GB89

I’m not sure if it’s the same at all clubs, but fans of Newcastle United simply can’t deal with international breaks; forced inactivity turns the support in to ADHD sufferers that have discarded their Ritalin prescriptions, preferring instead to dabble with heavy doses of psilocybin. Consequently, the pregnant non-competitive pause between the Villa game on 2nd September and the Everton fixture 15 days later saw a tidal wave of preposterous bilge on social media that bore the scantest passing resemblance to reality. According to the 140 character Schopenhauers, Ba, Ben Arfa, Cabaye, Cisse and Tiote were all for the off in January, with season-long injury victims Colo and Krul also heading for the exits come next May when the club would no doubt have been relegated; all the cash raised by the big money departures would be going in to Ashley’s pockets of course, to help him fund his buyout of NewHuns. Just as the paint pots and marked pens were being primed for more bed sheet bravado, the truth came out; basically, Ba was unhappy at being left on the bench against Everton. He said this after coming off the bench and scoring the two goals, allied to the kind of fortunate decisions big clubs like us get from the officials, which got us a point. End of story.

While remarking that Newcastle United’s foolhardy policy of parsimony in the transfer market over the summer has rendered the Europa League more of an encumbrance than a joy, as we’ll be sending out the likes of Danny Gosling to represent the club on the European stage out of necessity rather than choice, bearing in mind the pressure placed on our small squad by injuries to Colo, Krul, Tiote and (I feel almost embarrassed to type his name) Simpson, the only other Newcastle United story over the past fortnight was the reserve derby. It ended 2-2, there were 1,800 there, mainly below the ages of 16, all housed in the East Stand. At full time, buses 12, 21, 39 & 40 must have been completely empty as the West End and East End Year 10 lads took it to the 50 fare-dodging Mackem charvas, who promptly ran away through Leazes Park when the volume cranked up; strange how intimidating singing can be.

Of course, a rather more important story was how ignoring a proffered hand can be seen as an inflammatory gesture. At the QPR v Chelsea game, Anton Ferdinand pointedly refused to shake the loathsome John Terry’s hand, nor that of the equally contemptible Ashley Cole, in relation to Terry’s utter lack of contrition for his self-confessed racist abuse of Ferdinand last season in the same game. Disgracefully, it is now seen by sections of the media, and among bovine fans who seem content to be led by the nose by Talksport and tabloid loudmouths, that Ferdinand is the one to blame for the continuation of this apparent feud. What a terrible rewriting of the facts; what an atrocious red herring. This situation was started by Terry’s ignorant, abusive, foulmouthed comments in the first place; the legal process may have ended, but the FA has yet to act. Presumably JT’s brief has told him not to apologise to Ferdinand publicly, to avoid any admission of guilt before a disciplinary tribunal sits. As a result, Anton Ferdinand has still not seen justice done. Once Terry’s case has been heard and the man finally shows contrition for and understanding of the wrong in his actions we may be able to move on. However, if Ferdinand still chooses not to shake Terry’s hand, and if the Premier League then uses this as a reason to dispense with this farcical pre match ritual, then I’ll be pleased. Frankly, if you want to shake hands, then perhaps you should consider joining the Freemasons; if you do, you can meet loads of retired and serving police officers. Perhaps you could ask them their take on the recent Hillsborough revelations, which have been the real football story over the past few weeks.

The news that incompetence and complacent avarice at the heart of the English domestic game was the root cause of the Hillsborough disaster and appalling police tactics on the day itself the main contributory factor as regards the scale of the tragedy, bearing in mind the complete contempt and outright hostility with which all football fans, regardless of club, social class or social demographic, were viewed by the entire ruling sectors of society, will come as absolute no surprise  to anyone who has the slightest insight in to the nature of British society during the Thatcher Years. You don’t need to have been a regular matchgoer, or even to have lived through the era, though obviously both of those things are relevant in terms of the insight they give to the prevailing social conditions of the time, to understand the brutal, repressive nature of the Police State that Britain was during the 1980s; a cursory, dispassionate appraisal of the legislation passed during this period, allied to the outpourings of pro-Government propaganda on television and in the press, shows exactly how hard it was to assert individuality during that era. Orwell’s image of the boot heel repeatedly stamping on a human face was as much a literal fact as a metaphorical image in the year of 1984.

