The Bairns are Alright

My mate Raga sent me a tweet last week, telling me I’d been allowing Newcastle United to get back under my skin again. Not only that, but as a result of this, my mood was being negatively affected by everything to do with the club; a kind of seasonally affected disorder, with 2012/2013 being the season in question. To his mind, the professional game is now as irrelevant as the Jimmy Page and Rick Wakeman era rock dinosaurs were when punk came along to rattle the bars of their gilded palaces (that’s a deliberately mixed metaphor incidentally). As far as he’s concerned, the only football worth bothering with these days is the grassroots game. Now, I take his point, but as a devotee of late 60s / early 70s Folk and Prog Rock, I don’t see the punk legacy as being uniformly positive. While thanking him for his words of wisdom and agreeing with him for the most part, which is why this post has nothing to do with Newcastle United, I do vary from him in some parts of his analysis. For instance, to me top level non-league football like Gateshead and Blyth Spartans is the footballing equivalent of the thud and blunder of Sham 69 or Slaughter & The Dogs, while the absolutely marvellous Northern Alliance provides delights as rare and beautiful as Nick Drake or Fairport Convention combined with Dr. Strangely Strange. However, some parts of the professional game remain simply thrilling honey; following the demise of Rangers, the Scottish game is as enticing to me as Orange Juice, Teenage Fanclub, Josef K and Trembling Bells blended together.

Sometimes it’s nice just to get away from the pressures of every day life and watch a game of football in a ground you’ve not visited before, for simple pleasure of a relaxing, enjoyable Saturday afternoon out, with no allegiances to bear in mind, no philosophical or ideological undercurrents to consider and no great emotional involvement in proceedings. Thus, bearing in mind the free weekend caused by Newcastle United’s decision not to compete in this year’s FA Cup, as well as the second consecutive week of freezing conditions that put paid to the local non-league programme, particularly Hebburn Reyrolle versus Percy Main and Hebburn Town versus West Auckland Town, it was time to look north of the border if I wanted to keep up my record of seeing a game on every Saturday of the season, bar August 11^th when in I was in Cork and was able to give myself the birthday treat of a day off.

When it became clear the weather wasn’t going to take a rapid turn for the better, Hebburn Town media guru Andy Hudson pulled some strings and favours, getting us return tickets to Edinburgh for an impressive £17. The idea was that we’d take a rain, hail, sleet and snow check on arriving in Waverley. I’m not particularly well travelled around the Scottish leagues; with January 2^nd’s trip to Dunfermline 1 Raith Rovers 0 being only my 13^th tick in the 4 senior divisions. Consequently, it might have seemed logical to expect we would be spoiled for choice of game, though this wasn’t to be the case. Firstly train timetables and ticketing restrictions meant we were only due in to Waverley at 13.10 and were booked to come back on the 18.30, with no option of changing those arrangements. This meant that my number 1 choice of Alloa was off the agenda as we’d not have a chance to catch more than a half; also Andy had already been there, so he wasn’t keen to return.

In the end, having also rejected Arbroath, Dumbarton, Dundee United, East Fife and Morton for reasons of temporal inaccessibility and having previously visited Dunfermline, the Huns (though obviously not when they were playing) and Partick, it came down to the reasonably adjacent choices of East Stirlingshire versus Clyde, on the 4G pitch they rent from Stenhousemuir at Ochilview Park, which would have been the more historic ground, but probably not the same quality of atmosphere or experience as when the hosts were playing or Falkirk, with their compulsory at the time but now simply helpful for random ground hoppers such as us, under soil heating and giant covers from their last sojourn in the Scottish Premier, versus Airdrie United. Having seen several Airdrie United’s fans attired in SDL t-shirts in a pre-season friendly at Whitley Bay back in July, this wasn’t an immediately enticing choice of opposition, but it became our only hope when the white-out that had added 3 inches of snow to the Tyneside area had also covered Larbert, meaning the Shire game was a goner. It was the Bairns or the likelihood of breaking my January sobriety for an afternoon on the gargle, which I really didn’t want to do. Thankfully, Falkirk’s website proclaimed a perfectly playable pitch, but semi-ominously still asked for volunteers to help clear the pitch of covers, which were no doubt weighted down by accumulated overnight snow and the torrential rain that had followed the snow.

Travelling in hope as much as expectation Andy, who’d got in at 5 am after a decent night out and had already slammed two recuperative pints of Rivet Catcher down his neck in The Centurion by the time I met up with him at 11, and I shot the breeze about all aspects of football, noting that the Twitter silence from Falkirk’s official account must mean only good news. The fact that by the time we reached Dunbar there wasn’t a flake of snow to be discerned also kept our spirits up. In my case, the only cause of anxiety and distaste was the disappointing presence of so many Jambos around Waverley, as they were playing their League Cup semi-final against Inverness Caledonian Thistle, which they would tragically go on to win 5-4 on penalties after a 1-1 draw, at the home of Scottish football; my beloved Easter Road. However, I’m sure St Mirren will beat them in the final. At least I hope they do. Incidentally, I will return to see Hibs soon; GGTTH.

We arrived at Falkirk Grahamstown just after 2 and, in the total absence of signs to the ground, set off walking in completely the wrong direction towards what we initially believed to be the shiny new Falkirk Stadium; on closer inspection, it was a multiplex cinema. Thus, using the GPS on Andy’s phone, we struck out again in a second wrong direction. After 20 minutes of aimless wandering, Andy asked a random bloke if this way the way to the ground, only for the bloke to tell us it was his first time in Falkirk as well. Luckily, I spotted a fella in a Bairns scarf, who offered to show us the right route. Well, shy bairns get nowt eh? Sadly I didn’t catch his name, but if he ends up reading this, I really would like to thank him for his superb company on the walk to the game. If I ever meet him again, I owe him several pints.

