Christmas Lights

The Christmas Holiday period and the realisation that another year is ending can often provoke introspection. With the knowledge and acceptance that I turn 50 on my next birthday, my thoughts turn to the question of what mark a man can leave on this world. In my own case, while there are certain features of my life I’d be best drawing a veil over, I have to say that I’m proud to have produced both a fine son and an impressive body of written work, both published and unpublished (a vacancy exists for a post mortem Boswell; apply c/o my executors when the time comes), as well as professionally helping more than a thousand adults in the North Tyneside area to profoundly change their lives with the help of education. Hand on heart; I know I have done many, many good deeds. However, cycling through Northumberland Square in North Shields on a crisp Tuesday night in December, I saw the tangible influence of my late father and felt a surge of love and gratitude for all he did in his life.

For the last 20 years of his working life, my dad Eddy Cusack was the street lighting co-ordinator for North Tyneside Council. In an era when many local authorities, such as Newcastle City Council with the willing assistance of supposed Man of the People, NUFC Daily Mirror journalist Councillor Simon Bird, are currently seeking to make massive budget cuts in order to kow-tow to the Tory Government’s vicious, relentless attacks on the most vulnerable sectors of society, it does my heart glad to see the Christmas lights still shining from the columns and lanterns (see Dad; I did learn something of your job) of Shields. You see, the Christmas lights in North Shields were my dad’s idea.

On the Friday of my October half term in 1979, Dad took a council van from one of the long gone depots he worked at; either Tynemouth Road in North Shields beside King Street Club, or on Hillheads Road, Whitley Bay, down from the football ground where the new houses now are, and drove down to Blackpool, taking me with him. Three years previously he’d taken me and my sister down there to see the illuminations; I’d hated it, but as she was only 6, it was a special treat for her. Having seen at first hand the concept of street lighting for reasons other than public safety, an idea germinated in the old fella’s head, which is why he called his mate Joe Knowles from the Association of Public Lighting Engineers, who lived in Lytham St Anne’s in the autumn of 79 and was able to sort things out.

I remember a long drive down, twenty minutes in a council depot that looked no different to North Tyneside’s to load the van full of festive illuminations and a drive back up, punctuated by a stop off somewhere on the A66 for a pub lunch; a steak sandwich in a baguette each, plus two pints of Stones for him and a pint of Black Label and lime for me. Well, I was 15, but this gesture made me feel so grown up. About a month later, BBC Look North covered the switch on live on telly. Mike Neville did the honours and Northumberland Square was bathed in yellows, greens and reds; Santa Claus, reindeer, fluorescent holly leaves. It looked great and it still does.

Of course the old fella wasn’t there at the ceremony to bask in reflected glory; that simply wasn’t his style. He was sat at home with his family, watching it on the telly, no doubt quietly proud of what he’d achieved, but modestly playing down his part in it all. Well Dad, 34 years on, I’m giving you the praise you deserve. I just wish you were still here so I could say it to your face.

I’d not really thought about the North Shields festive lights until I emptied my old man’s house this summer when my mam moved into a pensioner’s apartment in a sheltered housing block. 

As a council employee, he thought, as everyone who worked for the council did back then, that the stores were his own personal property, full of things to use, or not, as he saw fit. Emptying cupboards in the garage, as well as coming across unopened Durham County Council issue 5 gallon tins of gun metal primer (he stopped working for them in September 1977 and moved house twice in his life after that), I found several packs, each containing 48 unused green, yellow and red light bulbs, still shrink wrapped in cellophane; no doubt they were all left over from our to trip to Blackpool back in 79. Obviously, for sentimental as much for practical reasons, I couldn’t throw them out. As I type, they’re sat in the cupboard under my stairs as, like Eddy, I wonder if they might “come in handy” someday. Perhaps one Christmas will be that time. You’re right; no it won’t be. That still-to-be-appointed literary executor of mine will have the job of flinging those in a skip, along with several of my manuscripts. So it goes…

Frankly I’m not a great one for Christmas, perhaps due to the fact that my dad would always sing me The Little Boy That Santa Claus Forgot as a lullaby, but I must admit to having 9 very similar Christmas cards pinned up in my office at work, each one having arrived regular as clockwork in mid-November, from 2005 onwards; all of them from Fulham FC. My birthday is August 11^th; I know for a fact that by the end of July I’ll be in receipt of a card for my birthday postmarked SW6 as well. So, how on earth did I get on Mohammed al Fayed’s Christmas list? It’s a daft story….

In February 2005, Newcastle were due to play Fulham away at Craven Cottage and, not having been there since a 2-2 in February 1983, I fancied going back to see how the ground had changed. At the time my sister lived in Shepherd’s Bush just up the other end of the Fulham Palace Road and could provide me with digs while Easy Jet still knocked out dirt cheap air fares, so I got on with it. Typically enough, my plans were thwarted when Fulham drew away to Derby in the 4^th round of the FA Cup, meaning the replay took precedence and the Newcastle game I’d sorted myself some tickets for was postponed until May, when we won 3-1 and Kluivert scored a beauty.

Being in receipt of comprehensive travel plans, I decided to still make the trip down for a weekend in the smoke but, checking the fixtures, didn’t see many other games to appeal to me. Consequently, Fulham it was. I registered on-line to get my ticket in the Stevenage Road stand and enjoyed a rip-roaring 4-2 home win in a classic cup tie, where I managed to run into the only Fulham fan I’d ever known; a bloke called Alex. Not too surprising really, other than the fact he lives in Seville and I knew him from working in Bratislava back in 1999.

Anyway, I thought nothing more of Fulham until late July of that year, when I received a birthday card, “to a true Cottager with best wishes from Chris Coleman and the gang at Fulham FC,” along with an A5 flyer, advertising their season ticket offers. Come mid-November, the first Christmas card arrived, with exactly the same greetings and the same photo of the current first team squad, only with added holly and tinsel adornments and, this time, an advert for a part season ticket. Since then I’ve continued to receive contact twice a year, successively from Roy Hodgson, Lawrie Sanchez (I felt guilty when our 1-0 win there in December 2007 got him the boot a week after he’d written me such a nice card), Mark Hughes and Martin Jol. Tellingly, this year’s card simply said “from everyone at Fulham,” which told me the big Dutchman was on his way out.

