why Shola has been dissuaded from going to the African Cup of Nations with Nigeria, while the deal for Debuchy seems to have been completed and encouraging noises are being made over Remy’s potential arrival. I think it best not to talk about transfers until some have actually taken place.  Fundamentally, all that matters now is we beat Everton. That will not happen unless Pardew keeps his job and his temper and the team step up. The manager knows what he has to do is pick the players up, put the obvious faults right and hope for some good luck; if that happens on Wednesday and for the next month or so, we're fine. If it doesn't and he panics or has the rug pulled from under him in any way, we're screwed.

My contribution to the cause is to head to either Airdrie United v Cowdenbeath or Dunfermline v Raith Rovers with the Hudson brothers on Wednesday, with Dunston Fed v West Auckland if I get back in time, rather than watching the Everton game at SJP. The stakes are too high to allow me to attend; the ticket will be better used by my son. His heart is stronger.

Unpublished 4: Around the Grounds 29/12/12

We had another scheduled game this week, home to Ashington Colliers; it was, of course, rained off. I did another programme article, recycling most of last week's unused stuff in a Michael Nyman type way. It didn't get used again, so here it is....

It’s been seven weeks since our last programme, which came out for the Whitley Bay A game in mid-November, but little has happened on the pitch since then. Indeed, our home loss to Walker Central on the first of the month has been the only Northern Alliance Premier Division game played in December. Consequently, there has been very little movement in the league table, with Amble United leading the way, six points clear of Heaton Stannington, who have shown their ambition by applying for promotion to the Northern League. To be successful, the Stann will need to finish in the top two and bring Grounsell Park up to the required standard, involving the erection of floodlights, as well as the installation of covered seating; we wish them well. At the bottom of the table, Shankhouse, Rutherford and Reyrolle are all in danger of the drop, but there are still many, many games to play. Today’s visitors Ashington Colliers lie in secenth place.

Table topping Bedlington Terriers Reserves’ 2-1 win at third bottom Willington Quay Saints on December 1^st was one of only two First Division fixture played so far this month, the other being Newcastle University’s 5-0 trouncing of Cullercoats on the 4G pitch at Coach Lane on December 20^th. However a few clubs have been in cup action; Hexham progressed in the Northumberland FA Minor Cup, cuffing Tyneside Amateur League outfit FOWS Diggers 7-2, while Red House Farm and Chemfica were both too strong for Division 2 Alliance outfits, overcoming Blyth Isabella 5-2 at home and Seaton Burn 3-2 away, respectively. Redheugh were less impressive in the Durham FA Trophy, going down 4-2 at home to Coundon and Leeholme of the Durham Alliance.

Looking for somewhere sunny to spend the winter? Try Birtley, as they’ve not lost a home game this month and moved to the top of Division 2 with three successive home wins: 2-0 over Alston, 14-0 over luckless Swalwell and 3-0 against Longbenton, who were involved in the only other Division 2 fixture to beat the weather this month, when they lost a real Christmas cracker (sorry) 5-4 at home to Wideopen. As well as the games already mentioned, on December 15th in the Northumberland FA Minor Cup, Alnwick Town Reserves went down 4-1 to North Sunderland, who have reformed after spending a period in abeyance when we drew them in the same competition three seasons ago, and New Fordley overcame Belford of the North Northumberland League 4-2 and on the 22^nd, Grainger Park boys club had a scarcely believable 8-5 victory over Christian Fellowship League members Heddon St. Andrew’s after extra time, while Wooler fell 3-2 to North Shields Athletic Reserves of the Tyneside Amateur 3-2 on a plastic pitch at Valley Gardens school .

In the Northern League, Boxing Day was a washout, with Benfield v Whitley Bay and North Shields v West Allotment both falling victim to waterlogged pitches. Whitley Bay are fourth in Division 1, as well as still being in the FA Vase, while Team Northumbria lie in 13^th place and Benfield are 19^th. Down in Division 2, North Shields lie in 6^th position and West Allotment Celtic sit in 11^th spot.

Blyth Spartans came back from 2-0 down at home to Whitby Town to draw 2-2 on Boxing Day and sit 15^th in the Evo Stik League. Gateshead having dismissed Ian Bogie, their most successful boss since the late Ray Wilkie, won 2-0 away to Barrow on Boxing Day and are now in 11^th place.

Unpublished 3: Around the Grounds 22/12/12

Originally we were scheduled to play Carlisle City at home on 22nd December, but when their League Cup game against Wallington was postponed on 15th December, Amble United were parachuted in to play us. All immaterial of course as 72 hours of incessant rain left the pitch like an outdoor swimming pool; however I had penned my usal article and to stop it going to waste, here it is.....

It’s been six weeks since our last programme, which came out for the Whitley Bay A game in mid-November, but little has happened on the pitch since then. Indeed, our home loss to Walker Central on the first of the month has been the only Northern Alliance Premier Division game played in December. Consequently, there has been very little movement in the league table, with today’s visitors Amble United leading the way, six points clear of Heaton Stannington, who have shown their ambition by applying for promotion to the Northern League. To be successful, the Stann will need to finish in the top two and bring Grounsell Park up to the required standard, involving the erection of floodlights, as well as the installation of covered seating; we wish them well. At the bottom of the table, Shankhouse, Rutherford and Reyrolle are all in danger of the drop, but there are still many, many games to play.

Table topping Bedlington Terriers Reserves’ 2-1 win at third bottom Willington Quay Saints on December 1^st was the only First Division fixture played so far this month, though a few clubs have been in cup action. Hexham progressed in the Northumberland FA Minor Cup, cuffing Tyneside Amateur League outfit FOWS Diggers 7-2, while Red House Farm and Chemfica were both too strong for Division 2 Alliance outfits, overcoming Blyth Isabella 5-2 at home and Seaton Burn 3-2 away, respectively. Redheugh were less impressive in the Durham FA Trophy, going down 4-2 at home to Coundon and Leeholme of the Durham Alliance.

Looking for somewhere sunny to spend the winter? Try Birtley, as they’ve not lost a game this wintrer and have moved to the top of Division 2 with three successive home wins: 2-0 over Alston, 14-0 over luckless Swalwell and 3-0 against Longbenton, who were involved in the only other Division 2 fixture to beat the weather this month, when they lost a real Christmas cracker (sorry) 5-4 at home to Wideopen. As well as the games already mention in the Northumberland FA Minor Cup, Alnwick Town Reserves went down 4-1 to North Sunderland, who have reformed after spending a period in abeyance when we drew them in the same competition three seasons ago, and New Fordley overcame Belford of the North Northumberland League 4-2.

In the Northern League, Whitley Bay are fifth in Division 1, as well as still being in the FA Vase, while Team Northumbria lie in 13^th place and Benfield, who fell 2-1 at home to Dunston UTS last Saturday with literally the last kick of the game, are 18^th. Down in Division 2, North Shields lie in 8^th position, having come back from far flung Whitehaven with a point after a 1-1 draw last Saturday and West Allotment Celtic sit in 14^th spot after a crushing 4-0 home loss to Darlington Railway Athletic. Boxing Day fixtures see Benfield hosting Whitley Bay and North Shields at home to West Allotment.