Initially he seemed a little suspicious of us, presumably believing us to be Airdrie fans, but when I explained the nature of our visit and that I’d seen Falkirk once before, in the 1998 Scottish Cup semi-final at Ibrox when they lost 3-1 to Hearts, we began to get on famously. On the lengthy 25 minute walk out of town to the stadium; we shot the breeze about the ground, Falkirk and Scottish football in general. I learned he had a season ticket in the main stand, having previously been in the family enclosure, but that his 12 year old son had abandoned his home town team and was now a lap top Arsenal fan, that he would be by himself today as his mate was at a kid’s birthday party, unlike him of course, who’d managed to escape the bairns to see The Bairns and that he worked in Glasgow. We parted with a handshake outside the main stand, as Andy and I saved £4 each to sit in the North Stand, noticing adverts for a music festival in June when Altered Images headline the first night and Status Quo the second. I’m not sure what to say about that line-up; truly I’m not.

Scottish football isn’t cheap; it set us back £18 to see this second tier game but, being positive, it is undeniably a wonderful experience every time I see a game up there. Today we didn’t have the incessant, intemperate abuse that Dunfermline fans had for Raith Rovers three weeks before, in fact there was little discernible atmosphere at all and certainly no singing or chanting that lasted beyond a few seconds, but  neither did we have a dull, cagey affair settled by the one moment of quality in an otherwise sterile 90 minutes; instead, we saw a bloody great game dominated by two defences who were united in their abject atrociousness, which made it a superb spectacle, played out in front of 2,715 people, including approximately 60 from Airdrie, in an impressive, well designed and far more accommodating ground than so many of the dreary, functional new builds I’ve been to. Unfortunately, arriving right on kick off, we were forced to take up some less than advantageously situated seats behind the goal; literally right behind the goal. If we’d got there in time, we’d probably have seen the Handsome Groundhopper himself, Shaun Smith, in the same stand. However, we didn’t.

On a soft pitch, Airdrie showed first, with a couple of testing attacks that resulted in the ball ending up in Falkirk keeper McGovern’s hands more by luck than judgement, before the Bairns took the lead after 9 minutes with almost their first attack. Gangling, rangy striker Lyle Taylor got the decisive touch and, rising to applaud the goal, I noticed it had been celebrated more in the manner of a maiden over on the first morning of a County Championship game at Hove than a goal in the white heat of Scottish football. Perhaps the home support were a little ashamed of the fact the tannoy saw fit to announce the opening strike with a deafening 20 second blast of “Show Me The Way To Amarillo” that not one person either joined in with or appeared to appreciate.  Again, on 23 minutes when Stuart Murdoch, taking time out from his duties as lead singer and chief songwriter with Belle & Sebastian, thumped home a glorious angled second from the edge of the area to double the lead, the reaction was a polite ripple of applause rather than orgiastic yelps or clenched fist salutes. If it had been the Byres Road beatnik who’d scored, I’d have expected nothing less than a full rendition of the climactically appropriate “The Fox in the Snow” in tribute.

On 34 minutes, it appeared the game was all but over when Taylor bundled home his second after his initial effort had hit the bar, making it 3-0. Almost immediately afterwards, the crowd came to life, in an outpouring of profane invective at the linesman who had given Airdrie a corner when many thought the ball hadn’t gone out of play. It soon was, for a home goal kick, but the splenetic abuse, now directed at the referee, who looked about 15, for not overruling his assistant continued intermittently until the break. During the interval, I stuck my phone on charge (thanks for the electricity Falkirk FC) and sample a steak, rather than scotch pie; it was rather tasty but, as the rapidly deteriorating Andy pointed out, almost impossible to eat because of the shape.

Suitably fortified, we found a loftier perch for the second period and saw a rejuvenated Diamonds taking it to the Bairns, aided by a soft penalty after 56 minutes, converted by Paul Di Giacomo. Falkirk sought to reassert themselves and Taylor twice missed easy chances to complete his hat trick, by blasting the ball at the keeper when through on goal. The second of these saw a corner resulting and from it Bairns skipper Darren Dods smuggled the ball in at the back post for a seemingly unassailable 4-1 lead, which persuaded Andy and I that we could safely leave, bearing in mind the 30 minute walk to the station and the 17.23 departure for Waverley we had to catch, not to mention the burgeoning blister on my left heel (the curse of new footwear and stylish hiking socks) with the contest effectively over. Two muffled shouts, but no accompanying Tony Christie vocal stylings, as we made our way back up the main road told us of late Airdrie goals, which we’ll be fated never to see (I’m not playing £45 for an annual subscription to Falkirk TV) as the game ended 4-3. It’s a shame to miss goals, but we had to get that train. In conclusion, I’m glad the home side won and I’m glad to see defending worse than the Mike Williamson personal master class that 2012/2013 has turned in to.

We took a random bus back to Falkirk, but not the station. Alighting in the middle of a shopping street, Andy succeeded in finding a chap slumped in a doorway who was almost insensible with drink to ask the way; he was only able to issue confusing and contradictory instructions, but we found Grahamstown station anyway and thence caught a packed train to Waverley that was polluted with gleeful Jambos, before arriving home at almost 8pm at the conclusion of another fantastic and always entertaining Scottish adventure.  I can’t wait for the next one.

So, where do we go next? Well, there are still 28 grounds to go for me until I complete my Scottish set; realistically, bearing in mind travel timings and the financial cost of overnight stays, Stenhousemuir, Alloa and Motherwell are sensible targets for the immediate future. Scottish football may be a collection of rough diamonds, but it’s got to be better than spending an afternoon with Jeff Stelling when the grassroots game is off.

Ont la cavalerie est arrivée?