What amazes me is that in all this time, I’ve never bought a ticket or any merchandise from them, much less even been back to Craven Cottage, yet they continue to send me cards twice a year. Still, these missives are one of the aspects of modern football I’m most in favour of; faceless cold calling dressed up as the personal touch.

Newcastle United’s merchandising wing continues to bombard me with emails; I’d wager an average of 3 per day come from the club, offering everything from match tickets to merchandise to corporate packages. It’s shit; what I really want from my club is to be given the opportunity to be an equal shareholder, along with every other fan who wishes to be part of the ownership of the club, in a completely democratic fashion. That may be unlikely in the short term, so I’ll settle in the meantime for constructive dialogue between the club and the supporters.

The best way for this to exist is through the medium of the Fans’ Forum, which Supporters’ Liaison Officer Lee Marshall and NUFC Fans United ordinary member and Fans’ forum representative Steve Hastie worked so hard to bring to fruition. Sadly, as we all know, the appallingly unprofessional antics of NUST, in breaching protocol and making no effort to either apologise or upbraid the individual concerned for this shocking act of sabotage, mean that the Fans’ Forum has been fatally undermined by the only subscription-based convened supporters’ body the club has. What is more, NUST is a constituent part of Supporters Direct (in itself supported by the PL, FA and Government), which should mean NUST has correct governance arrangements, bearing in mind it has a proper constitution; its officers are appointed after properly constituted elections. Consequently, it ought to follow that the elected officials of NUST should be accountable to those who are ordinary members of NUST, who have raised issues they might be concerned about. Except this has not happened. On December 9^th, I sent the following email to Norman Watson, chair of NUST -:

Having become disenchanted with what I perceived to be NUST’s abject inaction following the 2010 elections to the Trust board, I allowed my membership to lapse at the end of that year. However, I recently re-joined. My reason for doing so is to register my disgust at the way NUST approached the matter of posting minutes of the NUFC Fans’ Forum meeting on line.

Rather than allowing the club to put it on their site, NUST had their version of the minutes, written in what I felt was a cynical, negative tone it has to be said, up within a day. I’m not sure who wrote the minutes or who made the decision to upload them, in clear breach of agreed protocol. Whatever the reason, I have to say that to me, this was an unprofessional and discourteous act, especially as those in attendance had, as far as I understand it, all agreed to and subsequently signed a code of conduct.

Let’s be clear about this; the Trust were not banned from the Fans’ Forum for speaking their mind, but for behaving in this crass manner. Now, personally, I do not know whether the decision to place the minutes on-line in breach of protocol was done in error or as a deliberate act of sabotage, but the effect of it was not only to get NUST banned, but to ultimately render the Fans’ Forum almost an irrelevance, mainly because of the increased profile recent events have given NUST. I’m not sure if this is simply my instinct, but it certainly feels as if the actions of NUST have had the effect of totally discrediting an idea that both Lee Marshall and NUFC Fans United have worked so hard and so painstakingly to make real. Rather than being a cause of regret, their exclusion has been a publicity opportunity NUST has seized with both fists. As a member of NUST, I find this abhorrent.

I would like to propose that NUST make a full and public apology to the club for the breach of protocol, in the hope of being subsequently reinstated to the Fans’ Forum, hopefully in time for next week’s meeting. In addition, I would suggest that whoever made the decision to breach protocol and post the minutes on line is censured for their conduct.

Now, I may be being naïve here, but my desire to see something done was fairly cogently expressed. When consulting the NUST constitution, my complaint is covered by Rule 21a, which states -:

A member may be expelled by a resolution carried by the votes of not less than two-thirds of the members present in person or by proxy and voting on a poll at an annual or special general meeting of the Society of which notice has been duly given. The following procedure will be adopted:

  

      A written complaint must be made to the Society Board that the member has acted in a way detrimental to the interests of the Society.

I’d wager that getting NUST banned from the Fans’ Forum pretty much covers the above rule. Amazingly, or perhaps not on reflection, the response I received in return was as follows -:

Dear Mr Cusack

Thank you for taking the time to contact the Newcastle United Supporters' Trust.  Your opinions have been noted by the Board.

Kind regards,

Newcastle United Supporters Trust

With impotent, inert responses like the above, is it any wonder that NUST are almost totally discredited as an organisation, while NUFC Fans’ United remain active, voluble and prepared to mediate between all actions in a way to drive everything forward. Typically though, the club let everyone down by postponing the 16^th December Fans’ forum meeting until 6^th January. They really do themselves no favours whatsoever, especially when one considers the articulate, magnanimous and inspirational letter NUFC Fans United sent Lee Marshall in advance of this postponed meeting -:

Dear Lee

With the next Fans’ Forum taking place on 16th December we feel it is important to state our position concerning the forum as a whole and the need for a continuation of the open and honest dialogue that was a feature of the first Forum meeting. This is particularly so given the events that transpired after this first meeting and which resulted in the club imposing a ban on Newcastle United Supporters’ Trust (NUST) attending future meetings. The Fans’ Forum is a huge step forward for everyone and the way in which NUFC have embraced the concept has been extremely well received by those who see the benefit of communication in whatever form.

We understand the concept of the meetings and fully appreciate that there has to be huge elements of trust on both sides. Invited members, the organisations or groups they represent and the Club itself must work together to ensure the success of this concept of open and honest dialogue that best serves the interests of supporters and club alike. However, we also feel that the club's imposition of a 'ban' on NUST does not serve in the best interests of either party and  we call upon the Club to review their decision and re instate the Supporters’ Trust so that it can participate positively and in the interests of the club and its own members alike. 

This forum can be an exciting step forward for us supporters and we are in no doubt that it has to be good news for NUFC. We look forward to all likeminded supporters groups and representatives being part of this progressive and positive engagement.

 Yours

NUFC FANS UTD

Truly, NUFC Fans United are the greatest chance we have of rescuing anything from the turgid impasse of fan communication. Yet it still remains true that NUST are still an organisation with the potential to be even more effective than NUFC Fans United. 2014 is election year for NUST and, as far as I understand it, there has been a noticeable increase in membership; veterans of 1980s Trotskyist groups may recognise the tactic known as entrism. The NUST AGM should be a fascinating occasion and the subsequent elections a wonderful opportunity to steer NUST onto a more productive course. Comrades, let us seize the time.