Blyth Spartans continue to find the Evo Stik league a trial, sitting in 15^th spot after 3 successive losses, the latest a 3-0 reverse at Croft Park to Witton Albion. Gateshead have dismissed their most successful boss since the late Ray wilkie, with Ian Bogie leaving the Tynesiders after 5 distinguished seasons that brought an improved league position in each one. Anth Smith is now in charge and his first fixture saw a 1-0 win away to Cambridge United in the FA trophy, a week after Bogie’s final fixture had ironically been against the same side, resulting in a 3-0 reverse.

Bummed

So, just when I thought my gig going and music buying were over for the year, I get a tweet from the Professor of Renaissance Literature at Strathclyde University (his name’s Jonathon, he used to play bass in Ward 34 in the late 70s, he maintains a fascinating, scholarly website at http://winedarksea.org/ and you can follow him at https://twitter.com/wellsheisnt) to tell me that semi-legendary Bradford noise rockers That Fucking Tank were playing in town and he was going. This was an ideal opportunity to clock up some of my Continuing Professional Development time, if nothing else…

I’d not heard That Fucking Tank (let’s say TFT to save time eh?) before, but I was aware they were supporting the divine Trembling Bells on Friday in Bradford, a gig that I’d love to have attended but simply couldn’t manage it with train times and so on. Consequently, this was the next best thing.

They were playing Dean Street’s newest trendy watering hole, Brew Dog and were both absolutely tremendous and intentionally hilarious. Consisting of very loud guitar, very brutal drums and nothing else, they kicked up an almighty, raucous racket, like an instrumental Royal Trux or Earth at 78rpm; I couldn’t have imagined Lavinia Blackwall harmonising with them though. Andy the guitarist would start each number (song?) with a guitar riff, then the drummer James would join in and they’d make a cacophonous clatter for as long as was deemed both natural and necessary, including one number that took the riff from “Dancing in the Dark” and made it sound like Jad and David Fair were giving Springsteen a righteous shoeing up a dark alley some Friday night in hell. Great stuff, if you like the sound of 30 something blokes putting on a show a bit like they were jamming in their parents’ garage. The CD, entitled “TFT” with a mock Take That logo design cover, is a bit more restrained, sounding like a Therapy? backing track for the most part, with the occasional surprise, like a Leo Kottke / John Fahey inspired coda to the disc. Intriguing and enjoyable; I look forward to seeing them again, preferably in the far more conducive environs of the Star & Shadow.

Frankly, I hope never to set foot in Brew Dog ever again; partly because it’s like Glasgow’s Thirteenth Note reimagined by a collection of Nathan Barley worshipping Hoxton Trustafarians and partly because of the Emperor’s New Clothes nature of the product on sale. As far as I can tell, Craft Beer is bad Real Ale, served 10 degrees colder, costing the thick end of £1.50 more a pint for stuff that has an unpleasant citrus aftertaste, suggesting fruit peel has been added in the final stages of fermentation. It’s beer for people who don’t like proper beer, in a pub for people who don’t like proper pubs; frankly I can think of better ways of spending £4 than on that stuff. The whole place was summed up by the BSFC sticker in the bogs; that definitely is no place for old men to go on the peeve, whatever the quality of their hose. Next morning I felt like I’d been hit over the head with a shovel, though it could have been the Wylam Golden Tankard in the Crown Posada, the Jarrow Rivet Catcher or the Tyne Bank Silver Dollar back in the house, as I stayed up frighteningly late to ensure I could get Neil Young tickets at the Arena for next June; 6 months and counting until that 35 year wish to see him live is fulfilled. All in all; Friday was a tough one.

Saturday was even tougher; Benfield played Dunston off the park, but lost to a late, ludicrous fluke of a goal that the normally brilliant Andy Grainger should have saved; “I’ve seen scaffolding go down quicker,” quipped Jimmy Phelan as we made a sad exit. Watch the highlights:

http://tyneandwear.sky.com/football/video/50428 and hear me squeal with delight when Benfield equalise. As if this wasn’t bad enough, Hibs surrendered a 2-0 lead over Motherwell, losing 3-2 to another last minute goal; it’s enough to make you weep, it really is. At least Winstons didn’t lose, mainly on account of the fact we didn’t have a game, but Newcastle did and they did, but at least there was dignity on the pitch, especially as Vernon Anita yet again proved the kneejerking ninnies wrong with a Man of the Match performance, during which he used the ball superbly throughout. In addition, Santon, Colo, Perch and Ba, away from the tiresome speculation about his contractual escape clause, put in very good performances, though I’m worried about Gutierrez’s lack of form at the moment.

Obviously the QPR game is a cast iron must win game, but if we go about our business as effectively as we did in this game, then 3 points are there for the taking. I like the fact that Pardew cancelled the Christmas Party for the players on the back of recent results, though it could just as easily have been in memory of murdered heroin user, street trader, petty criminal and suspected short eyes John the Badge in Winlaton last Sunday; “the good die young,” as someone said on Twitter. Well, perhaps not in his case.

I’ve no time for Massive Club citeh; ever since Dennis Tueart’s overhead kick in 1976, I’ve held them in utter contempt. Give me the boastful bullies from Old Trafford any day; if you factor out the 10 zillion glory hunters in their support, it’s worth it to hear the Govan Machiavelli at one of his press conferences. Last Saturday, citeh apparently sold out their entire allocation, which almost matched the crowd of 3,007 they drew to Maine Road for the visit of Mansfield in November 1998. Where were you when you were shit? Indeed. It’s refreshing to note that in Samir Nasri they have the unacceptable face of modern football in their ranks, alongside the unacceptable face of old football in their fanbase. However, there’s a zany element to citeh’s support that means they’ve more in common with the Beasts from Smogville than any other club I can think of.

Among this support were no doubt several of the self-mythologizing Young Guv’nors firm of Rusholme ruffians; some of whom arrived in town to a celebrity welcome last Saturday morning, before putting on the pre-match entertainment in the shape of roguish recollections of the days when the well-dressed young tough guy spent his Saturdays posturing at other well-dressed young tough guys from a distance of 250 yards. This occurred barely three weeks after the deplorable assumption of a supine position by certain of our number at Croft Park for the visit of FCUM. If you’re a Geordie, BSFC stands for one thing and one thing only; Blyth Spartans Football Club. To hope Spartans lose against FCUM is a disgrace, on a par with giving the freedom of lower Pink Lane to the cream of the Kippax.  What a great day citeh’s ageing former top lads had in Newcastle; a few pints, three points and a Happy Ending in the bogs of Brew Dog if the stickers in there are a reliable guide. Were there any of our lot, perhaps resplendent in cushion soled footwear, cheering when their opening goal was followed by smoke bombs being launched from Level 7 down in to our fans in Level 4?