From the Brixton Riots of 1981, to the South Atlantic imperialist adventure in the Malvinas in 82, to the decade long utter dismantling of manufacturing industry and the attendant social problems caused by the lumpenization of the British working classes that blight cities throughout the land to this day, the Thatcher agenda of reverse class war is evident from day 1; nothing sums up this repulsive ideology of brutalising hatred more than the Miners’ Strike of 1984/1985. This tragic defeat cut deep wounds in to the social fabric of mining communities throughout the land; in parts of South Yorkshire these wounds still have not healed. My ex-wife is from Barnsley; her best friend from school married a miner from South Elmshall. When his pit shut in 93, in the second wave of Hesletine-inspired cuts, he joined the police force. From that day onwards, his family refused to speak to him, using a single word by means of explanation for their actions; Orgreave. Who can really blame them?

Don’t just take my word for it, read David Peace’s mesmerising, brilliant fictional retelling of Governmental malfeasance and the tragic impact it had on the lives of ordinary, dignified working class lives in GB84. Once you’ve read that book, you’ll be prepared for the soon come revelations that deceit, corruption and the vile manipulation of a complaint media by the forces of social control were involved in the shameful absolving of blame of South Yorkshire Constabulary in the Hillsborough disaster. The bastards may have got away with it for 23 years, but the facts will out and they will show that the Government fixed it for the Police to get off scot free in the aftermath of 96 tragic, preventable deaths, as a way of saying thanks to SYP for ensuring the Miners’ Strike failed and ensuring that the boys in blue would continue to act as state condoned shock troops, hell-bent on social repression and drunk on power.

Remember; 96 innocent people died at a football match. That should never happen. Even at the time, the newly-released Hillsborough papers, made available on the day that the contemptible Michael Owen tweeted “Big thanks to the Police” after Cheshire plod had apprehended a trespasser at his racing stables, show the admission at the time that 41 lives, at a conservative estimate, could have been saved were it not for police tactics. These tactics may be seen, and to an extent excused, as being merely incompetent, but that is wrong. The actions of SYP were actually based on the prevailing attitude of the ruling elite that regarded all fans as potential criminals and an enemy to be confronted and tamed by any means necessary. A new inquest, allowing for evidence beyond the farcically imposed cut off point off 3.15, must follow and, though I’m not holding my breath, proper justice must be seen to be served by a series of court cases against those involved in the disaster and subsequent cover-up. However, bearing in mind the supine, obsequious nature of the CPS when required to take on the establishment, at best we may be looking at a few sacrificial lambs, hauloed up to be given suspended sentences, mainly on account of the fact they’ve gone off message from the wall of silent deceit and the closing of the thin blue line in obfuscatory contempt. Witness the Head of West Yorkshire Police, who was on duty that fateful day, stating last week “Fans’ behaviour … made the job of the police, in the crush outside Leppings Lane turnstiles, harder than it needed to be.” The blame is still being heaped on the innocent and the dead and that truly sickens me.

At the time of the disaster, the ruling class attitude of repression and contempt was as pervasive as it was effective, both tactically and ideologically. The day of Hillsborough, I was watching Newcastle lose 1-0 to a Paul Davis penalty against Arsenal at Highbury; they’d be champions and we’d finish bottom. In a ground where the facilities knocked spots off the crumbling concrete and rusting girders I was used to, stewards treated away fans with dignity and decency; unlike the hideous crushes and appalling views of White Hart Lane, or air of impending violence that hung over Stamford Bridge like noxious cigar smoke, Highbury was a decent place to watch a game of football. We still lost. Nick Hornby writes brilliantly about the day and the kneejerk reaction of fans in Fever Pitch. I hold my hand up as guilty as the rest in assuming, when I heard the news of the disaster, that “Scouse bastards” had gone on the rampage and caused an abandonment. Basically, the media stereotype of football hooligans permeated the consciousness of other football fans, giving an indication as the effectiveness of the state propaganda machine. There is no better example of false consciousness prevalent among ordinary fans than the anti-Liverpool comments I heard inside and outside of Highbury that day. That said, all of us learned very quickly that we’d made terrible false assumptions. Don’t blame us; blame hegemony, as wielded by the Thatcher state apparatus. Divide and rule was their mantra and their casus belli.