It is instructive, when the team is doing so well on the pitch, to remember my mantra; wherever Newcastle United finish in the league, whoever plays for or manages them is irrelevant while Mike Ashley is in charge of the club. We need Ashley OUT and 100% Fan Ownership IN, or 51% as a transitional demand. As I’ve repeatedly mentioned, the only NUFC game I saw before Christmas was the Man City cup tie and even then I’d rather have been at West Allotment Celtic versus Northallerton Town. My intention was to always make the Stoke city game on Boxing Day my seasonal league bow. Thankfully, the old Free Ticket Mag came up trumps for this one, and the Arsenal game on the 29^th that I’d no intention of going to as I’d long planned to be at Hibs against Kilmarnock that day, as my mate Ken’s wife Janine is  nurse and was required to work on both those dates.

The thought of a Boxing Day trip to SJP was fairly far from my mind when I collapsed into a malodrous heap after consuming 4 pints of astoundingly beautiful Draught Bass, an ale as suitable for framing and displaying in an art gallery as it is for drinking, in The Tynemouth Lodge with my pal Ginger Dave (Caisley not Kitson) and then topping it up with a bottle of rioja, opened by the slumbering lady of the house whose earlier carousing had left the wine uncorked, almost untouched and begging to be consumed. I’m not sure about the vineyard or the vintage, but it put my lights out in double quick time. Any residual football thoughts were removed completely from the agenda by a 7.30am alarm call from the District Nurse who visits my mother, aged almost 80 and with a litany of mobility and other health problems, twice a day to administer medication.

It appeared my mam had fallen in her bathroom in the late evening and had spent the night on the floor. Living as she does in a purpose built retirement block, the temperature is a steady 25 degrees (you could grow tomatoes all year round) and the design of the place, with underfloor heating and bevelled door jambs to reduce the risks of burning or bleeding from falls, is both safe and superbly designed for the elderly. Typically, Mam had failed to wear her panic alarm necklace and so had been unable to contact anyone regarding her fate. Unable to get an answer next morning, the block’s Duty Manager had allowed the Nurse entry, at which point they found Mam on the floor; disorientated and distressed. Paramedics were on their way by the time I was called and I was advised to meet them at the hospital.

Unshaven, unwashed, unbreakfasted and still half tight, I soon realised that the Geriatric Assessment Unit of North Tyneside General Hospital is not a place to spend Christmas Morning, or any time in fact. Having recently been diagnosed with short term memory problems that may be vascular dementia, in the best case scenario; my mam was upset and tearful. However the medical staff were utterly brilliant and soon made it clear there had been no lasting or even minor damage to the old girl and that she could be discharged into our care, if she liked. She did like and thus, my partner Laura and I were able to have Christmas Day with our elderly widowed mothers after all. A couple of hours later than scheduled, the living room hot enough to melt steel, the old lasses tucked into their slightly delayed pre-prandial G&Ts, before making a good attempt at clearing their plates.

The Festive Season doesn’t mean much to me, but as Laura’s only other relative, her brother, lives in Calgary, Canada and rarely gets home, while my mam’s daughter cut off all contact with her a number of years ago, the idea of Christmas being more about the giving than the receiving does ring true. None of us know how long we’re on this earth; it’s essential to make the most of opportunities for such quality time together. It’s also ironic that now my son from my first marriage is 18 and requires little direct parenting from me, those organisational and negotiating skills I developed during his childhood are starting to serve me well with the older generation. On reflection, I think that is the most tragic thing about ageing; the seemingly inevitable loss of independence and dignity. As children we did not know of such things; as geriatrics we may forget their importance, consciously or unconsciously.

By 8.00pm, the old dears were back in their respective houses and, freed from the shackles of caring responsibilities, I began drinking steadily. Around midnight, as I alternated between cherry brandy and gingerbread rum, it became clear to me my first drink on Boxing Day would have to be a neat Gaviscon; in the end, it was near to half a bottle to shut off the self-inflicted acid reflux. At my age, I accept that drinking for 3 successive days is now physically impossible. The state of my head and intestines informed me well before noon that I wouldn’t be partaking of anything alcoholic before late evening Boxing Day, if at all.

I still took myself into town at the normal time for a match day, arriving a couple of hours before kick-off, hanging round the usual haunts to wish people all the best and taking in the second half of the Hull against Man United game in The Bodega. When this was over, I headed off up to the ground, stopping off to buy a bottle of water from a newsagent’s on the way. This was the last time I was to see my wallet, as I changed a £20 to do so, putting the notes back inside and the change in my pocket. I always put my wallet in my coat’s outside breast pocket as it has a button down flap; this time, probably because it was 20 minutes to kick off and the shop was heaving, I didn’t. I know this for a fact because, at 5.15pm in The Town Wall on Pink Lane, I went to the bar to get the drinks in and found my coat pocket securely fastened, but the wallet nowhere to be seen. I checked all my pockets; nothing. Luckily I still had the borrowed season ticket and could pass it on to my mate Norman for the Sunday against Arsenal, when I’d be at Easter Road; you’ll hear a lot more about that trip next time around.

Making my excuse (a good one I felt), I headed back to the ground, retracing my steps in darkness, fruitlessly scouring the blackened pavement for sign of my possessions. Back at SJP, I explained the score to security who took me to my seat, allowed me to check my route to and from the seat, as well as scoot round the bogs and back of the stand; nothing. All I could do was head down to Market Street cop station, file a lost property report and head home in a sulk. I did this, phoned the bank to cancel my cards and took a gloomy ride home on the Metro, before settling in for an early night of mineral water and coffee as the potential party urge was gone. In point of fact, I was in bed immediately after Match of the Day.