While I’ve barely stopped skipping around the room in joyous rapture at the news about that appalling four eyed twat Colin Murray getting his cards from MotD2, there hasn’t been a great deal else to laugh about during the past week; realising that IPhones autocorrect “mackems” to “jackets” was about as good as it got, though seeing the descendants of the Boys of 73 clumsily tumbling out of the FA Cup at home to Bolton in front of barely 17k cheered me up no end. Even better was the news that Michael Owen had suffered the indignity of a bird shitting on his head; the Twitterati speculated that it must have been a vengeful Magpie to blame, which was funny. However, hoping that Michael Owen was the pilot of the helicopter that crashed near Vauxhall station last Wednesday simply wasn’t funny. It’s especially not funny  if you’re the kind of blind guide who strains at a gnat and swallows a camel by spending considerable amounts of time befriending FCUM fans, even if you don’t actually go to any games with them, as well as (rightfully) decrying Munich chanting against Manchester United. The Biblical reference in the previous sentence (Matthew 23:24) is actually a pun, as the Aramaic word for “camel” (galma) is very similar to the word for “gnat” (gamla). The Ancient Greeks were great fans of punning, or paronomasia as it was known, believing it to be a sign of intellectual suppleness and rhetorical skill.

Sadly, this is no time for rhetorical sophistry; no time for jibes about treating the Royals like royalty, double-teaming the team in yellow shirts or playing milky biscuit with the Biscuitmen. Instead, taking my cue from the unequivocal, forthright Hegelian dialecticians, who provide the same answer to every question they’re asked, regardless of the subject, let me state at the very outset that I want Alan Pardew to remain as manager of Newcastle United for the foreseeable future. I say this in the full and frank realisation that the last 25 minutes of the tortuous disaster that was the Reading game left those of us who count ourselves as unapologetic members of the pro Pardew faction with absolutely nothing on which to base our support for him. Stating that you believe Pardew is the right man for the job at around 5pm on Saturday was almost to admit that Leon Festinger’s theory of cognitive dissonance had taken root in the NE1 area. As Frantz Fanon, the French-Algerian psychiatrist, philosopher, revolutionary and writer phrased it;  

Sometimes people hold a core belief that is very strong. When they are presented with evidence that works against that belief, the new evidence cannot be accepted. It would create a feeling that is extremely uncomfortable, called cognitive dissonance. And because it is so important to protect the core belief, they will rationalize, ignore and even deny anything that does not fit in with their core belief.

Obviously his words have greater currency than the travails of Newcastle United; the anachronistic, bigoted minority of Flegs protestors in the Six Counties are one example that comes to mind immediately. Supporting Alan Pardew is in rapid danger of becoming another, as we supporters of the current Manager of the Year have nothing to bring to the table in our defence, other than the kind of unfounded optimism that can be viewed as sheer blind faith by those of a less tolerant mind-set; for example, the angry young fellow in U38 of the Gallowgate Upper on Saturday who lasted until 2.51 of the first half had elapsed before announcing “Ashley wants to sack that cunt now,” a phrase he reiterated with monotonous frequency at an increasingly immoderate volume, especially during the second half.

This lad’s ire was initially drawn by a team selection that effectively set us up a man short, as Shola was inexplicably given a start, shambling around somewhere between the right wing and just behind Cisse. This was a baffling way to begin the game, as was the distressing inclusion of Williamson with Taylor fit again when, from my perspective, a reasonably strong 4-3-3 picked itself in the shape of: Krul – Debuchy Santon Taylor Colo – Perch Cabaye Anita – Marveaux Obertan Cisse, with Xisco on the bench; ready, prepared, poised. Admittedly we were still shorn of Tiote at the African Cup of Nations and the injured Ben Arfa, but this would surely have been a line-up with more than enough to beat a limited Reading outfit.

Despite the unbalanced team selection Pardew had saddled us with, we got off to a great start and should have been at least 3 up at the break against frankly woeful opposition; what happened after that will haunt Pardew for the rest of his time in charge at SJP. The second half may not have been the moment he lost control, as I maintain that event was marked by his inability to sort things out away to Arsenal when he failed with his tactics after we’d made it 3-3, but the Cabaye withdrawal was the moment the crowd turned on him, decisively and vindictively, as exemplified by a current Labour MP attempting to lead the crowd in a chorus of “you don’t know what you’re doing,” directed squarely at the manager. In many ways, you couldn’t blame the kid in U38, when it all went to shit, for saying what he did; in the same way you couldn’t blame Pardew for saying what he did after the game, knowing what he did.

Even before Saturday’s defeat, Pardew had been in bloody awful shape; his press conference on Thursday had been painful to watch. His hesitant stumbling and bland imprecations showed a bloke who appeared to have had the bollocks knocked out of him by the whole Remy debacle and the still to be resolved Coloccini situation, which just gets ever more ominous the longer it drags on. Stories of lawyers discussing the club captain’s future, when he ought to be on the training ground sorting out the shitstorm on the pitch are a bad, bad sign. Under the negative glare of a room full of cynical pressmen, Pardew was struggling to provide adequate answers to simple questions and not just the difficult ones, but I didn’t detect a groundswell of support of concern for the bloke, either among the fourth estate or more crucially, those who fill the ground. This widespread lack of sympathy suggests to me that things have come full circle at Newcastle United. Events stretching back to the summer have not been forgotten about and in many people’s eyes he’s viewed as complicit as Ashley or Llambias for the lack of squad strengthening, presumably because he didn’t have the bravery to stand up to the two of them and point out how woefully short of adequate cover we had left ourselves, when only Anita came in to the club, ready to play first team football.

It all means that the manager’s stock has fallen so low that he once again seems to be viewed by a considerate section of the support as the kind of lickspittle, obsequious toady and proto Peter Lawford of the Ashley and Llambias Cockney Mafia rat pack, that he was when he walked through the door to replace Chris Hughton in December 2010. It may be tough on him and it definitely shows the mercurial nature of our support, but that’s the reality of the situation we now find ourselves in. Pardew’s terrible tactics versus Reading, almost as much as Ashley’s appalling stewardship of the club, have left Newcastle United in a position whereby relegation looks at worst probable and at best likely, despite the relative strength of our first choice XI, as opposed to the side that actually played, on Saturday 19^th January.