I was in London that weekend for a gig; Dinosaur Jr in Kentish Town, staying with some mates who simply didn’t do football. Attired in bike jacket, Butthole Surfers t-shirt, tartan lumberjack shirt, split-knee 501s and paint-spattered 7 hole DMs, it was fair to say I was at variance to the football casual fashions of the day. Indeed, I didn’t look like a football fan at all, which enabled me to blend in with ease as I made my way from Highbury back towards Finsbury Park and the pre-gig meet up in The World’s End pub on Upper Tollington Park. All the way up, I eavesdropped on conversations about the goings-on at Hillsboorugh and to those carrying transistors tuned to Sports Report, as the news from Sheffield unfolded. A sense of unease, mingled with guilt, that turned to shock, horror and eventually boiling anger, as further revelations about the day emerged; it wasn’t “Scouse bastards” to blame at all; it was “Tory bastards.” 23 years on, it is still the “Tory bastards” we must blame. Strangely, I didn’t hear a single word about the disaster at the gig; in those days, music and football were different worlds. Mind, I’d still contend that arena gigs of landfill indie that many fans seem to consider the cutting edge of popular culture are as contemptible as the Luther Vandross and Gloria Estefan soundtrack 80s footballers seemed addicted to.

Despite the poisonous lies spread by Murdoch’s minions in the immediate aftermath, the real truth was to be found in the samizdat accounts of supporter zeitgeist in the fanzine movement. These days When Saturday Comes may be a toothless billet doux for AFC Wimbledon, but back then, it was a crusading mouthpiece for the articulate disenfranchised. WSC was clear about Hillsborough; this was not our fault, it was the fault of the authorities who’d treat us like cattle for so many years. Sadly, the events of 15^th April 1989 meant so many of our fellow supporters were lambs to the slaughter.

The emergence of a percentage of the truth related to Hillsborough means that we must never forgive and never forget; the petty whining of Newcastle fans about squad strength or the first half against Everton has been put firmly in context, as has the Ferdinand / Terry situation. Red herrings such as these and the excoriation of Manchester United fans for singing “it’s never your fault” to a Liverpool fan base who continue to chant about Munich to this day, revealing both sets of fans need to get their house in order and a blame or victim culture does nothing but play in to the hands of enemies of the game, must not deflect from the inalienable truth; 96 innocent football fans lost their lives. Those responsible for those deaths, historically and on the day of the tragedy, as well as those who smeared the victims and covered up the corruption and incompetence that followed, must be brought to book. Only when this has happened can we truly say we will have seen Justice For The 96.

Careful now.....

If you read last week’s blog, you’ll no doubt have picked up on the fact that I’m a bit of a bibliophile. While the pretentious, post-modern analysis of football from a smug, pseudo-intellectual standpoint was the main motivating force behind my creation of this blog, I’ve enough love of both books and music to give those two passions an equal billing with my sporting life. In contrast, you may have noticed I’ve not got a great deal to say about representations of the moving image; in general I don’t go to the pictures and other than watching the news, Match of the Day and The Football League Show, television is frequently outside of my cultural domain.

While I’m not fully in accord with Holden Caulfield (If there's one thing I hate, it's the movies. Don't even mention them to me. J.D. Salinger Catcher in the Rye, opening page), I really can’t abide the cinema, as a building. In our 6 and a half years together, Laura and I have been to the pictures twice; to see Control and The Damned United, which if you know either feature, make for predictable choices. It’s not films themselves I don’t like, as I regularly watch DVDs and downloads of films (generally selected by Ben and purchased by me), it’s the sitting still and being quiet for 2 hours, in the the midst of the great unwashed that I can’t handle, although I used to love those little tubs of Haagen Dazs at the old Warner Brothers at Manors. Sadly, I must concur with Jean-Paul Sartre; “hell is other people.”