Losing money I could live with and ordering replacement cards was no hassle; it was the loss of irreplaceable personal mementoes that cut me to the quick. Photographs of my son from 2 years to 16; all gone. Autographs from Nolberto Solano and The Wedding Present’s David Gedge; disappeared. Worst of all for me was the loss of a snap of my ex-wife, taken at a friend’s wedding in June 1994; she looked so beautiful that day and I’ve kept it through all these years as I never recalled us being so happy again, as we were that summer afternoon in South London. Silly, sentimental me…

Despite the 5-1 score at SJP, I’d never felt that low coming away from football since April 20^th 1992, when Newcastle United left the Baseball Ground after a 4-1 scudding, all due to a cheating, incompetent referee called Brian Coddington from Sheffield, who sent off Kevin Brock for denying a supposed clear goal scoring opportunity that wasn’t, Kevin Scott for 2 fouls that weren’t worthy of yellow cards either singularly or in combination and Liam O’Brien for a kick at a Derby player that failed to connect. The sense of depression has faded over time, but the injustice of that day remains. Coddington’s name will forever raise the hackles of NUFC fans who remember that game. Only the anguish of Easter Monday 22 years ago could compare with the emotional desolation I felt as the train rattled away from the city centre and towards the Coast.

Thinking about the game, it was almost surreal to reflect on a 5-1 victory, when after an encouraging opening few minutes, Stoke had utterly assumed control as Pardew’s decision to bring in Ben Arfa for Tiote left us tactically lopsided. Sissoko and Gouffran got in each other’s way on the left, leaving Remy isolated. With Ben Arfa in the team, too often the instinct is to give him the ball and stand back to watch him create; his creativity needs to be harnessed to a more flexible line up, preferably a 4-3-3. As it was, Stoke took control. Under Hughes they are less intimidating than Pulis, but more methodical and patient to the point of ponderousness. It was no surprise though when they took the lead with an excellent finish.

After 40 minutes, we were in trouble, until Stoke players, Mark Hughes and Martin Atkinson got things spectacularly wrong. Firstly Whelan was booked for a combination of a foul, squaring up to Cabaye then booting the ball away; all very daft. He then made a total prick of himself by booting Cabaye’s right shin, which was a clear booking and an inevitable red. I’m mystified why Hughes had to outdo Poyet in the coat flinging stakes, though I suppose Poyet’s meltdown was at Stoke, so Hughes may have picked up the nylon baton; will Pardew be next for the anorak throwing tantrum stakes? I do hope so.

Almost immediately after this, Wilson’s red for bringing down Remy overshadowed Anita making the most sublime, simple pass through the heart of their defence. Well done Little Vurn; sorry you were hauled off at half time, but it was the right thing to do when going for the win.

I didn’t want Remy to take the penalty; why Cabaye or even Ben Arfa, who’d scored one 4 days earlier at Palace, didn’t take it, I’ll never know. Instead Sorensen does what Sorensen does; he saved penalties at St James Park, for his third different club. I am sure only Southampton (and Brondby obviously) haven’t had the benefit of him stopping a spot kick up here. He was powerless when Remy’s deflected shot flew past him for the equaliser, but we should be honest and admit the goal should never have stood as Williamson clearly handled the ball and wasn’t punished before we broke to score, a fact that no doubt made for a far easier interval talk by Pardew.

The manager has so often been berated for his second half tactics, but he was spot on in this game. Shola’s introduction and Ben Arfa’s free role allowed us to hammer them. The supposed controversial second goal was not clearly over the line before Ben Arfa crossed it and looks fair enough to me. Cabaye’s finish was lovely, Haidara looked great and Cisse’s penalty was a real festive heartwarmer. Strange how the feelings of exultation at 5.00pm had faded to abject gloom within half an hour…

Thinking about the stress of my mam’s fall and then the gloom caused by losing my wallet, I’m sure you’ll agree with me that when compared to the Christmas I had, Stoke City’s 500 travelling support may have had cause to count their blessings on Boxing Day 2013. It may just take a little time for them to achieve perspective on the game.

There is a happy ending to the story of the wallet though; having gone to social media to explain my loss, occasioning many shares and retweets; I was elated to receive a message on Facebook early on Friday from someone who had found my wallet. A fella from Liverpool, a red, married to a Geordie lass and up here with their bairn for Christmas, had been to the game and, walking down Barrack Road from the ground (a route I would never take), he’d seen my wallet discarded near a bin. The money was gone and the cards were cancelled, but it meant I could get all my sentimental belongs back again, including a set list from The Jesus & Mary Chain at Kilburn National in 1986. I collected the wallet from him Friday afternoon, buzzing as the essential goodness of human nature had been reaffirmed to me by his act. The gentleman he was, he refused point blank all attempts to reward him for his selfless actions. Thank you Karl, you made Christmas special for me. All the best to you and yours.

Mind, the little bastard who had either picked my pocket or found the wallet, took the cash and dumped it, needs a hiding. Not for taking the money, but for the inconvenience of having to queue up in the Central Station travel centre for half an hour to get my tickets for the trip to Edinburgh to see Hibs against Kilmarnock on the Sunday, but that’s another story...

Magic in the Air

Lindisfarne are inextricably linked with Tyneside's musical heritage and culture, as well as my own development as a person. Here's my attempt, spurred on by Ray Jackson's Christmas Concert at the City Hall on December 22nd, to articulate this -:

Normally, my memory is almost infallible when it comes to precisely locating an event of great magnitude in my life. Indeed I also remember utterly banal details as well; however, I am unable to pinpoint exactly when I first became aware of the existence of Lindisfarne, but I’d assume it was around summer 1972 when I was turning 8 years old. The reason for this is that I’ve a very clear memory of watching Top of the Pops around that time, specifically hearing Dr. Hook’s Sylvia’s Mother and I have a vague recollection of Pan’s People dancing to Lady Eleanor, which I was far too young to find erotic of course. The question raised by this narrative chronology is that it means I had no knowledge of Meet Me on the Corner being an equally big hit about two months earlier. What is undeniable is that I learned immediately, though I’ve no idea how, unless it was sight of Alan Hull’s tremendous fashion choice of a bairn’s sized Newcastle home shirt on a legendary performance on The Old Grey Whistle Test,  that Lindisfarne were Geordies. This was very important to me.

Two months later, in October 1972, when in London to attend the wedding of my mother’s cousin Kathleen, I doubled my record collection by augmenting my 7” singles of Here Comes My Baby by The Tremeloes and Simon & Garfunkel’s 59^th Street Bridge Song (Feeling Groovy) with Peter Skellern’s You’re A Lady and Virginia Plain by Roxy Music. Paul Thompson the drummer may have agreed with me, but I’d imagine Bryan Ferry would have winced when I made this a purchase from a shop on Walworth Road in SE17 on the Sunday after the wedding, reasoning that Roxy Music must be good because they were Geordies as well.