Then again, sat in the Milburn Paddock at the Leazes, I wished I’d had a rocket launcher handy to give those in fancy dress or sleeping off the effects of the work Christmas do in Bar 1892 something to think about. All of this stands in stark contrast to the on-going story of citeh sub Kolarov’s alleged racist comments to some Albanian Newcastle fans, who had the flag of their country on show. It may not be Srebrenica, but it needs investigating, as it is an indication that racism is not only restricted to questions of skin pigmentation. The frankly unbelievable request by Zenit St. Petersburg fans that their club field an entirely white, heterosexual XI is simply beyond belief in today’s society.  Even if the allegations against Kolarov prove groundless, if I was Mancini I’d be wanting to know why one of my players was so unprofessional as to be engaged in a discourse with members of the crowd when supposedly readying himself for entering the field of play. Unless of course he was overcome by the sock and polo shirt squad blowing kisses at him.

This tendency to glorify all things Mancunian, apart from the relentlessly challenging MES and The Fall of course, includes the semi deification of the bastard progeny of Nick Hornby and Walter Prince of the Softies, who has deigned to leave the rarified confines of the Junior Common Room to dispense bon mots and retweet fulsome praise directed at him; I’m talking about David Conman. Wouldn’t it have been a delicious irony if someone from The Grauniad had shaken the sweat from their shiny pate to Pete Hook’s karaoke Curtis in The Torygraph last Saturday? I’m surprised Clint Boon, known to show his face at the opening of an envelope, wasn’t called in to DJ. If he had, at least we’d know that there was more to music than singing along with a plastered Kim Wilde on a packed tube.

In all seriousness, Tyneside and Newcastle in particular are not satellites of Manchester, in the manner of a new Bury or Rochdale; we’re Geordies, we’re mental and we’re not prepared to deny our past, for the sake of immoral alliances, in the way that Slovakia allied itself with Germany in 1939, for the sake of impressing those who hold us in contempt. It’s time for our fans to stop assuming the role of Archbishop Tiso; I say this in the happy position of being the newly elected NUFC top lad, having had my article possible in issue #3 of Stand Against Modern Football, which you can get from http://www.standamf.com/ which I strongly suggest you ask Santa to bring you.

Personally I’m hoping for a nice new pair of socks and a colourful polo shirt. 

Clownshoes Off!!

It is an inescapable fact that a haul of zero points from fixtures against West Ham, Swansea, Southampton, Stoke and Fulham, despite vaguely encouraging performances in the latter two games, is a completely unacceptable state of affairs for Newcastle United. Sadly, things are no brighter away from the glare of the first team; I arrived fashionably late for an 11.00 am kick off on December 2^nd and saw the Reserves go down 3-2 at home to Villa on a blindingly sunny and remarkably temperate Sunday morning at Blue Flames, when the young swains with the high squad numbers failed to convince me that they’d ever make successful careers in the professional game. I must say that it’s a great idea playing these sorts of games at non-traditional times; a warm Monday afternoon around Easter two years back saw a shirt sleeved crowd pinting it as we put the Smog stiffs to the sword, for example. 

Meanwhile, the Thursday evening following saw me assuming the usual Europa League away game position, not on the peeve in my best socks, but in front of the laptop, watching a semi-legal stream of the Bordeaux game. The referee was an Israeli fella called Masiah, but it’s our team who were the very naughty boys, with the naughtiest of them all, Nile Ranger, astonishingly and seemingly pointlessly restored to a starting XI who put in an abject performance in what was arguably our least important game in the last decade. That said, this dead rubber ought to have been a chance for our shadow squad to show they were not destined for imminent undisclosed fee sales to Derby County at best and free transfers to Gillingham at worst, but with the exception of the impressively beefy Abeid, they utterly failed to make any impression on the game, while a thousand or so fans treated this trip like the end of Prohibition in the States. Enlevez vos chaussures si vous aimez La Ville, peut etre?

In some ways, Monday evening league games are a positive boon, as they stop the weekend being ruined by football, meaning you can get off to sleep on a Sunday night in a warm glow of cruel schadenfreude after the end of Peep Show, but they do mean football looms large at the very start of the working week, if you let it.  Having committed toon apostasy in the eyes of the toon stasi by opting out of the last two Premiership encounters (the Wigan game came second to a hugely entertaining evening at Team Northumbria 3 Bishop Auckland 1, which is where I would have been again on Monday 10^th December, only for the visit of Durham City game to fall victim to a waterlogged pitch, causing me to take to my bike and head eastwards to the coast as soon as kick off loomed at Craven Cottage), I presume my opinions on the Fulham game are of negligible value. Just as well I suppose, as all I learned from Twitter in the second half was that Simpson, Williamson, Colo, Tiote, Jonas, Anita, Ba and Cisse were, to various degrees, shit.

While I’ve no regrets about missing the Wigan game, as I nervously took one for the team at a chilly Coach Lane, I do wish I’d been brave enough to tune in to the Fulham defeat, on the day Gateshead shamefully dispensed with the services of Ian Bogie, their most successful manager since the late Ray Wilkie, just so I could have formed an informed opinion. I must make it clear is mainly because I don’t actually regard the on-line hysterical, childish bellyaching at a defeat that I read  as anything resembling an informed opinion, mainly because I seriously wonder whether the lip pouting and foot stamping that polluted my time line from 10pm Monday is as much to do with fear over a set of up and coming fixtures that throws up Massive Club citeh, The Arse, Man United and the Scouse Mackems as four of the next five games as it did with an unlucky reverse in SW6. The missing fixture from that list is against QPR, which is the only maximum I can see on the horizon, with perhaps a point from Everton, meaning we’d go in to the New Year on 21 points from 21 games and probably in 16^th place at best; a sobering state of affairs. In looking for a semi silver lining, there is the fact that Reading’s 3-0 thumping by the Mackems effectively means that 2 teams are relegated already. Or so I’m telling myself.

Pardew celebrated the second anniversary of his widely vilified appointment with the Fulham reverse and, alleged 8 year contract or not, I can see a set of circumstances whereby the current owners getting rid of the current Manager of the Year early in the New Year, if my hunch is not only proved correct, but topped off with a cup exit to Brighton.Admittedly many others feel that even if Pardew were to take us down, and I’m not imagining this is the likely outcome of this season, he would be given at least one opportunity to bring us back up because he is their man in every possible way.

Personally, even if the Festive Season is replete with hammerings by the big lads, I still don’t think Pardew would deserve the bullet, but I’ve a nagging  feeling that may be the outcome, not because of a supporter led clamour to see him replaced, unless the backwards element are given scarecely deserved credence, but because Ashley and Llambias could probably find some poor sap (I’d be terrified to suggest any potential incumbents) who’d be grateful enough for a job that they’d accept being unequivocally told there would be zero cash in the January transfer window, as the new bloke, according to the likes of Lee Ryder no doubt, would need time to “assess the squad;” a time scale which would cunningly take us in to February.

