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.

Dressing Down

I really hated Saturday 17^th November 2012; Heaton Winstons lost, Percy Main lost (6-1 at home), Benfield lost (5-1 at Spennymoor), Hibs lost and Newcastle lost at home for the second week in a row. The evening session was cancelled, but at least when I got home, my partner had not only prepared a rather fine pasta dish, she’d also bought me a new pair of strides. They’re great; Union Jeans from Seattle: straight leg, dark blue, slightly distressed (not sure what by), still with the tags on, from Tynemouth Station Market, which is the North East’s finest source of second hand vinyl, books and all the other sorts of memorabilia I spent my 30s getting rid of and 40s buying back. Even better, these beauties cost the princely sum of £2. I love a bargain me. I own 2 other pairs of jeans; Levi 501s price £6 from Oxfam in Whitley Bay and some stylish Primark ones that cost £4 brand new. It’s fair to say I’m not at the cutting edge of terrace casual culture; then again, I don’t want to be. Mainly because, I simply can’t afford to be.

I’m almost 49, with £90k still on my mortgage. I’m divorced with a son applying to University to do History (the subject with the highest graduate unemployment) who I’m supporting through his A Levels. I’ve got a good, well-paid job, but the idea of spending £300 on a jacket for going to football is a complete non-starter, especially when I couldn’t afford to attend an away game to show it off in the first place. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not part of the replica shirted Sports Direct Delta /Epsilon border underclass demographic, but I do think we, as football fans, need to accept that there is a third path between the shirters and the dressers that need not involve appearing to be a walking Val Doonican tribute, attired entirely in the latest releases from the M&S Blue Harbour catalogue, in a signature yellow polo shirt. I’ve loved the first two issues of Stand AMF, but I really think it has to be acknowledged that paying fifty quid for a pair of socks doesn’t automatically entitle you to assume you’re at the forefront of the battle to reclaim the game’s soul. The snobbery of the no kit wankers and ageing casuals is as irritating as the lack of self-awareness of the club shop clowns.

The first Newcastle away game I attended was a 1-1 draw at Ayresome Park in February 1983; I was 18. While the vast majority of our support appeared to regard NCB donkey jackets, black & white tartan scarves and moustaches as the correct terrace apparel, I was a little differently dressed in Dennis the Menace style mohair jumper, combat trousers and long overcoat with compulsory Unknown Pleasures badge. I looked like the scruffy student I was. A couple of years later, I did notice the appearance of slightly more fashion conscious individuals among a travelling support that tended to be somewhat lacking in the sartorial stakes. One of these lads, Snag from Felling, informed me as we left White Hart Lane after a late Beardsley effort gained us a 1-1 draw in August 86 that when it came to away games, it was responsibility of our support to “dress smart; act potty.” I tried to internalise this, but it didn’t really permeate my consciousness. Fast forward to the end of the decade, I welcomed the arrival of the 1990s at Boundary Park, watching Mark Stimson’s injury time own goal limit us to a single point, clothed in bike jacket, Butthole Surfers t-shirt, lumberjack shirt, split kneed 501s and paint spattered 7 hole DMs. It’s not just my new Union Jeans; I’ve long looked upon Seattle as an influence on my wardrobe.

I applaud lads who’ve enough spare cash, time to play on Ebay and dress sense to turn out smart, though I despair at my young’un and his mates in Pretty Green polos and knitwear Ken Barlow would look good in. However, I’m happy enough in my car boot sale jeans, Ex Catalogue Shop shirt and hand me down Quicksilver jacket; I might look like a dick, but as I’m nearly 50, perhaps that’s no bad thing. Let’s embrace inclusivity, even if means being unkempt.

Poppycock & The Desperate Cognoscenti

I’m a massive fan of Twitter; I like: the updates from official sources of information, whether they be football clubs, newspapers or bus companies, the asides and insights, ranging from the banal to the beatific, from those who make their living in the fields of music (David Gedge; Norman Blake), politics (George Galloway; Nancy Taafe), media (Lee Ryder; Michael Crick) or football (Sami Ameobi; Joey Barton) and the chance to engage in semi-serious social interaction with mates both old and new. One of the surprising benefits of Twitter is the chance to interact with huge numbers of match going ordinary Newcastle United fans, who I don’t know in real life, but who provide reactions, both profound and profane, to events involving our club; often as these events are unfolding in real time. Obviously I filter out shoe-waving zanies, bile-spitting xenophobes and cretinous couch potatoes, but my human bullshit detector is not flawless and the occasional shit storm of stupidity breaks overhead, though that is sometimes unavoidable as Twitter involves a great deal of “thinking aloud,” as we process events in the search for significance.

Through Twitter, I came across one of the most bizarre examples of sporting deceit imaginable on the afternoon of November 4th, when Newcastle drew 1-1 away to Liverpool, when I discovered there are those who engage in the ludicrous pretence of being present at away games, when they’re actually watching them on television or computer in the comfort of their lounge or spare bedroom.