My Lindisfarne collection didn’t get off the ground until I made the slightly obscure, slightly obtuse purchase of All Fall Down on 7” from Callers on Northumberland Street with part of a 60p record token I received as a Christmas Present. So it was that as 1972 rolled on to 1973, aged 8 and a third, I now had 2 favourite bands; Lindisfarne and Roxy Music, both of whom were about to undergo a seismic shift in personnel. For Roxy Music, 73 was to mark the departure of their most intriguing member, Brian Eno, but also their most enduring album; Stranded. For Lindisfarne, the first great schism saw the appearance of Jack the Lad and the emergence of Lindisfarne II; though I wasn’t to know this at the time, but Roll on Ruby is an absolute classic, with tracks such as North Country Boy, Goodbye, Taking Care of Business and When the War is Over being some of their finest moments. Hold on; like Billy Pilgrim in Slaughterhouse 5, I’m becoming unstuck in time…

If I’d been 7 or 8 years older, there is absolutely no doubt I’d have been a hippy. I could easily have seen myself among the counter culture Tyneside social milieu that drifted from Kard Bar and Fynd in the Handyside Arcade down to The Percy, The Farmer’s Rest, The Haymarket and The City Tavern. I could have grown my hair (up rather than down of course). I could have gone to The Poly and studied Sociology. I could have drunk bottles of Amber and smoked unhelpfully weak weed at parties on Brighton Grove or Osborne Road. That would have been my idea of heaven.  I could have been a contender if I’d been born in 57, not 64. As it was, I combined a burgeoning love of music with an obsession with football; things haven’t essentially changed all that much I must admit.

However, despite my profound belief that I could have been a patchouli-scented long hair on the bus from Leam Lane to Worswick Street, let me make it crystal clear from the outset that I hold all hard, heavy or blues rock, with the exception of Led Zeppelin and Rory Gallagher, in absolute contempt. Similarly, I have little or no truck with progressive, soft or AOR rock. My loyalty is to Folk Rock, forged by my dad’s insistence, for which I will be eternally grateful, of force feeding me Irish rebel and traditional music from the cradle; The Clancy Brothers and The Dubliners were the soundtrack to my early childhood and so Thin Lizzy’s sublime cover of Whiskey in the Jar made absolute, perfect sense to me. It still does.

I don’t believe in any of that revolutionary art Stalinist baloney, but I’m a Socialist and I love music for the people, by the people and about the people; does any song better encapsulate the rites of friendship and social interaction better than the simple pleasures outlined in Alright on the Night? My continued and lifelong devotion to Christy Moore, Fairport Convention and Lindisfarne is because I instinctively yearn for harmony, ideological inclusivity and the sound of a mandolin on every song I hear. Well perhaps not on Mladic by Godspeed You! Black Emperor, but you get the idea. This love of celebratory euphony is obviously where my current and prolonged adoration of Teenage Fanclub and Trembling Bells comes from as well. However, that was all for the future and all I could do was to react with abject dismay when I saw the headline in Record Mirror sometime early in 1975 that Lindisfarne had split up.

By this time, I had started to save every penny of my pocket money for records. I was determined to augment my single Lindisfarne 7” single, as well the as encyclopaedic knowledge I had of my cousin John’s copy of the Fog on the Tyne album, so I purchased the essential and still cherished to this day, compilation Lindisfarne’s Finest Hour. Track 2, side 1; The Road to Kingdom Come is still to my mind the very best song Lindisfarne ever did. From hearing the opening couplet “I have no-one to call my friend; the road I travel has no end” to hearing the driving, rock violin on it, I was hooked. Mesmerised. Until I die I know this song will be one of the most important pieces of music I own, dear to me in a way that We Can Swing Together, adored because it evokes an era I was alive during but did not live through and Uncle Sam, so perfectly formed and with such marvellous lyrics, will also be.

Around this time, while I still said I loved Roxy Music, although Lydon’s subsequent line ever felt you’ve been cheated? would be my comment on both Siren and Ferry’s risible solo releases, I had fallen in the thrall of Bob Dylan. I bought Desire in late 75, then Highway 61 Revisited, Bringing It All Back Home, Blonde on Blonde, Planet Waves and Blood on the Tracks in quick succession. As I couldn’t hold a tune in a bucket or play guitar with any degree of competency, he was my idol. The albums listed previously would all still be among my most adored discs, even if he did steal It Takes a Lot to Laugh, it Takes a Train to Cry from Train in G Major (ahem…). Then, as a new musical phenomenon brewed in the capital as the long hot summer of 76 came to an end, and I wondered why I’d wasted £2.50 on Lynyrd Skynyrd’s desperately dull Gimme Back My Bullets, an item on BBC Look North made me sit up and take notice; Lindisfarne were reforming to play 2 shows (subsequently extended to 3) at the City Hall on December 22^nd and 23^rd 1976.

Immediately I begged my parents to get me a ticket for Christmas; amazingly, as they generally spent my youth discouraging me from enjoying myself, they assented and so cousin John and I found ourselves in the balcony on December 22^nd, ready for an event that gave me the profound and unflinching love of live music I have still. While John had already seen Thin Lizzy on the Johnny the Fox tour a couple of months earlier, this was my first proper gig; although I had seen the Clancy Brothers with my parents aged about 4. I have no proper recollection of that one, but Lindisfarne blew me away; the unfamiliar No Time to Lose and the minor diamond Scotch Mist were superb, as were all the favourites, especially We Can Swing Together. Having only heard the album version, knowing the words by heart, I had not been aware of Jacka’s harmonica party piece; the singing and cheering and stamping of feet to Blaydon Races was fantastic, but to hear the relentless booing of the Z-Cars theme was even better. Not only does We Can Swing Together concern Police oppression, but the Mackems used to run out to Z-Cars and the audience would have known that. Lindisfarne are a Newcastle band; end of story. However, that night, it was the truly anthemic  Clear White Light that seemed to unite the whole room that really grabbed me by the throat; other than at football, I’d never felt such a shared, passionate belief in something. Even now, from 37 years distant, I well up with tears at the thought of it.