While we’re becoming skilled in the art of defeat, the only Corinthian crumb of comfort to be gained from this is that, as a support, we’re not seeking to go beyond childish tantrums and in to the realms of racist abuse. Two days after Spurs got back from several chibbings in Rome against Lazio, West Ham welcomed them home by climbing back in to a 1970s era ideological cesspit with Nazi salutes and anti-Semitic songs at The Lane. Last weekend, a Swansea supporter was done for racially motivated abuse at the end of their 4-3 home loss to Norwich, while Massive club citeh lived up to their nickname of the Manc Mackems with a volley of coins aimed at celebrating United players, a badly dressed boy by the name of Stott (surely he’s a Shildon fan?) on the pitch acting the chap with a bleeding Rio Ferdinand, as well as one collared in the ground and another on Twitter for racist abuse. In the wake of this, some journalists are wondering aloud if fans need to be shrouded in netting to prevent throwing coins, which is about the worst idea I’ve heard since Ken Bates dreamed up the electric fence proposal at Stamford Bridge. For a start, just how fine would the mesh have to be to stop coins? We’re talking 70 denier minimum.

I was glad Manchester United won their game, as would I imagine, deep down, were fans of FC United of Manchester, who were in the region the other week to play Blyth Spartans. Now I like FCUM, especially their brilliant fanzine A Fine Lung, but I wasn’t at the Croft Park game as Percy Main were falling to a 2-0 home loss to Walker Central. If I had been there, I wouldn’t have been supporting FCUM, not when the home team are the region’s finest and most famous non-league side (cap doffed to Bishop Auckland in this context as well). Those who paid a tenner at the turnstiles, but chose not to follow Blyth may have been too young to remember the Spartans 1978 cup run and the Wrexham game at SJP or otherwise engaged at the time, but they can have no excuse for failing to recall another cup tie at SJP in February 1990, this time involving Newcastle United and Manchester United. Who were those masked men running amok in our city that fine Sunday lunchtime? Well, there’s a more than even chance they’re FC United followers these days I’d warrant. If you want to follow FCUM, follow them, but don’t adopt them as your non-league side, no matter how good the quality of their socks, when there are other teams in this region deserving of your patronage.

For example, watching Whitley Bay destroy Causeway United in the FA Vase by 6-0 at a healthily occupied Hillheads, on a cool but dry December day was one of the finest adverts for non-league football I could think of; certainly preferable to an afternoon in front of Jeff Stelling. However, as my companion speculated, it seems to be with some folks that it isn’t a case of enjoying the game, but of making the choices about being seen at the right game. Having opted for Vic Godard at the Star & Shadow on the night Peter Hook played the 02 Academy, I have to agree. Mind Bay’s 3-1 league cup win over Consett the following Tuesday was one for connoisseurs of hypothermia only.

Prior to all these events, Mark Clattenburg accepted a less than gracious apology from Chelsea for how they’d handled the situation after their game with Manchester United, when they questioned his behaviour in such a vindictive manner, and assumed his role back in the middle of a Premier League game, with the sound of warm welcomes from Nigel Adkins and Chris Hughton ringing in his ears, that gave way to a relentless castigation of his performance following at the end of a 1-1 draw. Concurrently, in a case that’s drawn little publicity, John Obi Mikel is banned for 3 games for threatening behaviour towards Clattenburg, with the punishment being so mild as it was accepted that Mikel believed at the time he was going at Clattenburg like a day’s work in the changers at Stamford Bridge that the ref had racially abused him. There is a fascinating legal debate to be had, regarding whether provocation can only be used as a defence if provocation has occurred and not simply is believed to have occurred, but I don’t think I’ve the skill set to host it. Suffice to say, responding on instinct, I’m not sure I’m happy with my own opinion on that; rather like the revelation that Newcastle United have failed to pay Corporation Tax over the past two seasons, I need more thinking time before I commit myself to an ideological standpoint. Watch this space is my message.  I do know I’m not happy with the Talksport theory that Mikel has “got away with it;” I do know that I agree with Lord Ousley, head of Kick It Out that football is a “moral vacuum,” but then again, I know that society is too.

And yet I’m still naïve enough to wonder why seemingly intelligent people throw their hands up in disgust at South Yorkshire Social Services taking two eastern European children away from foster parents who are card-carrying UKIP members? Especially when said foster parents actively campaigned for a party I regard as being The Daily Mail worshipping functionally literate version of the BNP in the Rotherham by-election? At the southern end of our region on the weekend before last, the EDL held a hush-hush gathering in Shotton, near Peterlee and were apoplectic when, not only did local Asians hold a counter demonstration aimed at driving this filth from their streets (don’t even dare mention Free Speech in the context of this lot), but the Poliss turned up to move the Fascists along, as the boneheads were the side fingered as being the ones inciting racial hatred and getting ready to breach the peace. When will these morons ever learn? Meanwhile a certain Liam Smith, the bovine Mackem clownshoe caught doing a monkey gesture at Lukaku in the 4-2 home loss to West Brom, claims as part of his defence it was not a racially offensive gesture at all, but a Kevin Nolan style chicken dance. I’m not sure what’s worse; this argument, which we’ll see in full when he gets his day in court early in 2013, or the sickening attempts by certain Newcastle fans to use this event as point scoring against them, rather than recognising that defeating racism is far more important and not something that can be done with half a dozen snide messages on a social media site. There are plenty of Mackems who find Smith’s conduct abhorrent and are prepared to say so, even if they are shouted down by crazed paranoiacs who claim the case against Smith is “political correctness gone mad” and symptomatic of the way the modern game is going. Where to those who claim to make a stand against modern football place themselves in this debate? What mileage is there in the slogan “stand against the aspects of modern football you personally don’t like?”

Perhaps the next thing the armchair ideologues can do is make up songs and tweets about the Seaburn Strangler, Stephen Grieveson who, having already been convicted of three previous murders of teenage boys, is on trial for the slaying of a 14 year old boy between 17^th and 28^th May 1990, which was the time between them beating us in the play-offs and losing to Swindon at Wembley. Attempting to make light of tragedies like this by mentioning it in the context of football rivalry is simply disgusting.

Away from football, things get no better; the Nationalist community in the north of Ireland may have emerged from the current flag burning controversy with their dignity intact, but there’s an awful lot of navel gazing needed when it comes to GAA, with the Ulster final between Crossmaglen (3-9) and Kilcoo (1-9) marred by incidents of racist abuse by Kilcoo fans towards Aaron Cunningham, whose father Joey played county GAA for Armagh and Irish League football for Portadown in the 1980s. Cunnigham Senior states he received abuse on and off the pitch in both codes throughout his career, but is deeply in despair that his son has to listen to the same sort of shit 30 years later. In the wake of comments from former Dublin star Jason Sherlock and Wexford hurling pair Lee Chin and Keith Rossiter that they have received abuser from other players and spectators, it is time the GAA faced up to the fact that it’s no longer De Valera’s island and the country is changing.  Rather than simply highlighting that by allowing counties to train in December for the first time ever they’ve responded to a changing sporting landscape, the GAA must recognise that a multi-cultural, multi ethnic Ireland is a reality, not just in The Pale either, and that if it wishes to grow the GAA, then it is time to embrace and celebrate this fact.