I mentioned last week that I didn’t see much of the game at Anfield because I was watching the FAI Cup Final between Derry City and St. Patrick’s Athletic, but I did engage in some furtive second screening to see how the Twitterati viewed proceedings. When tweeting from a hand held device, the technological source of one’s thoughts is displayed, whether this be Blackberry, HTS or one of the marvellous range of portable gadgets from Apple MacIntosh; consequently, during a game you can tell who is at home, by the lack of reference to an operating platform (am I getting the hang of this jargon?). However, this doesn’t allow for the basic human urge to tell fibs. Post-match, those who had been updating reactions to incidents and events from their phones, as if they were viewing proceedings from the Anfield Road end, suddenly switched devices, taking to PCs and lap-tops to talk us through their journey back from Merseyside.  No doubt the final whistle had been followed almost instantaneously by a decamping up the stairs to “the study” on the pretence of “working on a document for that meeting on Tuesday;” either that or there’s some mighty fine Wifi on Merseyside and all along the M6 and A69. While I can appreciate that some people possess very fast motor cars that can rapidly bring them on a Sunday night all the way from Sandwell to the Sage in time to see Belle & Sebastian, I wonder just who The Desperate Cognoscenti are trying to kid with their shape shifting on-line shite?

 

Perhaps we have seen an epistemological rupture or break, enacted by The Desperate Cognoscenti. Louis Althusser’s mate Gaston Bachelard proposed that the history of science has been replete with epistemological obstacles, which are unconscious structures that were immanent within the realm of the sciences, such as the principles of division between mind and body. According to Bachelard, the history of science has consisted of the formation and establishment of similar epistemological obstacles, which had to be metaphorically torn down to enable thought to progress. This act of cerebral destruction, not deconstruction, is known as an epistemological rupture, where an unconscious obstacle to scientific thought is thoroughly broken away from.  Consequently, as well as accepting as fact the assumption that watching an away game on television or the computer is now not only as valid a way of experiencing the match as being there, The Desperate Cognoscenti effectively state it is possible to claim that the act of viewing any game from the comfort of home is de facto the same as being there, resulting in the right to assume to the need to metaphorically travel 150 miles home afterwards and record presumed events that happen on this mythical journey, even if in reality you’ve only moved up one flight of stairs. It isn’t The Burma Railroad and it isn’t Chairman Mao’s Long March now is it? However, in their eyes, The Desperate Cognoscenti have provided the on-line solution to the seemingly intractable problem of how to know everything about the game, without being there.

The truly stunning thing about the Liverpool game was that Robbie Savage called it right on Match of the Day 2; Coloccini had an absolute disaster of a game. Having spent 75 minutes trying to kick racism out of the game by booting Suarez at every given opportunity, he got as close to him with an attempted stamp as he had done for the goal and had to see red. In retrospect, it was almost a mercy killing; we got a point in a game we could have won, but would have lost if the captain had stayed on. Colo was no better in Bruges; floundering and flapping as he misjudged a dropping ball, in the way he seemed to do every week in the relegation season, as they took the lead following the kind of aimless punt forward Liverpool profited from and Pardew has seeming fallen in love with as a tactic for us. Of course Coloccini was not the only player to make an appalling error of judgement in that game; Krul’s complicity in the second with the kind of slow motion dive Harper has based his career on has been airbrushed from the media and Marveaux’s air shot from inside the six yard box with an empty goal gaping wouldn’t be tolerated in a Sunday morning 5 a side. On the positive side, Anita’s goal and assured performance hinted at his coming of age within the team; let’s hope so.

I realise I’m being daft by seeking to discuss the game itself. The Bruges fixture was clearly not about football for the vast majority of those who made their way over there. Whether you were a jested-hatted zany with 23 on the back of your replica shirt, or a Stone Island attired Bender Squad veteran, affecting the kind of thousand yard stare perfected by Peter Mullen in Tyrannosaur, the whole glee club outing was a glorified stag do, where beer, brawling, balladeering and bad behaviour was the order of the day. However, it must be stated that unlike the Caring Club’s trip down the Durham coastline on the rattler, no trains were trashed, employees assaulted or bogs smeared in shit; the legendary class, dignity and panache of Newcastle’s support was overwhelmingly in evidence for the whole time, or so I’m lead to believe. Unlike The Desperate cognoscenti, I wasn’t there.  

I like a drink, rather too much if I’m honest, but I like football more. If I’d been there, I’d have attended the game totally sober as I don’t like to watch football under the influence as I find it difficult to get a proper perspective on events. Post-match, it’s different; there’s nothing I like to do more than quaff an ale in The Town Wall, while observing The Desperate Cognoscenti in their £400 hi-viz anoraks reinventing themselves as time-served casual icons, swapping bon mots about socks. However, if I’d been in Belgium, I doubt I’d have ruined the memories of seeing my team play by drinking myself to a standstill before kick-off. Obviously I still tweeted that I was on the peeve with Jacques Brel, Plastic Bertrand, Hercules Poirot and Tin Tin, eating moules mariniere and drinking Leffe.