Lindisfarne at the City Hall was my first gig; since then there have been thousands of others, many have been even better (The Buzzcocks from 1978 to 2011, The Fall in 1981, Van Morrison at Glastonbury 1987, Pussy Galore in 1988, Fugazi every time, Teenage Fanclub at Barrowlands in 2003 and 2006, Trembling Bells a month ago at The Cumberland), but none have had as profound effect on me. Then again, 2 nights later I lay in bed on Christmas Eve, listening to drunks staggering up and down Nursery Lane on their way home from Felling club, with John Peel on the radio and his first ever Festive 50 and in the part of the show before that, he played (I Belong to the) Blank Generation by Richard Hell and the Void-oids, which changed my world view forever. UK cartoon punk I despise, with only Wire and The Buzzcocks appealing to me from the 77 era, but US No Wave and UK 78 post punk on Rough Trade and Fast Product still means more to me than anything other than folk or C86 era indie.

Despite a seismic change in tastes, I was back at the City Hall in December 1977 for the next Lindisfarne Christmas show, though this time we were in Row D of the stalls and up in the crush at the front from the very start. It was blinding, as good as the year before in terms of music, but I was better prepared as I now knew how to behave at a gig. The sweating crushes at City Hall gigs and in the centre of the Gallowgate really put the so-called mosh pits of later years to shame; we knew how to shove and perspire for 90 minutes back in the late 70s. I really music get a copy of Magic in the Air, the live album recorded in 1977.

Then, in January 1978, it was announced Lindisfarne had reformed but sadly I’d moved on; I loved and adored the first 3 proper albums, as well as Finest Hour and Roll on Ruby (I’ve still never heard Happy Daze) and I’ve subsequently picked up Lindisfarne Live from the 1971 Christmas Show. In point of fact, I’ve never owned or even heard all of Back and Fourth; by the time it came out Damaged Goods by The Gang of Four and We Are all Prostitutes by The Pop Group were more the soundtrack to my life. I still made it to Christmas shows in 1980 and 1983 and enjoyed them immensely, but it felt like Lindisfarne had been part of my childhood and that chapter in my life was closing. I kept the records but, as we all did in the 1990s, I dispensed with my turntable and left my vinyl to gather dust along with my memories. Alan Hull’s death in 1995 upset me greatly, but it didn’t ever occur to me to attend the tribute shows at the City Hall, which is something I profoundly regret. The less said about the recorded output of Lindisfarne post Jacka’s departure the better; certainly being next door to the Tyne Theatre in The Bodega having a post-match pint after a 1-1 draw with Villa, on the night of the last ever Lindisfarne gig in November 2003, brought only a negligible pang of regret at my non-attendance.

It wasn’t until about 2009 that I rediscovered my love for Lindisfarne; walking round Tynemouth and seeing Ray Laidlaw on an almost daily basis was part of it, but the main part was being given a turntable for Christmas. My goodness, how I’ve fallen back in love with vinyl; my original records, new releases and the piles of cheap, pre-owned stuff I get at Tynemouth Station market every Sunday. It’s where I got Lindisfarne Live from. Then, in 2012 I began to take my rediscovered love of Lindisfarne more seriously. Ray Laidlaw booked Rab Noakes to play Porters’ Coffee House in Tynemouth Station, on the day Shola’s 90^th minute equaliser salvaged a point against the Mackems. I took my partner Laura, on the back of only ever having heard Turn a Deaf Ear and Together Forever, which he played a lovely version of, but it wasn’t as lovely as the cover I heard of it by The Gathering a few weeks later in The Cluny 2. Here’s what I wrote about it at the time -:

Jacka, together with former members of Magna Carta and Fotheringay, played at the Cluny 2. Great gig it was, I’d think twice about attending this cramped, claustrophobic cellar again; 12 people pushing past you to get to the bog in one song is just no fun. To be fair, it was a non-Ray Jackson number and the audience were only there for him. He began with “Road To Kingdom Come,” took in “Together Forever” and “Lady Elanor,” before ending with “Meet Me On The Corner.” It honestly had me on the verge of tears; there was no “We Can Swing Together,” but he did the harmonica bits as a last encore. “Blaydon Races” on the mandolin? You can’t beat it.

It was great to see Ray Jackson again, though I’d struggle to recollect any of the songs by the other two, but no matter, I had the chance to exchange a few words with Jacka at the interval and that made my night. Could it get any better than this? Well, the announcement in February 2013 of Christmas gigs at the City Hall certainly topped that. While I knew Ray Laidlaw, Rod Clements, who apparently attended the December 22^nd gig, or Simon Cowe wouldn’t be involved (what I wouldn’t give to sample some of his Magnotta Brewery products), I simply had to be at this gig. As she’d never seen them in the flesh before, I got Laura a ticket as well and, as it was February, I promptly forgot about it. There was a Lindisfarne Story gig at the City Hall in June, but the same night I was seeing Camera Obscura at Northumbria University so I couldn’t get to see it; I hope to at some point though.

The closer it got to December 22^nd , the more I began to look forward to it and, to be perfectly honest, the more emotional I began to feel. The sheer shock at registering just how much of life has gone by can make me catch my breath at times. I’ve been a Lindisfarne fan for over 40 years and it would be 37 years to the day since I’d seen them live for the first time. Arriving at the City Hall at 7.15 was nostalgic to say the least; people my age and older, many with teenage kids (I would have loved my son to be there, but he was away down to his mother’s family for Christmas) queued up, murmuring excitement; anticipation rife as we collected the traditional party hats and made our way to the stalls. Row H on the aisle; we needed space for dancing later on and, badly though we did so, dance we did.

I’ve hardly been in the City Hall in 30 years; 2012’s Christy Moore gig on Easter Sunday was the first time since I can’t remember when. It hasn’t changed; though the audience didn’t seem to consist of as many long haired, Brutus and Wrangler attired, cheesecloth shirt and waistcoat wearing blokes, swigging from cans of Export or Brown Ale compared to the old days. The security were more relaxed as well; though since the audience was considerably more genteel, if not frail, than 1976, I suppose that’s understood.

On stage at 7.45, off for a break at 8.35, back on at 9.00 and the last encore finished at 10.40; what wonderful value for money. However, it was also a wonderful show, from the opening Road to Kingdom Come to the closing Clear White Light we were in raptures. I even parked my teenage punk cynicism to sing along to Warm Feeling and Run for Home. There were wonderful surprises, such as Uncle Sam and Wake up Little Sister; songs I just didn’t expect to hear. The band was immaculate;  the irony of Roxy’s Paul Thompson on drums amused me, though more seriously Steve Daggett does Simon Cowe’s part so well, but it was Dave Hull-Denholm who really did it for me. If you closed your eyes in January Song or Winter Song… well, it was uncanny. Mind, I seemed to be one of the few who remembered to boo during the Z-Cars part of We Can Swing Together.