At full time, I don’t think I was actually in shock, but I was stunned; mind at least I’d only come from High Heaton to watch this latest sorrowful mystery, unlike poor saps of my acquaintance that’d flown in from Kildare, Dublin, Dubai and Norfolk for the pleasure of watching the worst 25 closing minutes to a game I can recall since our last relegation. Faced with a post-match choice of standing round in pubs talking to people I know about the substitutions that had cost us the game, or spending time on Twitter talking to people I don’t really know about the substitutions that had cost us the game, I chose the latter option, glumly tweeting opinions on a packed bus replete with equally glum fellow supporters, all of whom seemed to be engaged in the same cyber autopsy. Not one person, either on line or in real life, was able to explain, much less defend sickening tactics that seemed to indicate cowardice on the part of Pardew who, in seeking to maintain a flimsy single goal lead at home to a side in the drop zone, withdrew Cabaye and Marveaux for Perch and Bigirimana, changes which spectacularly backfired as Reading scored two utterly pathetic goals; the first as a result of predictably calamitous defending by Williamson and the second the kind of outrageous misfortune that we deserved for the timidity of the substitutions.

Watching the highlights (I use the term advisedly) on Match of the Day, I heard Pardew’s comments about losing the crowd when we were still leading for the first time and his more than plausible explanation that Cabaye was feeling his injured groin so had to come off. What immediately struck me was just how unkempt and dishevelled Pardew looked in the interview; normally so suave and immaculately groomed, he appeared to be struggling to keep a lid on things and his professional veneer, as he almost begged the ”owners” for new signings.  The news that Birmingham City are financially on their uppers, even brought about depressing speculation in the wake of Pardew’s beseeching imprecations that Peter Lovenkrands could be on his way back to us for a third spell, all on free transfers.

What subsequently struck me was a feeling of even deeper regret that Cisse had not converted even one of the 3 presentable chances Federici had saved in the first period. If he had and we’d gone in at 2-0, Cabaye could have gone off for Perch with the job almost done; Reading wouldn’t have come back from that sort of deficit (even if they had done the week before against West Brom) and any enforced tactical change during the break would have given Pardew time to talk through proposed on-field adjustments in front of the whole team. At least Pardew admitted that taking off Marveaux had been a mistake, but that is of very little comfort, as an error of judgement as profound as that is simply not acceptable; in our position the manager simply can’t afford to make terrible decisions that cost us the game. Furthermore, he still didn’t adequately explain why we’d ceded the initiative before the changes, during a desperately dour opening 20 minutes of the second period when literally nothing happened.

Sunday came without any deepening sense of perspective on the loss, as angry, bitter fans made scattergun attacks at just about everyone involved in the club, from individual supporters right up to the real villains, who are the guilty men who own and run  the club. Whilst the club itself maintained the usual communications lockdown, fringe players such as Sammy Ameobi and, in particular, Nile Ranger took to Twitter to clumsily ask for support for the beleaguered players, echoing Pardew’s questioning as to the beneficial side of booing a terrified squad when we were still leading the day before. Their youth and inarticulacy did them no favours, as furious supporters leaped on their naïve, banal comments with immoderate and wrathful personal attacks. Ranger even offered to meet fans in Nandos (where else?) to discuss the club’s problems, which was obviously interpreted as an aggressive gesture by people who know nothing about the player other than what they’ve read in the papers.

While that may have been a foolish offer, I don’t believe it warranted the immoderate and extreme reaction from a section of our support, which launched a wave of vilification at Ranger. To be perfectly honest, I can understand their anger, if not their tactics; they’ve supported this club since Ranger was a babe in arms and see him as embodying all they hate about modern football, with his regular court appearances, reported lack of application in training and seeming utter lack of self-awareness he resembles nothing more than a third division Kieron Dyer. I’ve never met the lad, but I’ve seen him play and I simply don’t think he’s good enough for the Premier League; that isn’t his fault of course, even if he doesn’t help himself with his conduct in and out the club, or the persona he presents. However, he isn’t the root cause of the club’s current travails and offering to meet him in a back street boozer for a frank exchange of opinions is unnecessary and frankly indecorous conduct.  

That said, the person I wanted a square go with on Sunday was the club’s webmaster, or whoever takes ultimate responsibility for spewing out an interminable series of junk emails, exhorting me to waste my cash in the club shop on NUFC branded tat, including an early morning suggestion that we “buy a personalised going away gift for someone special” (I kid you not; so long Alan & thanks for everything?). Perhaps the most bemusing comments on-line came from those who blamed Graham Carr for not doing his job properly, by only scouting French players on the one hand and on the other suggesting that Laurent Blanc would make a good manager. Indeed, the inevitable discussions about the manager’s future were both labyrinthine and emotive. Certainly, it seemed bizarre that anyone could begin to suggest that Newcastle United had a squad fit for purpose, because of the strength of young players, but one that merely needed a new manager to achieve full potential, especially when the identity of any proposed new manager was not suggested. That’s the problem with these Hegelian dialecticians. They can’t take any question on its merits; they have to give their stock response to a topic, regardless of however vaguely relevant or otherwise their answer may be. It’s a shame, but it reinforces my belief that there’s not been a realistic, viable alternative to Pardew mentioned so far; which is the main reason why I remain in the pro Pardew camp.

If we imagine a scenario whereby any potential successor for Pardew is identified as being the manager of another club at the current time, the first question that must be answered is whether the other club would allow NUFC to speak to their boss. If their answer is no, that’s the end of the process. If their answer is yes, two further dependent questions immediately pose themselves; firstly, would Ashley cough up the compensation required to buy someone out of their contract? Considering every boss he has appointed has been either resting or done on the cheap when getting the SJP gig, I would be very surprised, meaning the process would end there. Secondly, assuming that a deal regarding compensation could be agreed, would the target be prepared to work under the strict conditions imposed on them by the current “owners,” such as having Dennis Wise appointed above your head or not being allowed the luxury of an assistant after Colin Calderwood went off to manage Hibs, as Keegan and Hughton were asked to endure? I would very much doubt it, which would again end the process.