The truly remarkable thing about tweeting from your phone if you’re a supporter of Newcastle United is that you can actually find time in between the torrent of junk emails from the club to register your thoughts. Even during games, I find myself bombarded with automated communications, offering the chance to book executive boxes for home games, or entreating me to buy execrable NUFC branded onesies or the loathsome Howayman outfit. When these arrive during a single goal home defeat to West Ham, where the post Bruges hangovers on the pitch and off it, made us easy pickings for The Hammers, it didn’t do my mood any good. Admittedly we’ve only lost a game and not seen the season disintegrate, as some seek to claim, but it leaves a bad taste in the mouth, especially when I reflect on the fact I’ll probably not see another home game in 2012. I’ll definitely be missing the Swansea and QPR home games, because of Percy Main commitments, as well as things looking dodgy for Wigan (work) and Massive Club citeh (Hibernian v Motherwell was just too tempting).

My interest in local amateur football is the best way I know to get Newcastle United and the emotional upset they cause me out of my head; on Friday I’d seen West Allotment Celtic and Morpeth Town share 8 goals in a sparkling contest at Blue Flames, while the day after that, Percy Main won 4-3 at Wallsend Town. The weekend’s big non-league stories in the region might have been Whitley Bay’s astonishing 8-3 victory over Penrith and West Auckland seeing off Darlington 2-1 with a last minute penalty in the £10 game (where even Mike Amos found the anti-Traveller songs of The Quakers to be “bordering on racism;” does that mean we’ll see anything done about it? In the same way as Stuart Pearce has announced he “trusts” the Serbian football authorities to sort out the fall-out from the England Under 21 game last month, don’t bother to watch this space would be my advice…), but for Percy Main the headline news was the departure of our boss Gareth Allen, who leaves with all good wishes. We have to move on and I did on the Monday night to see Team Northumbria get the better of Guisborough Town (including Jamie Poole, the player who escaped censure for his foul-mouthed, racist tirade aimed at Benfield’s Jordan Lartey back in January) 8-7 on penalties after a 2-2 draw in the Northern League Cup, with the match finally ending at 22.22. At least I got away an hour earlier on Tuesday, when South Shields overcame Alnwick Town 4-2 on a calm, temperate evening. It was the first time I’d been to Filtrona Park in 6 years and I thoroughly enjoyed it.

At the two games listed above, the talk among the crowd was of developments involving two local football figures: firstly, James McClean, who chose not to wear a poppy as the Mackems crashed to their usual defeat at Everton. I’ve no time for McClean, who seems to be this decade’s Keiron Brady without the talent but with more ego. However, I am a pacifist. Consequently, I’ve never worn a red poppy in my life, though I did used to wear white ones when they were briefly available about 20 years back, so I’ll say fair play to McClean for standing up to the unsavoury tide of militarism and the fetishisation of the armed forces, so prevalent among the on-line Tyrannosaur tribute acts, that I find so repugnant. Fight War Not Wars, as Crass said back in the day.

 

And then there’s Mark Clattenburg. Despite the fact he’s been stood down for three successive Premiership fixture cards without an official syllable being uttered regarding the progress of any investigation in to these allegations against him, it seems as if his case may be moving towards a conclusion. The Metropolitan Police have decided not to investigate him any further as “no complaint has been made,” which is legally fairly cut and dried. Of course the lack of a criminal conviction is no guarantee of indemnity from the football authorities, as John Terry can confirm; incidentally, his serious injury on Sunday in the game versus Liverpool meant that the day wasn’t a complete write-off. As bonehead racist moron Gareth Kirkham faces criminal proceedings for his monkey gesture at Stamford Bridge against Manchester United in the game 3 days after Clattenburggate, the FA continue to drag their heels over claims that Clattenburg used “racial” language to John Obi Mikel and Juan Mata. The referee claims Mikel misinterpreted the phrase “I don’t give a monkey’s” and vehemently denies calling Mata “a Spanish twat.” Chelsea FC; fighting racism since October 27^th 2012…..

I would like to extend my hand in friendship to Juan Mata and I would hope he has put his other hand in his pocket to help out the club where he started out; Real Oviedo. The Guardian’s Spanish football correspondent Sid Lowe, a journalist of impeccable morals and superb erudition, acting as a counterbalance to the loathsome, preening David Conn-Man and mendacious, prattling Lousie Taylor, spread the case of Real Oviedo’s imminent demise on Twitter. As a way of saving the club, now mired in debt following relegations and boardroom incompetence on a massive level, a cash injection has been sought, not in terms of a fan buy out sadly, but by means of a share issue that runs until November 17^th. You can buy shares here and I’d urge you to do so; http://www.realoviedo.es/yosoyelrealoviedo/