Younger Than Yesterday: Music in 2012

After a gap of over six weeks, during which time I didn’t get to see any live music, November proved to be a veritable feast of gig going, which was allied to several purchases of CDs, making it a busy musical month. As the calendar flips over on to December, it seems very unlikely I’ll get to see any more gigs or buy any CDs before Hogmanay, so I’ll take the opportunity of using this Blog to round up my live and recorded experiences in November and the year of 2012 as a whole.

The Wedding Present play Seamonsters: 02 Academy, November 10^th.

The worst part about David Gedge’s regular appearances on Tyneside are that he tends to play the worst, most soulless, corporate, bland venue in the city. Add to that, the last two gigs up here (tonight and December 2010’s Bizarro) were both Saturday nights, meaning a tea time start, which resulted in me missing this evening’s support Tocquai while quality testing real ales in The Bodega and Tilley’s and house lights on by 9.45 to allow the venue’s real money maker, the club night, conspires to create an ambience that is about as far away from the spirit of C86 you can get. Even worse, the upstairs venue was hosting a Guns & Roses tribute act that seemed to have attracted a crowd of mentally ill mackem hooligan wannabes. Good job I was able to ensconce myself against the barrier stage right to see the usual thunderous Weddoes set.

In some ways, the band are in danger of finding themselves on the parody treadmill continuum; annual tours celebrating records released over 20 years ago to ageing crowds that know the words all off by heart. However, we accept this, as readily as we accept the ever evolving line-up is David Gedge with several hired hands; thus there is nothing to do but enjoy the wonderful music. This evening, with a slightly smaller crowd than last time, no doubt because of the more intense and less mainstream sound of Seamonsters compared to Bizarro, a 40 minute set of other material included My Favourite Dress, of course, as well as a stupendous Sports Car, before the real business of the evening. Stand out tracks, as they were on the album back in 1991, were Suck, Corduroy, Heather and Octopussy, before a surprise final number of Click Click. Next year, there are dates scheduled abroad for Hit Parade 1 evenings; great news, but I’m looking forward to the Watusi, Mini and Saturnalia tours in 2015, 2016 and 2017.

Half Man Half Biscuit: 02 Academy, November 15th

This was one of the most disappointing nights of the year for me; firstly because it cost me nigh on £22 to see them, including booking fees, which was simply unacceptable when the Weddoes were £15, Dirty Three £17 and Vic Godard a mere £7. Secondly, it saddened me to see a crowd of possibly 200 more than had been there for The Wedding Present on the Saturday before. Thirdly, it sickened me to see the kind of consciously whacky oddballs that HMHB attract; internet addicts in Dukla Prague away kits, Honved shirts and Hi-Viz jackets (but not £400 Hi-Viz jackets and designer socks of course; they go to on the peeve instead). This was the graduation ball for social inadequates from far and wide.

To me, Half Man Half Biscuit are not brilliantly articulate wordsmiths; they are whimsical no-trick ponies, addicted to bad puns in a Richard Stilgoe meets Jake Thackeray kind of fashion. Yes, they are that bad; almost beyond parody. Don’t get me wrong, it was a good night in the bar beforehand with my kind of people (40 something non-league fans in the main) and I was delighted to get a couple of copies of Dickie Davies Eyes on 7” for 50p a shot, but I was even more delighted the next night when my beloved MK Dons, the ultimate punk rock football club, beat Tranmere at Prenton Park.

Dirty Three: Sage Hall 2, November 26^th

A cold, wet Monday night, where the walk up sales are negligible and you even think twice about bothering yourself. Thank goodness you did though? Warren Ellis is perhaps the greatest showman in the world of low fi, post rock, instrumental music; not a difficult task admittedly. That said, his patter is genius (a story about how the name Paul is synonymous with Satan and how Coldplay have 666 tattooed on their heads was as offensive as it was meandering and hilarious) and his band are just the same. The immobile Mick Turner plays quiet, understated barre chords and the odd simple lead run, acting as the anchoring fulcrum around which the crazed Ellis splurges Hendrix style explosions on violin, while Jim White, perhaps as technically brilliant as Buddy Rich, uses brushes, sticks, percussion and what have you, without clashing the kit, to make astonishing soundscapes of brittle beauty and barbarous anger.

Each number is a minimum 10 minutes long, with certain pieces like the marvellous Everything is Fucked heading north of twice that length, with relentless fuzzbox streaked violin solos and squalls of monstrous feedback from Ellis as the metronymic Turner holds the lot together. Ellis is brilliant in The Bad Seeds, but in Dirty Three he is a genius and a man possessed. It’s been 7 years since they last played Newcastle, during which time his beard has grown more voluminous and Jim White’s hair ever more eccentric; roll on their massively anticipated return in 2019. I simply love this band.

Vic Godard with The Sexual Objects & Pauline Murray: Star & Shadow, November 30^th

With a line up like that, despite the Star & Shadow’s ability to take the 70s squat and co-operative ethos to the furthest extent, so that it can appear like we’re at a MIND fundraising jumble sale, it had to be a winner and it was. A punk hero, a post-punk hero and a punk heroine in the best venue in this city; what wasn’t there to love? Well, openers The Potato Four for a start; Pebbles era covers, allied to land fill post punk and extraneous guitar wankery. Next up was Pauline Murray, solo on acoustic guitar, playing 3 of her new self-penned numbers. Goodness she was nervous, but she pulled the thing off in front of a supportive crowd, many of whom have followed her, and Vic for that matter, for upwards of three and a half decades.

You’d never associate Davey Henderson with nerves; louche insouciance more like. The Sexual Objects were as languid, lazy and lovely as ever; in Merrie England and Here Come the Rubber Cops, we have their finest 2 moments. Ten minutes of drawling, brawling harmonies, harmonics and Burroughs meets Welsh lyrics. I love this band and I wish I could buy their stuff more easily. I love Vic too and he loves Newcastle; this was his fifth appearance since 2005, with the best band he’s had, ever; well, The Sexual Objects would make anyone sound brilliant. No new material this time round; just the old classics, with Ambition, Different Story and Chain Smoking being the real stand outs. It was an amazing night, hanging out with some late 40s and early 50s unreconstructed anti authority types (a lot of non-league fans, typically enough). To make it seem even more authentically 77, we had hassle from The Man on the way home, when my chauffeur Bill got pulled over by the Poliss and breathalysed. Like me, he’d had one cup of coffee during the gig, which shows how rock and roll we can be these days. Gig of the year? Very possibly.

On the same night as this gig, Pete Hook and some musical equivalents of scab labour played the Academy, doing a run through of Unknown Pleasures, which to me was the moral equivalent of prising open the lid of Ian Curtis’s coffin to see if there were any gold fillings to be scavenged. Personally, I’d not be able to live with myself if I’d legitimised such scandalous behaviour by attending such a repulsive charade. However, let’s now look at my recent CD purchases.

