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.