The share issue may not be the ideal solution to the problems of this club and others in Spain and the rest of the World, buckling under the weight of debt occasioned by recession and incompetent boards or an effective way forward, but a £10 donation to help keep a club afloat is a decent gesture. Certainly it’s probably less opportunistic than the Ebbsfleet adventure under the auspices of www.myfootballclub.co.uk which I invested £35 in a few years back. Ebbsfleet are still in The Conference and still managed by Liam Daish, but the numbers of investors / subscribers to the project has dropped off markedly. The reason for that is probably far more to do with a lack of emotional and geographical attachment to a club from the road to Tilbury Docks among the initial members of the project; personally I couldn’t even be bothered to go and see a team I was an equal part owner of when they played at Gateshead, much less travel to see them win the FA Trophy at Wembley. It seems churlish to point out that the discredited NUST may have had plenty to say about Plymouth Argyle in the past, but nothing at all regarding Ebbsfleet or Oviedo, but I’ll say it anyway. NUST seem happy to send out almost as many unsolicited emails as the football club do, almost all of them appropriating Bobby Robson’s famous comments about Barcelona at the drop of a hat -:

“What is a club in any case? Not the buildings or the directors or the people who are paid to represent it. It’s not the television contracts, get-out clauses, marketing departments or executive boxes. It’s the noise, the passion, the feeling of belonging, the pride in your city. It’s a small boy clambering up stadium steps for the very first time, gripping his father’s hand, gawping at that hallowed stretch of turf beneath him and, without being able to do a thing about it, falling in love.”

Sadly NUST seem high on romantic idealism, low on tactics and utterly devoid of any grasp of the importance of current, unfolding events. Meanwhile, Oviedo streamed their 1-0 win over Real Madrid C last Sunday (wish I’d seen that instead of the West Ham game) and are rewarding anyone who buys a share with free entry to a game, on production of their share certificate, which looks like the best possible reason to visit Asturias in the future. All together now; we hate Gijon and we hate Gijon. We hate Gijon and we hate Gijon. We hate Gijon and we hate Gijon. We are the Gijon haters.

However, if anyone out there believes I’m being soppy or romantic by my gesture to buy a share in Oviedo, can I just say that I recognise what is far more important in the broader scheme of things, is the success of the General Strike in Spain on Wednesday November 14^th. Workers standing together to fight back against austerity and social repression is far more important than how much beer you get down your neck in Belgium or who wore what on their jersey at the weekend; to claim otherwise is pure poppycock…

 

Níos Gaelaí ná na Gaeil iad féin

I’ve no scientific way of proving my instinct is correct, but I’d imagine I was one of a select band of Tyneside residents who opted to watch the FAI Ford Cup Final on www.rte.ie on Sunday 4^th November, rather than Newcastle’s trip to Anfield. I must admit that the dire first half at Lansdowne Road (enough of this Aviva Stadium horseshit) did cause my concentration to waver and my vision to stray from laptop to television, just long enough to see Yohan Cabaye’s masterful finish. I was tempted at that point to stick with The Magpies, but I knew my responsibility, Hiberniores Hibernis ipsis, was to show my support for the players, officials and 16,116 fans of Derry City and St. Patrick’s Athletic who played out another 75 minutes, plus about 5 minutes of injury time at the end of the second half of extra time, of high quality, high tempo football. Unlike the two previous seasons, when Sligo Rovers had triumphed on penalties over Shamrock Rovers and Shelbourne respectively, this one didn’t require the added drama of kicks from the penalty mark, but it was no worse a spectacle for that.

 

Following on from Donegal’s triumph in the All Ireland Football Final at Croke Park in September, Derry City made it an Ulster double by winning the cup final 3-2 after extra time. St. Patrick’s Athletic took the lead after 53 minutes through Sean O’Connor, but were forced to scramble for the extra 30 minutes when Christy Fagan made it 2-2 after 87 minutes, after firstly Stewart Greacen, almost immediately, and then substitute Rory Patterson from the penalty spot, had put the Foylesiders ahead, though it has to be said St. Pat’s were desperately unlucky, on the balance of play and number of chances created, not to win the thing for the first time since 1961. Sadly Patterson’s winning goal for the Candystripes after 105 minutes ensured another season of what might have been for an Inchicore outfit that finished third in the Airtricity Premier League. At least this ensures another shot at the Europa League for the Richmond Park team in early July 2013. If there is a silver lining, it must be that retiring champions Shamrock Rovers, who saw short-term manager Brian Laws depart from Tallaght after barely two months in charge to assume charge at Scunthorpe United for the second time, will not be in Europe next season. Their new manager is Trevor Croly, who had been assistant to Liam Buckley at Richmond Park. League of Ireland football can be so incestuous.