Neil Young & Crazy Horse: Psychedelic Pill

2012 has been such a nostalgic year; Fairport Convention are in 1969, Snowgoose in 1970 and The Wellgreens in 1976. Neil Young’s awesome double album could literally have been recorded the same time as 1977’s American Stars & Bars, 1979’s Rust Never Sleeps or 1990’s Ragged Glory; long, long songs (the opener Driftin’ Back clocks in at 32.18) with strong insistence on mid-paced, major chord, repetitive, guitar driven rock. This is the story of Bernard Shakey and absolutely marvellous it is too, with brilliantly anguished numbers such as Ramada Inn and Walk Like A Giant, both clocking in at over 16 minutes, with only the bemusing Christmas carol For The Love Of Man and the unnecessary phased vocals on the first mix of the title track that could have been left out of this 90 minute set. With Young you know what you’re going to get from the opening chords. The biggest regret of my musical life is that I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing him live.

Godspeed You! Black Emperor: Allelujah! Don’t Bend! Ascend!

Never mind the Arab Spring; this is the second part of my Canadian autumn and I’m simply at a loss to describe just how wondrous an experience the Quebecois nonet have created, with two twenty minute ensemble pieces and two seven minute drone tracks. Put simply, Mladic is not song of the year; such a description is facile. It is the single musical experience of the year and it may be the most impressive thing I’ve ever heard, but it isn’t alone in its genius; Their Helicopters Sing and We Drift Like Worried Fire have beauty, anger, fear and euphoria combining to produce sheer adoration in the ear of the careful listener. I simply cannot praise this album too highly.

Swans: The Seer

The worst album I bought all year; a dull, punishing ordeal that is high on fury and anguish, but low on affection and introspection. This is sadly a dated, bombastic collection of overblown, relentless vignettes of despair and disappointment. Only the free jazz instrumental 93^rd Avenue Blues and the straight-faced country rock of Song for a Warrior remained on the ipod after a week. In fact, anyone leaving a comment on the Blog that includes a way of contacting them (email address for example), can have this for nothing.

So, finally; here are my lists for the year. I’ve not included every gig I attended, limiting myself to my 10 favourites -:

2012 Albums of the Year:

1.       Trembling Bells & Bonnie “Prince” Billy – The Marble Downs

2.       Godspeed You! Black Emperor – Allelujah! Don’t Bend! Ascend!

3.       Neil Young & Crazy Horse – Psychedelic Pill

4.       Lightships – Electric Cables

5.       Euros Childs – Summer Special
6.    The Wedding Present - Valentina

6.       Snowgoose – Harmony Springs

7.       Fairport Convention – By Popular Request

8.       Randolph’s Leap – Introducing

9.       The Wellgreen – Wellgreens

2012 Best Gigs of the Year:

1.       Vic Godard & Sexual Objects: Star & Shadow, November 30^th

2.       Trembling Bells: York Duchess, August 21^st

3.       Euros Childs: Star & Shadow,  September 8^th

4.       Dirty Three: Sage Hall 2, November 26^th

5.       The Fall: Hoults Yard, July 7^th

6.       The Wedding Present: 02 Academy, November 10^th

7.       Sexual Objects: Star & Shadow, March 16^th

8.       Christy Moore: City Hall, April 7^th

9.       Fairport Convention: Sage Hall 2, February 26^th

10.   Various; The Lady – A Tribute to Sandy Denny: Sage Hall 1, May 20^th

Unpublished 2: Around The Grounds 01/12/12

I wrote this on Saturday 23rd November, when the weather was clement. The following week saw terrible weather, so we didn't print a programme for the game at home to Walker Central on December 1st. Amazing the weather improved and the game went ahead. We lost 2-0, so we wish it hadn't. Anyway, here's the article -:

The immediate and most galling effect of the late goal we conceded at Rutherford last week was to drop Percy Main from 8^th spot, down to 11^th as things begin to get very tight in mid and lower mid table in the Alliance Premier Division. In addition, the vast variation in the number of games played, from 9 to 15, gives the league an unbalanced and indistinct look. Those who benefitted from our misfortune, in rank order, were Seaton Delaval Amateurs, who returned from Cumbria with a more than creditable point from a tough tussle at Gillford Park against fourth top Harraby that ended 1-1. Inactive Stocksfield are 9^th and Wallsend Town moved a place above us with a notable 3-1 home win over Blyth Town who stay in 5^th. Shankhouse dropped to the foot of the table, crashing 7-1 to table toppers Amble, whose lead over Heaton Stannington was stretched to 6 points, with the Grounsell Park outfit being without a game. Directly below us, Killingworth Sporting leapfrogged Walker Central who lie in 13^th place, with a resounding 5-0 away win at Monkchester Green. The final fixture saw third placed Carlisle City win 2-0 at Hillheads against a Whitley Bay A side that are 7^th.

In Division 1, pride of place went to the Combination Cup quarter finals; the game of the day saw Gateshead Redheugh win 5-4 away to current leaders Cramlington Town, while Red House Farm triumphed 5-2 at Links Avenue over Cullercoats and a single goal was enough for Heddon to prevail over Bedlington Terriers Reserves. The solitary home win saw Ponteland United progress at the expense of Chemfica by a margin of 4-2. In the league games, Wallington moved up to second with a convincing 5-2 victory over third bottom Willington Quay Saints, while fifth placed Northbank Carlisle enjoyed their trip to Morpeth Town A, condemning the basement side to a 4-0 drubbing. Newcastle University, who have been deducted 4 points, remain in the relegation spots, after losing 2-1 at home to Gosforth Bohemians, who are in 12^th spot. Finally, Hexham, who must be rueing the loss of 3 points earlier in the season, cemented seventh place in the table with an entertaining 4-3 win away to ninth top Forest Hall.

The Amateur Cup quarter finals also took place for second division sides, with the biggest win seeing Longbenton prevail 5-0 away to High Howdon. They were joined in the semi-finals by Blyth Isabella, who saw off Wooler 3-0, Birtley St. Josephs, 2-0 winners over North Shields Athletic and Seaton Burn, who progressed past local rivals Wideopen with a single goal in extra time. Three Division 2 games also took place; firstly Swalwell remain second bottom after losing 2-0 at home to Wallsend Boys Club who are seventh. It was a 1-1 stalemate, when fourth top were held by fourth bottom, in the game between New Fordley and Alston. Finally, Benfield Reserves moved to 11^th with a 3-1 home success over 9^th placed Alnwick Town Reserves.

In the Northern League, the story of the day was at Coach Lane, where Team Northumbria had their record crowd of 482 against Darlington of which over 400 were away fans; in contrast, Gateshead only drew 312 for their 2-0 FA Trophy win over Macclesfield. Peter Watling’s double gave the Students the points and a famous scalp. Elsewhere in Division 1, Whitley Bay won 1-0 at Consett while Benfield contrived to lose 2-1 at Marske after being a goal up in injury time. In Division 2, North Shields had a comfortable 3-0 home victory over Whickham and West Allotment lost 4-1 at home to Northallerton, in a game that probably had 400 less spectators than the one down the hill at Team North. In addition Blyth Spartans, 2-0 losers to Whitley Bay in the Northumberland Senior Cup during the week, drew 1-1 at home to Nantwich. They host FC United of Manchester today, in what promises to be an intriguing contest.