Two things particularly amazed me; one being that from all these years distant, I still knew all the words (unlike Jacka in Together Forever) and the other was that I didn’t cry. Not once. I’m misty eyed when typing this, but the night itself had me smiling from start to finish. A magnificent, heart-warming, life-affirming, essential evening of utterly brilliant entertainment; I simply cannot wait until next year’s show. I know, at some elemental part of my soul, that I will love the music of Lindisfarne until I die. And I’m comforted by that fact.

Beginning to See the Light

I'm delighted to see that NUFC Fans United, the only active Newcastle United supporters' organisation, have joined forces with #9 magazine, Newcastle United's best fanzine. I'm equally delighted that issue 2 includes this article I penned in the aftermath of the Mackem and Man City cup tie defeats. Go to http://www.joomag.com/magazine/9-v2/0945641001387792778 to read the true alternative voice of independent minded Newcastle fans....

If I’m being completely frank about my response to recent events, the death of Lou Reed was actually the worst thing about Sunday 27th October 2013. As Lou changed my life forever from the very first time I heard the opening bars of Waiting for the Man by The Velvet Underground when I was aged about 14, I can’t even pretend that the poisonous, malign influence of Mike Ashley on Newcastle United and its supporters caused me to feel this way, by effectively downgrading our defeat to the Mackems to the status of a minor irritation and no longerallowing me to regard such a happenstance as a tragedy of enormous proportions. Remember, music never lets you down; football always does. Let’s be honest, only Keegan’s Entertainers or Bobby Robson’s 2001 to 2003 side could come anywhere near the first four Velvets albums in terms of sheer, hairs standing up on the back of your neck, pleasure. Shola Ameobi stumbling over the ball or What Goes On from Live 69? Cisse being caught offside or White Light / White Heat? No contest…

I didn’t see the Mackem game; in fact, I hadn’t seen a single Newcastle United fixture either live or on television, other than on highlights programmes, including the Fulham game where I won a pair of tickets and palmed them off on my son, at all this season, before I took myself off to St. James’ Park for the Man City cup tie. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not actually boycotting the club, as I’d always intended to make the Stoke City game on Boxing Day a must attend match, but I had found so many better things to do with my time, including watching 31 Northern League games up to and including October 26^th. The vagaries of the fixture list so far this season have meant we’ve avoided any Sunday or Monday home games, as I’m not prepared to sacrifice a Saturday at a non-league game to watch Newcastle United, so I’d not seen the inside of SJP since the tame surrender to Arsenal at the end of the previous campaign. I have to say, I’ve not missed the place; those Wonga and Sports Direct adverts give the place a seedy, unwholesome air.

Even in the pub before the game I was questioning my reasons for attending. As a lifelong Hibs fan, I could have taken to my sofa to see a predictable 1-0 home loss to the hated Hearts in the Scottish League Cup on BBC Scotland or, more productively, headed up to Blue Flames on a kind of semi scouting mission, to see my real team’s rivals West Allotment Celtic and Northallerton Town in a battle for 3 crucial league points. Allotment possed the Yorkies 3-0 incidentally.

What’s that I say about my real team? Well, so far this season I’ve had a simply wonderful time following Heaton Stannington during our debut campaign in the Northern League, where we sit proudly atop the Division 2 table as November begins. At Grounsell Park, I edit the programme, update the website (www.heatonstanningtonfc.co.uk) and generally involve myself as much as possible in the day to day running of the club. Come and see us; it’s only £3 in and there are always 3 real ales on hand pull at an incredible £2.25 a pint. At The Stan, I feel enthused, energised, fulfilled and above all, appreciated. Can any of us truly say the same about Newcastle United these days?

And yet, in the minutes following Borini’s goal, which Krul really ought to have stopped (Shay Given denied Sewpa Kev twice from similar positions in the Dabizas game), my only thought was to get on line and book myself a ticket for the City cup tie. While the majority of the support engaged either in heavy drinking, on line recriminations or the pursuit of the red herring of the local press ban, I booked K127 in the East Stand for myself. You see, whenever the club finds itself in straitened circumstances, I find the elemental urge from the very depths of my soul to go along and show critical support. That doesn’t mean moaning or slagging the team off; it means putting the team’s performance into a wider context. Thankfully I didn’t show this in the way that those risible, self-appointed uberfan messiahs in the Strawberry Corner, who had defected from the Division 92 corpus in the Gallowgate Upper, decided to. Singing your support is fucking shit to 2,000 City fans that’d made the trek up here for a midweek game that was on the telly in their 4^th most important competition, is simply beyond parody.

While we lost the game, to a score line I predicted beforehand, we could have won it in the regulation 90. Certainly if Remy had started instead of Cisse, I think we would have done. In addition, I was greatly encouraged by the performances of several players: Anita is a superb, unfussy distributor of the ball, Williamson looked very steady, Yanga Mbiwa was an assured presence, while both Sissoko and Tiote showed a degree of dominance in midfield. However the least said about Cisse the better, while Cabaye and Ben Arfa had cameos to forget. Worst of all was Krul; it simply amazes me that he is still in the team ahead of Elliott. How much of a miscalculation was it to keep the Dutchman and allow Fraser Forster to leave for Celtic?

Of course, let’s be realistic about things. Looking at the bigger picture, my mantra is unchanged; while Mike Ashley continues to own Newcastle United, it is completely irrelevant who plays for the club, who manages the club or where we finish in the table at the end of the season. All that matters, regardless of populist window dressing like the proposed £20 away tickets reciprocal agreement or the seemingly otiose Fans Forum, that appears to be blighted by resignations already, is getting Ashley OUT and 100% Fan Ownership IN, though I’ll settle for 51% as a transitional demand.