For Derry City, winning the cup more than made up for the disappointment of losing the Setanta Cup on a penalty shoot-out to Crusaders 5-4 after a 2-2 draw at Glentoran’s The Oval back in May (a fixture that would have been incomprehensible for much of the previous 4 decades) and presented them with their fifth FAI Cup success since being accepted in to the League of Ireland in 1985. Never mind discussions of the club’s troubled times while under the aegis of the IFA, or the geographical location of The Brandywell, the sight of 8,000 Derry fans lustily singing Amhrán na bhFiann is proof enough that, in the absence of a 16 team, September – May, 32 County professional league, which is the only realistic way to drive up the standards of the domestic game on the island of Ireland, the League of Ireland is the appropriate place for Derry City to play their football. Like St. Patrick’s Athletic and Corn Sraithe na hÉireann (League Cup) winners Drogheda United, who were also runners-up in the Airtricity Premier League, proving that all is once again hunky dory with the Diamond Drogs, another appropriate place for Derry City to play is in the Europa League qualifiers next July.

The popular and rightful Premier Division winners were Sligo Rovers, who recovered from the departure of successful, boss Paul Cook, firstly to Accrington Stanley and now to Chesterfield, not to mention the signing of former Newcastle trainee left back Jeff Henderson, to win the title by a less than flattering 4 point margin. Blessed with players such as Joseph Ndo, Romauld Boco, Pascal Millien, Rafael Cretaro, Danny Ventre, Gavin Peers and Ross Gaynor, the Bit o’ Red clearly had the best squad in the league and deservedly won the title. Their reward is a place in Champions’ League qualifiers in July 2013.

Below Sligo, as mentioned, were Drogheda United in second place, St. Pat’s in third, Shamrock Rovers in fourth and Derry City in fifth. With the exception of the Corinthians from the South Dublin County Council Halting Site, the other sides will feel they’ve had a reasonable season. Below them Cork City will be happy with sixth spot in their first campaign since promotion, while the impecunious Big Club Bohemians did remarkably well with a squad full of teenagers to come seventh, as well as banjoing the Shams 4-0 at home and 1-0 away. Shels were only a point behind Bohs and Cork, which wasn’t a bad debut Premier League campaign; though they’ll want to forget the stuffing Derry gave them in the FAI Cup semi-final. UCD and Bray, though it is always referred to as a soccer town, haven’t a pot to piss in financially and will be relieved to have stayed up.

Providing the annual circus of the granting of licenses early in 2013 goes according to plan, which it never does, the composition of the League of Ireland for next year will see a 12 team Premier Division. Currently, it is suggested that this will consist of the 10 teams mentioned so far, plus First Division Champions Limerick. The identity of the twelfth and final team, regardless of the outcomes of any last minute disappearances (Sporting Fingal or Galway United, for example) or licensing issues, was allegedly decided on Friday 2^nd November, when 11^th placed Dundalk (they were bottom after Monahan United withdrew mid-season and had their record expunged) defeated 2^nd placed First Division outfit Waterford United (who’d defeated 3^rd placed Longford Town in a two legged play-off to get that far) by 4-2 on aggregate, after a rather niggling 2-0 away win at the RSC. However, the huge gap in my life on Friday nights that the ending of the League of Ireland season has enacted is counterbalanced by news that Dundalk may not be out of the woods just yet. Stories emerged, on the day Obama beat Romney so you may have missed them that Dundalk (who were within days of going bust themselves) had created, by dint of the fact that the winning goal was scored by Michael Rafter, who was ineligible.

 

 

The case has gone to the FAI for arbitration, with both clubs claiming a place in the First Division could be a death blow for them. Meanwhile, Longford, Athlone, Finn Harps and, amazingly considering Mick Wallace’s own financial affairs, Wexford Youths wonder who else will be in the lower league with them, as joint wooden spoon winners Mervue United and Salthill Devon (aka SD Galway) contemplate withdrawing from senior football, merging or becoming a constituent part of a re-launched Galway United. Of course there are no concrete proposals, but the FAI’s Ned O’Connor did undertake an examination in to the issue of senior football Corribside, producing a report you can read on line at http://www.fai.ie/images/stories/FINAL_REPORT.pdf His recommendations are suitably vague and unhelpful -:

 Given the population of Galway, there should only be one Senior National League Club and at least two Galway teams in a Connaught Senior League. In view of earlier comments about the particular situation in Galway the timing of the introduction of a new Connaught Senior League is crucial.

 The options for a Galway based National League club are (a) Galway United (b) New Galway club (c) Mervue United (d) Salthill Devon and (e) merger of Mervue United and Salthill Devon.

 In determining a preferred option regard must be had to the criteria necessary for a successful Galway club. Such criteria would clearly include the support and involvement of all of the interests in Galway in a unified, focussed and coherent manner.

 Of the options outlined, either A or B offer the most potential. To achieve the widest possible support and involvement I would recommend that the new Board should include nominees from the four major stakeholders in Galway football, i.e. Galway League, GUST, Mervue United and Salthill Devon / SD Galway. Such nominees need not necessarily be existing members of any of the four stakeholder bodies. The Board should also include a small number of local business / community interests and it would be preferable to have an independent Chair.