To my mind, the only realistic way in which Newcastle United could find themselves a new manager at the current time, with the current “owners” and their regime in place, would be if the target is currently between jobs, like Di Matteo or Blanc. This being the case, then the second question is even more pressing. Could you see either the former manager of the French national side or the last manager to guide a side to Champions’ League success accepting the role of Ceasar’s wife in a Puma bench coat? The stark, unpalatable fact is that only the truly desperate, for reasons of money, egotism or both, would accept a job with Newcastle United on such a basis. Consequently, we are left with the stark reality that Alan Pardew represents Newcastle United’s best hope of getting ourselves out of the mess that Ashley and Llambias have caused, but that he is increasingly showing himself as being unable to cope with, as his level of responsibility rises with each passing game. It all appeared that the next game, away to Villa, was not only a relegation battle, but the last chance for the managers of both clubs to rescue their league form, then suddenly Newcastle United bought some players, though not the magnificently named Sporting Lisbon striker Ricky van Wolfswinkel; our signings were French, naturellement.

On the day that areas of Essex and east London endured foul air courtesy of an escape of gas from a factory near Rouen in Normandy, predictably named Le Pong, by the media, it seemed fitting that Newcastle United invested in or, more accurately, began the interminable process of concluding deals relating to the purchase of, a quartet of Ligue 1 players that only I thought about calling Les Quatre Mousquetaires. Now, I don’t know anything about Mapou Yanga-Mbiwa who has joined us from Montpellier, but it is a fact that he’s a full French international and centre half of the current champions, so I expect great things. Bearing in mind the late developments in the Remy deal, I am aware that I may jinx any potential transfers, but all things considered, I expect left back Massadio Haidara to join us from AS Nancy and striker Yoan Gouffran to arrive from Girondins Bordeaux. I am also hopeful that Toulouse midfielder Moussa Sissoko, who is very highly rated by those who know the French game and has long been linked with us in the papers, will also join, either on a pre-contract agreement or, more likely, in the summer.

My first thoughts about this influx are almost entirely positive as the squad desperately needs a centre half (He’s big! He’s French! Williamson’s on the bench!  Mbiwa!) and another striking option. However, let’s have a reality check; we needed strengthening in those positions last summer and the new arrivals are actually only positional replacements for Ba, in the case of Gouffran and, sad as it seems, Coloccini in the case of Mbiwa. I welcome Haidara and Sissoko as well, but the cynic in me wonders whether their arrival paves the way for summer departures of Tiote (preferably) or Cabaye (please no) and Santon.

That, of course, is the future and the reality of the present is that these deals represent unequivocal support for the manager from the “owners.” Even Llambias isn’t obtuse or idiotic enough to lash out close to £20m on players, only to fire the boss a week or so later; as we all remember, that used to be Shepherd’s trick. However, the stark reality is that these four arrivals, if we get them all “over the line,” will be either Pardew’s cavalry or his Calvary.

New players are a welcome bonus for the club; they boost the support and give us renewed hope for the rest of the season, as well as buying Pardew some time and deflecting major criticisms of Ashley. However, it is crucial that expectations are kept in check. We need to take small steps on the path to recovery and safety, starting a Villa Park next week, where I’d imagine 2 of this quartet at most will start. It is a huge ask for them to make the kind of instant impact Cisse did last season, but let’s give them all our support.  It’s a whole new game for them in this country; as Motson pointed out on MotD, Remy needed to learn the offside law as presumably it doesn’t apply in France. Remy; let’s hope that name doesn’t haunt us on or off the pitch for the rest of this season.

Unpublished 6: Around the Grounds 19/01/13

Last season, we beat Harraby 1-0 at the fourth time of asking, after 3 postponements. We knew this game would be off from about Monday onwards, probably because I'd penned this article last Saturday. Still, at least it gave me the chance to attend Newcastle v Reading, which I'm still in shock after. I'm hoping to blog about it by around Tuesday, or perhaps Wednesday......

We may have been inactive last Saturday, but there were several other games that managed to survive Friday night’s downpour, which had the effect of knocking us down from 6^th spot to 8^th. The biggest shock was today’s opponents Harraby thumping leaders Amble United 5-1, which moved the Cumbrians up to fourth. Whitley Bay A climbed to 6^th after a 3-1 away win against Seaton Delaval Amateurs, who lie in 10^th spot. The other team to go above us were Wallsend Town, who crushed second bottom Hebburn Reyrolle 7-2 away. Finally, Gateshead Rutherford remain anchored to the foot of the table after a 4-1 home loss to Shankhouse saw their opponents move 5 points above a relation place, even though they still sit third bottom.  There were a trio of shocks in the George Dobbins League Cup, with three Premier Division sides falling to lower league opposition in the quarter finals. Blyth Isabella saw off Ashington Colliers 2-1, while Blyth Town fell 3-2 at home to resurgent Ponteland United and Wallington saw off Carlisle City 1-0.

Cramlington Town exploited Wallington’s cup heroics to move above them to the top of Division 1, with a 1-0 away win over Gosforth Bohemians who lie in 12^th place. Northbank moved in to 4^th spot with a 2-1 away win against a Newcastle University side in turmoil as they drop to the foot of the table after having all 8 points they’ve accumulated this season deducted for playing ineligible players. Heddon are a place below Northbank in the rankings after shading a 5 goal contest away to 13^th placed Cullercoats. Hexham sit 7^th after cuffing a Willington Quay Saints side, who have moved out of the bottom 2 following the University’s disciplinary travails, 5-1. Finally, Gateshead Redheugh got the better of their midtable battle with Chemfica by a margin of 2-0, as the two sides sit in 8^th and 9^th respectively. Morpeth Town are the first team through to the semi-finals of the Bill Gardner Memorial Trophy, overcoming Division 2 side Cramlington United 3-1.