We Drift Like Worried Fire

Just over a year ago, for the first and so far only time in my life, I saw someone die. I’d lost grandparents, parents and other family members over the years, but always had the good fortune not to be in their presence while they breathed their last and, other than a very brief, upsetting glimpse of my maternal grandmother, laid out by Co-op Funeral Services at Windy Nook Chapel of Rest in March 1987, I’d not seen any of their corpses. The time I’m about to tell you of, I saw the rapid, undignified departure of an elderly man from this world in the distinctly prosaic surroundings of the start of Hadrian Cycleway, as it bisects the greensward betwixt St. Peter’s Basin and Walker.

It was a Sunday afternoon in November; following the discharge of familial duties, I was cycling from Swalwell to Tynemouth. With the clocks going back and winter approaching, this regular, exacting journey was becoming less enticing as the weeks went past. I had it in my mind this would be the last time I did this ride until spring and so it was to be the case, though this had as much to with emotional as climactic features. Heading east along the Quayside as the lowering sun becalmed itself in cloud at my back; I passed bars pleasantly full of relaxed Sunday drinkers, glazed in post carvery sweat and struck out towards the Coast. Less than half a mile from the start of the cycleway, a couple (I presumed them man and wife) effortlessly breezed past me. I’m a recreational cyclist: mid-range mountain bike, old trainers, muddy jogging bottoms, ragged hoodie and Ipod, while this pair were proper yellow goggles, skinny tyre road bikers; their lean forms swathed in Italian lycra. Five minutes later, I was to see them again.

The Hadrian Cycleway starts off as befits a Roman road that skirts Segedunum; so straight it seems to have been designed by spirit level. From the entrance, I saw clear passage straight ahead, deserted apart from the peloton pair, who were now off their bikes; she looming over the frame, he crouching down, poking at what appeared to be a bundle of rags. Getting closer I saw the bundle was actually an elderly man, bespectacled, not so tall, attired in a reasonably smart pinstripe suit, chest down on the path, head turned in an agonised, bloodless rictus to the right, still clutching the lead of the miniature Yorkshire terrier he’d been taking for a Sunday afternoon stroll. The dog agitatedly whimpered and licked at his available ear. His breath came in rapid, guttural heaves; his eyes showing only white. Dismounting, I stood in mute incompetence. The lycra couple knew what to do; the guy placed the old fella, now racked by convulsions, in the recovery position, while the woman used one of their phones to activate GPS to give an accurate geographical position and the other to dial 999.

The poor old bloke had obviously had suffered more than a bad turn. Possibly a heart attack, or even a stroke; it was clear he wasn’t going to make it. The heaves were replaced by gurgles that gave way to a lengthy exhalation akin to deflating a moribund whoopee cushion. Uselessly, I stood to one side, partly out of impotence, partly out of respect, saying little as the sky purpled, then blackened. It was near 4 o’clock; had the bloke been taking himself out for a post Sunday lunch stroll in preparation to sitting down in front of the football? Whatever the circumstances, he’d not planned to breathe his last here, in the open air, about 100 yards from the Tyne; alone, apart from that poor, whining pup.

Soon the Paramedics arrived (the navigational skills of the lycra lad and lass directed them to the correct spot). Seeing to the patient was their only concern, so they ignored us, before working on the old fella; this basically involved a few curt nods of the head, before putting him on a gurney and phoning the cops to ask them to “sort this end out,” before wheeling the old boy off to the ambulance. They didn’t put a white sheet over his face, which surprised me, but I’ve subsequently learned medics don’t do this except on Casualty, to avoid engendering panic in on-lookers. The Paramedics weren’t in a panic though; they idled until a youngish poliss on a mountain bike arrived. He took our names and addresses, though we were never called to any inquest. Then the concerned citizens got back on their road bikes and headed in the direction of the passenger tunnel. They were from East Boldon, in sunderland and needed to make tracks as it was near dark. Just before the Paramedics left, the poliss retrieved the old fella’s wallet, for identification purposes. He flipped it open and out fluttered a photograph of a smiling young girl, holding a Yorkshire terrier in her arms; presumably his granddaughter and the poor dog that now whined, bereft and alone in the gloaming.

The cop radioed the station to ask for a van to come and pick up him, his bike and the dog so he could “process the event.” Presumably this meant taking the dog round to who would now be the old bloke’s widow or the parent of a little girl who would now have no grandfather and breaking the news to them. This was just too fucking much to take; I didn’t know the old fella, but I was ready to burst out in choking sobs for his sake. Maybe the cop sensed this as offered me a lift back up to the station for a brew, as I looked like I “could do with a cuppa.”

Ten minutes later, I’d had my first ride in a police van and was sat under harsh fluorescent strip light glare in the canteen of Clifford Street nick, drinking tea (which I hate) with two sugars (that I never take); truly, it was the best drink of the day, though perhaps lacking the bizarre and slightly disturbing promise of a “velvety mouthfeel” that Azera coffee boasts.

I never learned that old fella’s name, or the names of the cyclists, Paramedics or the young, mountain biking copper, but as I shook his hand as I retrieved my bike from the yard of Clifford Street nick, within the arc of reflected light from Byker’s Gala Bingo that gloomy Sunday, I felt he was the best Samaritan I’d ever met. Everyone played their part that day; except me.

That poor old fella’s death was a tragedy; a proper tragedy. In contrast, Newcastle United losing four Premier League games off the belt is a disappointment and an irritation, but it isn’t a tragedy, no matter how badly they’ve played. Those reacting on Twitter and message boards to Cameron Jerome’s late winner for the loathsome Potters in a manner akin to Macduff’s when he learns of the fate of his family in IV iii of the Scotch Play, need to take a long hard look at themselves.

Moving from Shakespeare to Dickens, I don’t want to be accused of assuming the role of a Milburn Stand Mr Micawber, but something will turn up and we’ll get through this sticky patch. If we don’t, then 2009/2010 proved that relegation is nothing to be scared of. Experentia does it, as Micawber’s wife Emma was fond of saying, a phrase which comes from the Latin experiential docet, meaning one learns from experience. This is certainly the case among the more sensible sections of the support, so long accustomed to the Miss Havisham role when trophies are handed out. Let’s hope Pardew and the players take this message on board, even if Abel Magwitch Ashley and Artful Dodger Llambias are unable to.

I’m not happy with football at the minute; two weeks in a row Heaton Winstons, Percy Main, Benfield, Hibs and Newcastle United all lost, ruining my Saturdays and Sundays for a fortnight. Frankly, I think it’s unlikely Pardew will collect Manager of the Month for November. Being serious, I don’t think anyone can be happy with a brace of home defeats to West Ham and Swansea being followed up by the absolutely witless display at Southampton that is as unacceptable as any under Pardew; the 4-0 at Stoke, the 5-0 at Spurs, the 5-2 at Fulham and the 4-0 at Wigan are the only comparable disintegrations on the scale of the surrender at St. Mary’s. Only the intervention of the post on three occasions kept the score line, if not the performance, semi respectable, though it is a savage indictment of the team that we handed Southampton their first clean sheet of the season, without them having to even graft for it.