It would also be desirable that the question of the local creditors be addressed. A possible solution might be for representatives from the old Galway United Board and the new Board to see what offers, either in cash or kind, could be made to the creditors with a view to maintaining some level of trust and credibility locally

As ever, things are as clear as mud and likely only to get muddier as time goes on. Perhaps the whole ludicrous situation is best summed up by a leader comment in Waterford Today -:

Now starts the annual rumour mill that always accompanies the close season, and goes such a long way to shortening the gap to the opening game of next year. What division will that first game take place in, the First, the Premier, or a single, combined one? Who's out, who's in? How are the licences to be awarded? Will the coming months bring news to lift the gloom after all? And all of this before ever a word on which players are staying put or going where! For seasoned League of Ireland followers, pre-season is a sport all of its own.

The first crucial date is December 6^th, when the opening round games in the 2013 Setanta Cup will be announced. Somewhat unbelievably, the location for the draw is Stormont Castle. At times, cross border co-operation and Irish football can be simply beyond parody. However, I’ll do my best to keep you informed of the incomprehensible, labyrinthine developments in garrison games between now and February 13^th when the first legs will be played.

Coffin Dodging

Socially, I was well out of my depth last Saturday night. I found myself in “As You Like It,” mixing with the quality at Rob & Lou’s Wedding Reception, where I was afforded the opportunity of lashing out £3.75 a pint on black porter. Now, when two indie kids are joined together in wedlock, the nuptial disco is always a great event; they had their first dance to “This Charming Man,” then everyone piled on the dance floor to “Teenage Kicks,” “April Skies,” “What You Do To Me,” “My Favourite Dress,” “Mr Pharmacist” and the rest. I had a bloody great time, dancing the night away for the second time in a fortnight, rather than attending Northern Soul dos in a yellow polo shirt and snapping the jivers from the comfort of the shadows. Sunday morning I woke up with a predictably sore meniscus, but not the tell tale pocket full of shrapnel and slingy that tells of regular bar visits and the inability of the drunkard to count coins.  The thing about “As You Like It” was, none of the guests were paying for their peeve with cash, as presumably it isn’t the done thing among the wealthy curled darlings of our nation; it was all contactless Wifi debit card purchases, where the asymmetrically coiffured bar staff wave some little chip and pin thingy in front of the till and twenty quid disappears out your account as another tall glass of Absolut and cranberry slides down your throat. How different it all is to the home life of our own dear Northern League.

Friday evening’s mini snowstorm put paid to all the Alliance games and, ignoring the opportunity of watching Benfield, now ironically managed by NE25’s most unapologetic Mackem Tony Woodhouse, win impressively 3-0 away to sunderland RCA, the only fun in town was to be had at Hillheads for Whitley Bay v Newton Aycliffe, where good football and great company is always assured. Sure enough, the Seahorses eased to a 3-1 win without waking up never mind breaking sweat. Perhaps the most noteworthy thing about the day was the first ever Whitley Bay Beer Festival, in a marquee behind the stand; £10 in with a souvenir glass and tokens for your first 3 drinks, a choice of 40 beers and a hog roast. If I hadn’t been at Rob & Lou’s Do later on, I’d have been face down on the terracing by sundown.

On afternoon’s like that, when the game’s enjoyable and the banter’s brilliant, non-league football is possibly the best thing on this planet and it can be so very easy to assume there are no shadows looming over the sport. I’m not talking about manufactured outrage at the South Tyneside Tourette’s Corridor between Hebburn Town (have a look at the club statement here http://www.hebburntownfc.co.uk/2012/10/31/club-statement/)  and Jarrow Roofing. I’m not even talking about righteous irritation at West Auckland’s potentially hazardous decision to rack up the entrance fee for the visit of Darlington to a tenner, when the obvious danger is the thick end of a thousand pissed and radgey Quakers (not often you see that phrase) bowling up at half time, as it is free to watch NL football after the break. I’m talking about statements such as the following from Northern League Chair Mike Amos in his daily blog on the official league website, when talking about attending Thornaby’s excellent efforts to highlight the sadly compromised Kick Racism out of Football campaign by inviting all local primary schools to last Saturday’s game -:

Though these occasions are important, the Ebac Northern League appears not to have a racism problem.

I’m not sure whether a comment like this is deliberate misinformation, whereby if such a message is repeated often enough then it’ll be accepted as the truth, when it palpably isn’t, or whether it is a genuine example of being completely oblivious to the unacceptable reality of the whole situation. Whatever the case, Mike Amos ought to have spent a few minutes at Tuesday night’s Whickham v Dunston Durham Challenge Cup game, where a truly gratifying 288 turned up to see the visitors win 2-0, talking with Dez Lartey, the uncle of Whickham’s winger Jordan Lartey. You may remember I blogged about Dez and his sister Hayley’s fruitless and frustrating attempts to get justice or even satisfaction from the North Yorkshire FA and the Northern League when Jordan was racially abused by a Guisborough player (http://payaso-del-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2012/03/gravitys-rainbow.html). At every turn indifference, obfuscation and institutional racism hampered all efforts to see justice served. If you wonder just why I write, almost every week, about the problems of racism in the game, Jordan’s case, as much as John Terry’s, shows that the core of the game is infected by prejudice and inaction that mean young, talented players like Jordan are in danger of drifting away from the game and that is an appalling injustice. If Dez and Jordan are feeling that frustration in the Northern League, is it any wonder talk of a Black Players’ Union is gathering pace; quotations such as the one by Mike Amos, as well as the FA’s pitiful inaction show that black fans and players have been completely let down. The situation is becoming critical; strident anti-racist action is required and it is required imminently.