Birtley St. Joseph’s remain top of Division 2 after a 7-3 thumping of Wallsend Boys Club, who now lie in 10^th place.  The other league game in the bottom division saw an equally emphatic outcome, with third top Wooler beating fourth placed Longbenton 5-0. Additionally, Grainger Park Boys Club made it through to the next round of the Northumberland FA Minor Cup, with a 6-3 away success against Gosforth Bohemians A.

In the Northern League, fourth placed Whitley Bay warmed up for their trip to Brantham in the FA Vase today, with a scintillating 5-0 trouncing of an abject Hebburn side at Hillheads, in front of a crowd of 401; it’s not often I make a difference at football, but I did to the crowd at that one, which I attended with celebrated author Harry Pearson, who would otherwise have been at Purvis Park, if the rain had not intervened last week. Newcastle Benfield’s seemingly unstoppable slide towards relegation gathered pace as they fell to 21^st, with a 2-0 home loss to Ashington, who are at Bodmin in the Vase. Team Northumbria sit in 15^th, after a 2-2 draw with Norton. In the second division, 7^th placed North Shields played out a 2-2 draw at home to Ryhope CW, while West allotment Celtic enjoyed a morale boosting trip down the East Durham coast, coming away from Horden 5-2 victors.

Gateshead’s seemingly intractable problems with the boggy International Stadium pitch continued, as their FA Trophy tie with Barrow was postponed, with the new sections of the playing surface not passing a late morning inspection. Finally, Blyth Spartans fell to a 1-0 loss away to Chorley in a Evostik League game.

The Caucasian Chalk Centre Circle

In late 1992, Noam Chomsky was asked by Time magazine to pen an article, summarising what he felt would be the key elements of the recently elected Bill Clinton’s vision for America. Chomsky’s erudite and perceptive castigation of the inevitable philosophical bankruptcy of the quasi liberal functionary of the Capitalist elite who was moving in to the Oval Office, came in an article that gave a nod to the Scriptures, entitled New Bottles, Old Wine; it is an eerily prescient text for the tribulations endured by Newcastle United fans, players and management so far in 2013.

The white flag that was run up before kick-off at the Amex Stadium in the FA Cup was obviously one of convenience. Certainly it wasn’t as sickening an intervention as Sepp Blatter’s condemnation of Kevin Prince Boateng for leading AC Milan off the pitch when he was racially abused during a friendly against lower league Pro Patria, with the added threat that FIFA would bring sanctions against clubs who had the temerity stand up to abuse in such a decisive fashion in future, but Brighton 2 Newcastle United 0 was fairly foul.  While there are mitigating circumstances (Shola’s farcical red card for one; anyone wanting to see malevolent intent in a tackle ought to have seen Stockfield’s Bruce Vause launch a vindictive studs up assault on Percy Main’s Lindsay Collinson the same day), there is no doubt that at a managerial level any further involvement in that competition would have been viewed as a serious inconvenience to the squad.

Of course, there was at least a tacit assumption among everyone with a stake in the club, financial or emotional, that there would be some honour in a second successive cup defeat to Brighton. However, the sheer, ragged incompetence of the non-performance on the day left fans seething and a clearly enraged Pardew excoriated those who had disgraced the shirts. The unpleasant fact is, the only FA Cup tie success Pardew has presided over while in charge at SJP was the third round success last season over Blackburn Rovers, a club that we are seemingly intent on emulating as we fall further down the league each week. Of course, expedience and pragmatism has infected the body politic of Newcastle United to the extent that the only things held in greater contempt than the club’s fans are the domestic cup competitions. These cups may be a thing of the past, but the fans’ anger remains; and it’s growing.

In the past, I’ve alluded to the fact that a section of our support disproportionately responds to any bad news like Macduff learning of the fate of his family in IVii of The Scotch Play. I stand by that analogy, but it gives me no pleasure to report that some of the most active smart phone and keyboard savants, rather than reacting with simple melancholic fury to any dose of misfortune or ill-luck have now decided to adopt a world view that incorporates a constant audible level of malcontent misery that suggests they’re subsisting on a steady diet of readings from Schopenhauer’s The World as Will and Representation to a soundtrack of Leonard Cohen on Librium at 16rpm. Unable to actually comprehend Schopenhauer’s contention that all human desire is futile, illogical, directionless, and, by extension, so is all human action in the world, as summarised by the quotation "Man can indeed do what he wants, but he cannot will what he wants,” the Brothers Grim now sound like Tommy from “Early Doors” would if the club he’d supported since 1992 had fallen to a Championship club in the FA Cup two seasons running.

Let’s be clear about this, Pardew isn’t alone among Premier League managers in adopting a defeatist position towards the FA Cup, especially bearing in mind that the three games following the Brighton defeat (Norwich, Reading and Villa) are perhaps the most crucial league encounters this club has faced since May 2009. This is not the time for Pardew to start resembling Souness whenever he gets interviewed. However, I think it shows that the fans aren’t the only ones who are frightened of the prospect of relegation; the boss is clearly starting to panic.

A while ago I’d have suggested his squad selection at Brighton was a way of transmitting to the “owner” the fact that he thought our reserves were not up to scratch; that would be fair enough if he hadn’t slammed them unmercifully in the post-match interview, suggesting he’s starting to feel the pressure and wants to deflect some of the blame. The first time I thought Pardew might be reaching his sell-by date was his pitch side histrionics after we’d made it 3-3 away to Arsenal, expressively demanding that the squad hold on to a point by calming things down; however we all know how that one turned out. That night Pardew’s eyes betrayed the fear he felt, when they ought to have shown he possessed the resolve to assume ultimate control of the club’s destiny. At the Emirates, when the team needed his guidance the most, he was unable to influence our tactics in a positive way, so as to alter the team shape to give us a chance of grabbing a draw; even worse, when we went a goal down, instead of holding his nerve and trying to come again for a fourth equaliser, he rashly meddled, badly, and a defeat turned in to a thrashing. Obviously he will stay in place for at least the next two games, presumably as there are no credible contenders to replace him, despite my mischievous thought that Neil Lennon with Shearer as his assistant might be amusing in an odd sort of way, so Pardew is here for the long term. Indeed, I don’t want him to go; I want him to turn things around. This is the current Manager of the Year we’re talking about, remember.