Television is another thing entirely; 99% of what is spewed in to our living rooms is mind poison, bereft of wit, intelligence or imagination, designed purely to sedate the populace and I avoid it at all costs, regardless of the reputation of certain shows. Sopranos? Missed it. The Wire? Never seen a second of it. Don’t get me wrong; there have been shows in the past that I adored, generally comedies and cop shows. To this day I’m word perfect on every episode of Fawlty Towers, The Sweeney and Father Ted.

The latter show was voted the best ever comedy shown by Channel 4 in its 30 year history, defeating other classic sitcoms like The Inbetweeners, The IT Crowd and Peep Show, on one of those Saturday evening list shows, broadcast the night Newcastle lost 2-0 at Chelsea. The same day had marked an FPX reunion, involving the Vitoria-Gasteiz and Low Fell branches taking in Percy Main’s 4-0 walloping of Rutherford and then some delicious hand pulled ales in the NE29 and NE30 areas. We’d watched the first half of the Newcastle game, but once it got to 2-0 Chelsea, the die had been cast. We supped up and sought out real ale bars without televisions.

Wandering back home, slightly squiffy, just before 10 (rock and roll or what?), I opted for the aforementioned Channel 4 list show in preference to Match of the Day’s fawning and slavering over the rebirth of Fernando Torres. Afterwards, there was an airing of the episode The Passion of St. Tibulus, where Dougal and Ted mildly protest against a supposedly blasphemous film, by standing outside the Craggy Island Cineplex, carrying placards bearing the less than hysterical slogans Careful now and Down with this sort of thing. It is a tribute to the show’s enduring appeal that no political demonstration or protest in Ireland to this day would be complete with homemade banners proclaiming Down with this sort of thing or Careful now.

Other than classic comedy, I do have a bit of a soft spot for police procedurals, especially when they’re tinged with nostalgia; Life on Mars was an absolute must-see and while New Tricks may be as lame as a geriatric pit pony, I enjoy it. However, the current show I really enjoy is Inspector George Gently, mainly because I can actually remember a time when Tyneside looked, sounded and felt the way it does in that programme. I must say I’m not a particular fan of Geordie themed programmes; as a kid I did like When the Boat Comes in, but when Auf Weidersehen Pet was shown, I found the stereotypical portrayal of North East males and concepts of maleness to be embarrassing and almost impossible to justify to those I associated with a quarter of a century ago, when living in Ireland for series 1 and London for series 2, even if I did try my best to stick up for my city and my football club.

However, while Oz, Dennis and Neville were all dyed-in-the-wool Newcastle United fans, both as characters and in real life, I don’t think Auf Weidersehen Pet is relevant to Newcastle United at this particular moment in time. In contrast, the actions and activities of Inspector Gently and placards bearing the slogan Careful now are absolutely crucial to understanding where the club is at this moment in time.

Where is the club at this moment in time? Well, the start to the season hasn’t been the most inspiring; after the encouraging win over a timid Spurs side (I loved Pardew clouting the linesman; “he shoves who he wants”), the Chelsea defeat was perhaps overdue, especially after 4 unbeaten trips to Stamford Bridge, culminating in last May’s glorious 2-0 victory, courtesy of Cisse’s magnificent double. The 2-1 stumble past Atromitos on aggregate wasn’t a fluke, but it was very far from being straightforward; not just because the score line was too tight for comfort, but because of the shapeless, limp and uninspiring play by so many of the back-up players who singularly failed to grasp the opportunity afforded to them, other than perhaps Vukic and Obertan. Perhaps the person we should be most grateful towards should be referee Stephan Struder for not giving a penalty against Tim Krul when he clearly upended Chumbinho, after dropping a routine shot from Epstein. However, on a quid pro quo basis, we’re paying for that good fortune with a mini injury crisis: Ryan Taylor, Cheik Tiote, Shola Ameobi and now Danny Simpson are all unavailable, which has added fuel to the fire of a restive fan base.