In contrast to the problems with racism in the Northern League, the situation at Newcastle United this week is almost calm, though obviously still worthy of comment. The situation on Wearyside gets funnier by the game; not content with managing the grand total of 12 shots (on and off target mind you) in 8 games, nor with producing the epitome of Match of the Day’s last game in their atrocious 0-0 at the Britannia, where they were accused by Potters fans of out Stoking Stoke, they bow out of the League Cup, losing 1-0 at home to lower division Middlesbrough. Meanwhile the fans of the caring club have started to question whether O’Neill deserves to still be in a job, as his current record stands at 1 win in 16 games; his mendacious post-match comments, poor quality squad, dinosaur tactics and non-existent Plan B are being found out. Still, never mind; Lee Savile, to the chagrin of every parked car on Stowell Street, has been given a 4 year contract and will apparently play for England in the future, according to Mr Paradoxically O’Neill; though at what sport has not been made clear. While the name of Harry Redknapp is gathering ground as the new fans’ favourite among the unwashed, I fully expect Steve Brewse to be back in charge before Christmas...

Returning to our own dear club, the Bruges game was another comfortable Europa League amble; nice to see so many of their fans turn up and sing the sort of banal ditties we’re used to from the likes of Villa, Norwich and other non entities. It proves Sky Sports are reaching deep in to Flanders, judging by word perfect rendition of Shall We Sing A Song for You? that was coming out of Level 7 last week; sadly when I leaped to my feet to regale them with La Brabanconne, no-one joined in. I decided there and then that the Milburn Paddock at the Leazes End is the sleeping section for cup games; other than me, it was populated by students on cheap tickets, videoing proceedings on their I-phone. Frankly, I was knackered and in a grouchy mood after a long day at work; in some ways I wish I’d stopped home and watched it from the sofa, or at least a part of the ground where there was some kind of buzz. While I wouldn’t like to be among the shoe-waving Poznarnia in the Strawberry Corner giving Lee Savile abuse all game, I would prefer a bit of atmosphere on a Thursday night; that’s why I’m in the East Stand for the Maritimo game. I must remember to fill a flask for that one.

The West Brom game didn’t have a great deal of atmosphere to commend it either, it has to be said, though it did end in the best possible way; a totally undeserved fluke deep in to injury time that game us the win we did not merit. Don’t get me wrong, it was a good game, of two halves; we controlled the first and they did the second. Indeed, if they hadn’t declared after 83 minutes, we could well have lost, but a final effort saw Cisse get off the mark in the league with a simply crazy goal. You have to feel sorry for The Baggies, who have been turned in to a very effective side by Malcolm Merton lookalike Steve Clarke; a man I felt we ought to have trained as Sir Bobby Robson’s successor.

Post-match, comment has focussed on a couple of supposed problems in the squad; firstly, Demba Ba’s perceived refusal to play on the left of a front three. In the complete absence of any corroborating quotations, I regard this as internet mischief making that borders on hysteria. The bad news is that after two shambolic starts in a row for Shola, he’ll no doubt keep the shirt against Liverpool, with Cisse as partner, as Ba is a major doubt with a shin problem. The other squad problem is a few loons on Twitter having a pop at Jonas; the fact he is as hard working as Ben Arfa and has shown superb commitment to the club, especially since relegation is of no matter to these clowns, who are annoyed he isn’t more like Messi. You may as well wish for him to be more like Lady Gaga; it simply isn’t going to happen. Jonas is a superb player and a great asset; we should be thankful for, not critical of, his efforts.

If there is anything we shouldn’t really bother talking about, it is the Willy Wonga St. James Celebration stunt on Sunday, co-ordinated by Graham Cansdale of the Mike Ashley Out Campaign. Graham is a good bloke, but he is also an absolutist; he will not set foot back inside St. James’ Park until Ashley has left the club. I know others have adopted a similar stance in the past, but Graham is unwavering; he will not be influenced by a day’s work experience at Darsley Park, for instance. On Sunday morning, Graham invited me to the black Bull for 1pm for a fairly low-key gathering, which ended in a march to where the coffin was laid in February before the Wolves game. This time Steve Wraith, busy at the Number 9 Bar, wasn’t the man of the cloth and Graham, dressed as Willy Wonga, leaped out of the coffin and sang a rewritten version of the Pure Imagination song, before delivery a parody of the “Golden Ticket” speech. The whole thing was light-hearted and inoffensive; their press release stated their aims as follows -:

 Today’s resurrection ceremony was meant as a cautionary celebration and not as a protest. The return of St. James’ Park is very welcome and we hope it will be recognised as permanent and not something to be traded as part of corporate negotiations. Today’s street theatre was sponsored by several moral and ethically sound supporters’ groups and local businesses.