However, as Bertolt Brecht said in his critique of Realism in the Balance by Gyorgy Lukacs; it is not about the good old days, but the bad new ones. If the unthinkable happens in the next two games and he is shown the door, it will be at the end of a transfer window that has yet to offer an ounce of positivity for Newcastle United; good news is a scarce commodity of Tyneside this year. To be fair, coming away from Carrow Road with a point, after we’d lost the 7 previous away games, even if the contest was an unwatchable mess from first minute to last, is something to build on; though it would be nice if we had something to build around, such as a squad. With Ba already at home in West London and scoring for Chelsea and Danny Simpson seemingly using his alleged broken toe and expiring contract as an excuse to shack up with his partner, also in West London, and whore himself around clubs in the South East, we’re a body down despite the belated arrival of Matthieu Debuchy and what happens next as regards comings, but especially goings, is a matter of terrifying conjecture.  Our fate hangs in the balance in a manner comparable to Eldon Square Nando’s now that Simpson has moved away.

When I was 19, I read Kafka oder Thomas Mann by Lukacs, in which he outlined his philosophical standpoint as regards literary aesthetics. In favouring Mann’s realism over Kafka’s modernist sensibilities, though the Czech writer died in 1924 before the concept of Modernism as a literary genre had become an established term, Lukacs showed himself to be not only Aristotelian in his default critical position, but also professed himself a Marxist. The man who would later be one of Comitern’s foremost intellectuals quoted from Marx’s Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844 to support his belief in the superior nature of realism within art, or Einfuhlung as he called it; by incorporating Marx’s phrase man is bigger than his thoughts. At that age, I was contemptuous of the seemingly conformist doctrine that Lukacs proselytised, yet I remained deeply suspicious of the ideological consequences of embracing the experimental, maverick approaches adopted by those proto and actual Modernist, not to mention postmodern and indeed avant garde writers I loved. Would opting for the Weltanschauung of Jarry, Dickinson, Pound, Eliot, Joyce and others whose avowed experimentation seemed more akin to the Nietzschean principles of Ubermenschen that the acceptable social realist works praised by Lukacs mean I was betraying the fact I possessed personal ideology that was at best counter intuitively reformist or at worst verging on petit bourgeois dilettantism?

Thankfully, my intellectual malaise was quickly resolved when I came across Brecht’s essays. Whilst Lukacs appeared to me, at that time in my intellectual and philosophical development, to embody a meek celebration of the Literary Canon with a kind of obsequious, conformist reverence I found stultifying and reductive, Brecht offered an exciting challenge to the established literary elite through his Marxist dramaturgy and his avowed anti Aristotelian ideological position. As Brecht said in a letter to Walter Benjamin; empathy is the emotion we must be rid of, which was the cornerstone of his concept of Verfremdungseffekt, which celebrated unemotional theatrical alienation. When watching a Brecht play, the audience instinctively knows, as well as being regularly reminded, that the drama is not real, nor does it pretend to be; rather it consciously and relentlessly battles against realism. I took Brecht’s theory and used it as a philosophical carte blanche to luxuriate in the most experimental Modernist and Nouvelle Roman texts imaginable, as I fell in with the deconstructionist critical charlatans, but that is another story.

Looking back from a distance of 30 years at my youthful philosophical wrangling, what intrigues me is not the conclusion that I drew, nor that I was unintentionally proving the validity of Roland Barthes’s concept of Jouissance, but rather the two thinkers who sparked my own internal debate were both, in their words, Marxists and have been thought of, now that their life and works are complete, as exponents of the philosophy of Marxism, however one seeks to interpret that word, for more than 6 decades since Brecht’s death and 40 years since Lukacs passed away. Do their theories and the way they have been interpreted really matter? Is debate on such recondite, abstract matters literally as relevant as two bald men fighting over a yellow polo shirt? Of course the Brecht Lukacs Debate matters; mainly because humans care enough to think about such things as literature and the ways in which it represents the world and the human condition. Brecht’s legacy is a tangible one in that his plays are performed, but both he and Lukacs penned words that make me think, even to this day, about literature and the purpose of writing.

This debate returned to my mind last weekend as news of Fabricio Coloccini’s unhappiness emerged. Before Christmas his father had said his son wanted to return to Argentina, to San Lorenzo where he’d played on loan as a young man. However as Coloccini senior had recently been appointed youth team coach at San Lorenzo, it seemed to be a load of hot air. This verdict remained the case until last Friday, when a story emerged in The Independent that Coloccini wanted to leave Newcastle United, as his wife had gone back to Argentina for an unspecified reason, which has resulted in much immoderate on-line speculation. It is instructive to remember the story was penned by Martin Hardy who, though he is a lifelong Newcastle fan who cut his journalistic teeth in The Mag when he was in Sixth Form two decades ago, came out with the risible non story of Newcastle’s Muslim players refusing to wear the shirt next season if Wonga are the sponsors as Islam prohibits usury. Well, that was shown to be a load of baloney, but they may not be wearing the shirt next year as they’ll all be flogged to the highest bidder, according to the doom mongers on the message boards.

Getting back to Colo, the inarguable fact is that San Lorenzo cannot afford him; if Newcastle are unwilling to cancel Xisco’s contract, there’s no way they’ll tear up our captain and best player’s deal,  one which he signed only a year ago, even if he has been pretty poor by his standards this campaign. That said, talks are set to take place between the player and club. My hope is that Colo will remain until the summer to guide us to safety, but I can’t delay my writing until the situation is resolved, having already waited 24 hours for the Loic Remy saga to conclude.