On the pitch it appears that the squad have enough quality to overcome both their maddening inconsistency and the tactical idiocy of the frankly laughable Pardew, to ensure a spot somewhere between 8^th and 15^th, giving Ashley the succour and stability that huge injections of Premier League and Sky TV cash  can provide. As per his instructions, we’ll be becalmed in lower mid table, avoiding any danger of qualifying for Europe, with only the merest flirtation with relegation and dismally exiting the cups at the earliest opportunities for the entirety of his ownership; a situation that will allow him the chance to harvest money without undue expenditure. Meanwhile, the big question is what do the fans do to register our opposition to this state of affairs?  NUFC Fans United were instrumental in helping Lee Marshall set up the Fans’ Forum, but the pace of events mean this channel of communication has much to do to avoid accusations of being a hollow talking shop. Additionally, the Time 4 Change was a huge success in uniting the support; let us hope that it continues to be a force for good and isn’t hijacked by those with a personal agenda of harbouring grudges and ensuring their positions of influence and power are maintained, at the expense of the involvement of those who’ve worked tirelessly for the good of NUFC’s fan base.

Whatever happens, it is clear that the pace of events will leave us all scratching our heads at the ultimate meaning of them. I’m looking forward to catching up with the true meaning of both Christmas and the way forward for Newcastle United’s support at the Stoke game on Boxing Day.

All What Jazz?

While 2014 promises great things from The New Mendicants, The Everlasting Yeah and The Band of Holy Joy, 2013 was a pretty good year for music I thought. Here's my end of year musical musings...

ALBUMS:

1.    Christy Moore – Where I Come From: A superb, comprehensive revisiting of his entire solo career.

2.    The Pastels – Slow Summits: Glorious, beautiful, summery pop.

3.    British Sea Power – Machineries of Joy: Eccentric genius at its best.

4.    Euros Childs – Situation Comedy: The super sounds of the 70s…

5.    Yo La Tengo – Fade. The accent is on harmony and introspection rather than fuzzy guitars, but that’s no bad thing.

6.    The Fall – Re-Mit: Classic bile-filled rants backed by accessible lo-fi backing.

7.    Wire – Change Becomes Us: Compelling revisiting of their great lost album.

8.    Pere Ubu – Lady From Shanghai: Measured ranting and demonic music.

9.    Trembling Bells & Bonnie “Prince” Billy – The Bonny Bells of Oxford: Celebratory live recording of 2012 gig.

10. The Wellgreen – Grin & Bear It: In 1975 these lads would have been listening to Hall & Oates rather than Suicide.

11. That Fucking Tank – A Document of the Last Gig: A glorious racket.

12. My Bloody Valentine – mbv: A two decade hiatus but no change to their style.

13. David Bowie – The Next Day: An arresting return to form.

14. Laura J Martin – Dazzle Days: More Lene Lovich than Joni Mitchell

15. Jetsam – A Dream Life of Hackney Marshes: Pretentious and unwelcoming.

16. Camera Obscura – Desire Lines: Bland and twee.

COMPILATIONS:

1.    Insane Energy Drop: Eclectic Pastels chosen nuggets.

2.    The Barne Society: The new Sound of Young Scotland.

3.    Rock Action Records Sampler 3: Sublime post rock collection.

4.    AIM Nominees Sampler: The occasional diamond in the mouth of a corpse.

EPs & SINGLES:

1.    The New Mendicants – Australia: The harmonic perfection you’d expect.

2.    The Fall – The Remainderer: Astonishing good return to form.

3.    The Fall – William Wray: Reports of MES’s demise are unfounded.

4.    The Wedding Present – Two Bridges: A new song; sounds like an old song.

5.    Vic Godard – Caught In The Midstream: Northern Soul influenced crooning.

6.    The Wedding Present – 4 Lieder: Sung in German for Record Store Day.

7.    Victories at Sea – In Memory: Histrionic pap.

GIGS:

1.    Trembling Bells; The Cumberland, December 8^th.

2.     British Sea Power; Northumbria University, April 6^th.

3.    The Pastels; CCA Glasgow, June 1^st.

4.    Neil Young & Crazy Horse; Metro Arena, June 10^th.

5.    Wire, The Cluny, September 18^th.

6.    Christy Moore, Tyne Theatre, October 13^th.

7.    Euros Childs, Star & Shadow, November 23^rd.

8.    Wedding Present, Think Tank, October 28^th.

9.    Trembling Bells & Mike Heron, Sage 2, July 15^th.

10. Fairport Convention, Sage 2, February 26^th.

11. Television, Sage 1, November 15^th.

12. Jon Langford, Sage Americana, July 21^st.

13. Golden Grrls, Morden Tower, February 21^st.

14. Vic Godard, Star & Shadow, November 29^th.

15. Pere Ubu, Sage 2, April 15^th.

16. Camera Obscura, Northumbria University, June 8^th.

OLD ALBUMS:

1.    Joni Mitchell – Blue: Perfection

2.    Jimi Hendrix – Live 1967: A legendary performance

3.    Fairport Convention – Maidstone 70: A band at the height of their powers.

4.    Blackflower – I Changed From a Stone to a Statue: Alex and Lavinia from Trembling Bells go traditional and it works so well.

5.    Plinth – Music For Smalls Lighthouse: Ambient perfection.

6.    Dr. Strangely Strange – Kip of the Serenes: Stoned Irish hippies.

7.    Incredible String Band – The 5,000 Spirits: Stoned Scottish hippies.

8.    Fairport Convention – Full House: Stoned English folkies.

9.    Fairport Convention – Nine: Drunk English hippies.

10.  Jon Langford – All the Fame of Lofty Deeds: Drunk Welsh C&W punk.

11. Dr. Strangely Strange – Heavy Petting: Dull Irish hippies.

12. Win – Urgh! Tears Babe: Angular Scottish post punk 1.

13. Win – Freaky Trigger: Angular Scottish post punk 2.

14. The Johnstons – Ye Jacobites By Name: Awful, earnest Irish folk pop.

15. The Dipsomaniacs – Well Connected: Awful, earnest SLF sound-alikes.

OLD SINGLES:

1.    Television – Prove It: Still glorious after all these years.

2.    Tame Impala – Half Full Glass of Wine: RSD re-release of superb laze rock.

3.    Cornershop – The Battle of New Orleans: Enormous Fun.

4.    Cornershop – Topknot: Partially successful indie dance crossover.

5.    Ward 34 – Religion for the 70s: An obscure Newcastle punk classic.