The big problem among the support wasn’t the poor performance against Atromitos, it was the fact that transfer deadline passed without further addition to the squad. Unbelievably, the Debuchy and Douglas acquisitions weren’t concluded, so we failed to add to our defence or attack, though the latter didn’t surprise me. As I’ve said before, I thought any deal for Andy Carroll was dead in the water once it became clear Demba Ba was staying on Tyneside, though there were twinges of sadness when he looked so effective for West Ham on his debut against Fulham. The surprising arrival of Anita, who looks a decent player, seemed to pave the way for the departure of Tiote or Cabaye; when neither of them left, it seems clear Pardew was told he had nothing to spend. Add to this the fact that our only realistic chance of a shot at domestic silverware, the ludicrously named Capital One (League) Cup, seems unattainable for another season after we drew Manchester united away and you can understand why the mood among certain sets of fans was becoming decidedly tetchy.

The fact I could simply switch off from our 2-0 defeat at Chelsea, by going to a different pub at half time, shows I have reached that level of detachment and disengagement with the club, meaning I don’t get carried away by the whole hysterical breast beating and tearful ranting that accompanied the transfer deadline passing. I had initially explained the situation to both myself and any poor sod unfortunate to be stuck within earshot by reference to Inspector George Gently. Last week I believed the intemperate support and mischief making fourth estate are represented, in synecdoche, by Sergeant John Bacchus: emotional, overwrought, mercurial and quixotic locals, often unable to see the wood for the trees. In contrast, Ashley, Pardew and Llambias are Inspector Gently incarnate; intelligent, perceptive, undemonstrative outsiders from the south east, up here to sort things out for the natives. Then, the Villa game gave a chance for the anti-Ashley murmurings to become a chorus, not a deafening one, but loud enough to require the issuing of a need for perspective, both for the already restive ranks and my previously unflappable self; rather than heading back down the queasy emotional rollercoaster of conflict, to a soundtrack of “Get out of our club,” it is time for us all to be Careful now….

Let’s be honest, the first half against Villa was rank. While Stephen Ireland played out of his skin, Newcastle handed the initiative to the previously pointless visitors with some woeful crossing, immobile attacking and lame tackling. It is no surprise that we are currently the worst tacklers in the Premier League. Sadly, we are struggling with several players who are badly out of form; Ba, Cabaye, Cisse, even Krul (though he is yet to be punished for suspect handling) are shadows of last season, thus far, while we also have the burden of the mini injury crisis and the effects of such modest close season transfers, even if it must be stated Bigirimana was fabulous against Villa in the second half; perhaps he is really Baby Cheik?

Unsurprisingly, Monday’s Chronicle was full of doom and gloom, despite Ben Arfa’s brilliant equaliser and the fact Cabaye was millimetres away from winning it (if Shay Given had been playing, he’d never have stopped it). One gloomy customer said the Villa game demonstrated “the folly of Ashley and Pardew’s non-efforts in the transfer window for all to see,” despite Anita and Bigirmana having great games. Another Stalinist revisionist stated “Ba and Cisse don’t look like a natural partnership. It is time to give Marveaux his chance,” despite the fact they did look the business last season, both for us and Senegal and that Marveaux was absolute bilge versus Atromitos.

Obviously a bad result, following on from a poor performance and the lack of signings has brought the mood of the support down quite low and I include myself in that. The crucial question is whether there is an element of overreaction coming in to play, or if the gloom is justifiable as we’ve missed a big opportunity to push on by not “signing big,” whatever that may mean these days. Well, before we start burning effigies of the manager on Barrack Road, let’s see what the next month of Premier League games has in store; Everton (A), Norwich (H), Reading (A) and Man Utd (H), as well as Man Utd in the League Cup and Europa games away to Maritimo and home to Bordeaux. Perhaps after these 7 games, we’ll be better placed to decide whether gently does it, or whether it really is time to bring Xisco back home. If you’re tempted by the latter, you’d best be Careful now….