The Stoke defeat was an awful kick in the bollocks; 81 minutes of adequate football and plenty of effort thrown away by two desperate individual errors, or so I’m led to believe; I simply couldn’t bring myself to watch it on Match of the Day. Two goals conceded in the time it takes to boil a kettle; scarcely credible and almost enough to make me throw up my hands and abandon Newcastle for December. Wigan next Monday? I’m opting for Team Northumbria versus Bishop Auckland instead. Fulham the week after? I’ll be watching Team North again, when Durham City will be the visitors. A lunchtime loss to Massive Club citeh can be avoided on the 15th by a trip to Amberley Park for Killingworth against Percy Main, who host Carlisle City the week after when QPR come to town. The Boxing Day loss at Old Trafford comes a poor second to Benfield hosting Whitley Bay and The Villagers against The (Ashington) Colliers seems a better way to end 2012 than The Gunners ploating The Magpies. Even looking in to 2013, I can see the lure of Dunston v West Auckland winning out over Newcastle versus Everton. Is this me throwing a strop and being a part timer? Well, undeniably it is part time support on my part, but I don’t think it is a strop; take a step back is my attempt to get them to win by not being there. I turned down tickets for West Ham 5-0 and Man United 3-0 in recent years, not to mention the 5-1 over the Mackems. Am I being a coward by not going? Only if we lose; if we win, I’m playing my part on turning the club fortunes around. I just can’t bear to be around whing, self-pitying morons who know less about football than I do about particle physics.

After the Maritimo game, an evening where the only positive aspect was the splendid Wensleydale Gold in the Newcastle Arms, I came out the ground absolutely furious; not only with the performance, ragged, arrogant and slipshod as it was, but also with the mindless meatheads in the Gallowgate Corner. I felt sorry for the County Kildare NUFC Supporters Club who made their maiden European trip to SJP; Tino against Barcelona this game certainly wasn’t.  We’d managed to attract the grand total of 22k for a tie in a competition we’d worked our backsides off to qualify for and which the majority of our support had turned their backs on. I know of some who travelled to Bruges, without tickets, but couldn’t be bothered to attend a home tie that cost £15, preferring to watch it on ESPN instead, which meant the endless chants of your support is fucking shit by the shoe-waving shitheads to those who’d made three plane journeys from Madeira on a Thursday night for a game in a competition their team had been eliminated from, rang less than true.

Apart from wondering whether these morons in their consciously whacky Ameobi 23 shirts ever really deserved the scarcely-credible description of the cats from the Curva Nord, we have to wonder at the competence of those working in the local media who shamefully claimed the moronic songs about Danny Simpson’s latest squeeze, whoever she may be, showed the crowd were supporting him. Why, when Pardew is facing his first major test as our manager, is the personal life of a full back that is out of contract in the summer viewed as being more newsworthy than the gaping holes in the squad? Someone is pulling the wool over our eyes.

The real story should be that the shameful lack of investment last summer, allied to a massive injury list (Ben Arfa and Cabaye in particular, but also the Taylors) and key players being out of form (Colo, Cisse, Krul and Tiote), is putting Pardew under unnecessary pressure. The club has 8 top quality players on its books: Krul, Santon, Coloccini, Steven Taylor, Tiote, Cabaye, Ba and Cisse, as well as one world class one in Ben Arfa. We need them fit and in form, together with investment in a new full back, centre half, midfielder and striker in January; without that investment we will languishing around 14^th, but with it we may make the top half of the table. However, don’t just take my word for it. The following, impassioned, articulate and ever so slightly intemperate observation was made, on-line, by a lad called Stevie; he bleeds black and white, loves his club and understands the game so much better than the armchair arseholes, championship manager cyber clowns and spoilt bastards who are calling for Pardew’s head. Just read what he has to say; I defy you to disagree -:

I was discussing the weirdo alternative views some people adopt with a bloke, in relation to another guy on Twitter, who stated Joe Kinnear was a better Ashley appointment than Keegan was.  It got me thinking why people have these alternative views.  My opinion is that they adopt them because it makes them appear different and (in their opinion) look more interesting.  People who support Ashley, including one of my best friends, almost always fall in to this category.  Another lad’s take on people who look for these alternative views was people have them because they feel worthless when everyone thinks the same way, so they HAVE to contrive something different to make themselves feel comfortable about whom they are. 

I'll remind people that our manager is the current Barclays Premier League Manager of the Season; the only manager in the last 10 years to win it that came from outside the top 2.  His achievement in coming 5^th, while I think we were lucky, was noted because of his work shopping at Aldi rather than Harrods unlike the clubs above us and just below us last season.  Ashley deserves NO credit for last season; we still haven't spent the money we generated in 2010/2011, so the job Pardew did in terms of where we finished with the meagre amounts he had to spend and the average squad we already had was quite astonishing.

It amazes me that people who watch football year in year out still don't understand the game.  There are very few things in football more important than the M word; momentum.  Last season we started off thinking mid table would do with Ashley spending next to fuck all yet again, but we got to game 11, and we had a look around, and thought “fuck me we've got 25 points from 11 games and we're second.”  We kept on just quietly getting results: 3-1 at Stoke, a draw at Man Utd, and it set us up for the whole season.  It's not because we were playing brilliant, we haven't got a good enough side and squad to play brilliantly and that is NOT Pardew's fault, it's because we had a good little spirit in the team, and looked like a side while not being brilliant who knew exactly how to get results.

This season though there is no momentum; none.  Pardew is not a miracle worker and we've been desperately unlucky with injuries, so there aren't too many games where he's been able to field the same team twice, from a tired squad bereft of confidence. Apparently though all of this is Pardew's fault??!?!  FUCK OFF!  The blame lies squarely as that potential heart attack victim.  The money is there; we needed three players with our additional Europa League campaign not to mention the fact that the money is there, but they just won't fucking spend it.  The Debuchy deal sums it all up.  We're not talking about Deportivo wanting £11m for Luque after accepting £7m and FFS bending over backwards.  They wanted £6m for the best right back at Euro 2012 and Llambias turns round and says "deal off; we thought it was 6 mill in euros.”  You could feel just before the transfer window closed, and certainly just after it, that the momentum was lost for this season. Certainly, that is not Pardew's fault. He isn't doing anything different; we'll battle on and come 12^th. Like I said, it will be an up and down season, but people questioning his position should never go to a game ever again.  David Moyes came 4th with the blue dippers, and then the next season they come 17th.  Everton stood by him, and while in my view they are massive overachievers given their stature, fan base, and size, he almost singlehandedly made them an established top 8 club over a whole decade.  Pardew can do the same, but he'll have to keep on performing miracles as long as the two FAT BASTARDS are in charge of the club.

Well said Stevie; I simply couldn’t have put it better myself.