Aside from my personal allergy to the phrase “moral and ethically sound,” I simply can’t understand why there were the usual visceral, on-line responses to this. Certainly, I don’t know anyone who agreed with the renaming of the ground in the first place, so quite why people were getting hot under the collar about the renaming of the ground is beyond me. Of course the original coffin protest back in February also drew criticism, presumably from those who’d not thought of the idea themselves. Similarly on Sunday, the plane flying overhead with the Wonga banner could and should have been the target for far more abuse than it was; however, the almost unintelligibly small script on the banner meant it had little or no impact on the crowd walking up to the game. On Sunday itself and in the days afterwards, the plane has attracted little if any comment, whilst Graham’s stunt has garnered a great deal.

On Twitter I asked for quotable comments about the coffin celebration and received the following responses, that were either hostile or indifferent -:

Wacky Jnr ‏@WackyJnr1

@PayasoDeMierda it was an embarrassment to NUFC fans. Just gives Mackems & other football fans more ammo to take the piss. We've had more than our fair share of limelight #wrong

D W ‏@SirDanWilson

@PayasoDeMierda The original stunt was embarrassing, especially the choice of song played. They could have thought of an original one y'day.

m ‏@tt9m 

@PayasoDeMierda OMFG. SMH. FML. imitation the sincerest form of twattery?

zahra ‏@fnafilms

@tt9m @PayasoDeMierda Not sure it could be called imitation as both were originated by the same group. (ie MAOC)

Paul McIntosh ‏@mcintoshpaul

@PayasoDeMierda Just some attention seeking lads dicking about for the cameras. I don't see them as representative of anything, so.therefore I don't have any problem with them! They weren't harming anyone after all.

Tom ‏@toonlowdown

@PayasoDeMierda It strikes me as a promotional stunt by Wonga themselves to coincide with the plane, exploiting naive fans. Sad.

Leazes Terrace ‏@LeazesTerrace

@PayasoDeMierda I missed it by a mere 10 minutes and felt completely indifferent that I did so.

The comments above are the entire, unexpurgated texts of the responses I received; it’s interesting how annoyed people were. Personally I’m with Paul McIntosh on this one; it did no harm. However, I have to say I wonder just what kind of negative publicity any future developments around the ground may garner from those who seek to discredit some of the most selfless, tireless supporters of this club. Well, let’s watch this space.

Perhaps, inevitably, we must return to the subject of racism in football; I make no apology for that. Post Baggies victory, we headed for The Bodega as usual, taking in the astonishing second half of Chelsea against Manchester United. The game itself was crazy enough; five goals, 2 red cards, a brawl on the touchline and a steward knocked out by a missile. Even worse has been the fall-out from the game; Mark Clattenburg is a Newcastle United fan and so I’ve never seen him officiate in one of our games. All I really know about him is a series of rash and disastrous business deals left his position as a match official untenable 3 years back and so he was forced to take gardening leave. I know nothing else about the man, other than he has now been accused of using “racial” language by Chelsea FC, and this complaint is being investigated by both the Metropolitan Police and the Premier league. I’m not being funny here; but what exactly is “racial” language? The phrase to me, suggests a type of language particular to one race; I’m sure that’s not what Chelsea mean. I am presuming they are accusing Clattenburg of some form of discriminatory utterance, which if he’s guilty of, he’ll not wriggle out of, as the other officials can hear every utterance a referee says through their microphone and ear piece set-up. Presumably if he’s found guilty, Chelsea will have no option but to make him captain. Or will we be treated to the sickening sound of Chelsea fans singing Mark Clattenburg; we know what you are, as they did to Anton Ferdinand?

In all seriousness, I very much doubt he will be able to continue as a top level referee if he is found guilty which, without prejudging the results of these inquiries, is very much as it should be. However, if he’s sacked because of a complaint by Chelsea, then the hypocrisy of that club and the FA in relation to the spectral ogre of the John Terry case becomes even more deplorable. If Clattenburg is booted out the game, then so should Terry be, regardless of the fact a year has passed since he spoke those vile words to Ferdinand.

Just for once, I’d love a week to go by when I didn’t have to return to the theme of racism, but I won’t hold my breath. One final sobering thought is the news Serbian authorities are issuing charges against 2 English Under 21 footballers, Steven Caulker and Tom Lees, as they apparently “committed an act of violence during a sports event". Judging by how corrupt the Serbian FA has shown itself, I’m just amazed one of them isn’t Danny Rose, for standing up to the racist abuse he endured. However, no doubt the Serbian FA and the Premier League will agree with Mike Amos when he comments on the efforts of clubs attempting to fight against prejudice and intolerance in the game that -:

Though these occasions are important, the Ebac Northern League appears not to have a racism problem.