I’m like 50,000 other Newcastle fans in that I know nothing of this player other than his name, which I’m unsure how to pronounce. Nobody has seen him play, which ironically reflects how Brecht admitted he’d not actually read what Lukacs had said in the essay he so eloquently denounced, much less hear him speak, thus confident pronouncements as to why he’s turned us down and what he could have offered the team, based on little more evidence than Joey Barton’s Twitter feed are not helpful. Admittedly, a suggested £10m price tag and rumours he’s a good striker who can also play wide meant he’d do for me. When disaster struck barely 24 hours after a deal was seemingly concluded and it emerged he’d gone to QPR for £80k a week and a get out clause if they are relegated, it immediately became clear such fiscal brinkmanship is nigh on impossible to fight against; Newcastle United won’t break our wage structure to get him on board or give him the chance to walk away in the summer, which he’s been given in W12 if the Rs go down; such an amazing incentive for any avaricious player. Let’s just hope he doesn’t send us down when we play at Loftus Road in early May.

Such sentiments may be alarmist and are certainly negative, but it is impossible not to be influenced by the relentless negativity of the on-line Tommy Schopenhauers . If we take the words of these miserable bastards to heart then Ben Arfa, Colo, Krul (another one who has been well below par all season) and Santon are all for the off in this transfer window, with Cabaye, Cisse and Debuchy following them through the exit as soon as we’re relegated in May and there’s no-one coming in to replace him. I wonder whether the Tommy Schopenhauers at some elemental level want to have bad news heaped upon us, simply so they have the excuse to moan, whinge and gripe to the fullest extent. Personally, I’m a sentimentalist, so I’d love to see Danny Graham sign for us; he’s a local lad, a Newcastle fan and the Andy Carroll you’d trust to take your daughter on a date to the pictures.  I’m also an optimist; in the absence of supporting evidence, I still believe we’ll sign some players and that we can get out of danger. It isn’t May 2009 again, just yet. One can only hope that our club’s fate does not reflect Brecht’s analysis of one of his most famous works; what Mother Courage learns matters little, but what the audience learns by observing her fate is of the greatest importance.

I will admit that it is hard to argue against abject pessimism, especially when there’s no tangible alternative other than a cheery disposition and the hope that the next 2 games and last fortnight of the transfer window can bring us some good news. Thirty years ago I believed Bertolt Brecht was completely correct in everything he said and Gyorgy Lukacs spouted anachronistic, conformist nonsense; nowadays, I see the validity of both viewpoints, while tending towards the latter. It’s the same with the Schopenhauers and the Aristotelians at Newcastle United, though I think I’m slightly more in love with the latter, but only in a Platonic way…

Unpublished 5: Around the Grounds 12/01/12

Percy Main versus Heaton Stannington; heavy rain on Thursday and then again overnight Friday to Saturday put this one off.

December 2012 saw a single Northern Alliance Premier Division game played, when we lost 2-0 at home to Walker Central. However, the New Year brought some respite after a month of incessant rain, meaning last Saturday saw a much healthier looking set of results. In particular, our thrilling 4-3 success away to Stocksfield saw the Main move up to 6^th place from 13^th, as a result of those hard-fought three points. Elsewhere in the Premier Division, ninth placed Seaton Delaval Amateurs deserve great praise for holding leaders Amble 3-3 at Wheatridge Park, while Carlisle City consolidated third place with a 5-1 thumping of 13^th placed Killingworth Sporting at the Sheepmount.  Blyth Town are fourth and remain unbeaten; their latest success being a 4-1 away win at Walker Central, who lie 12^th. The other game saw Shankhouse move off the foot of the table and out of the relegation places, with solid 3-0 home win over tenth top Wallsend Town. Today’s opponents, second top Heaton Stannington knocked second bottom Hebburn Reyrolle out of the George Donnins League Cup, to advance to the semi-finals.

Division 1 saw a trio of away wins; pride of place goes to Wallington, who moved to the summit and in the process overtook hosts Cramlington Town who drop to third, after a 3-1 score line. Second top Bedlington Terriers Reserves surprisingly went down 4-1 to tenth placed Ponteland United and 6^th top Heddon lost 3-0 to Redheugh 1957 who are now 8^th. There were mixed fortunes in the various cup competitions, with Forest Hall defeating Division 2 North Shields Athletic 3-2 in the third round of the Northumberland FA Minor Cup, while in the fourth round of the same competition, Hexham beat Chemfica 2-1 in one all Division 1 tie, while Red House Farm accounted for Newcastle University by a 2-0 margin in another. Cullercoats were also successful, winning 5-3 away to Newcastle Medicals on the 4G astroturf at Complete Soccer in Gosforth Park.

With the top 3 inactive, Longbenton moved up to fourth with a comprehensive 4-0 home win over second bottom Swalwell. Cramlington United are bottom and tumbled to a 6-1 home loss to Blyth Isabella, who are now in seventh place. The final league fixture saw Alnwick Town Reserves in 8^th spot defeat fifth top Wideopen 2-1. Another Division 2 side in Minor Cup action were New Fordley, who triumphed 4-3 away to Cullercoats Reserves, while Grainger Park Boys Club defeated Alston 3-2 in the first round of the Bill Gardner Trophy.

In the Northern League Whitley Bay’s trip to Marske fell afoul of the weather, as did Gateshead’s Conference home tie against  Nuneaton Borough, while Team Northumbria took a point from an entertaining 3-3 draw away to Celtic Nation at Gillford Park. Newcastle Benfield’s relegation worries were increased by a 2-1 loss away to fellow strugglers Billingham Town. In Division 2, North Shields started the year in encouraging fashion with a thumping 6-0 win away to struggling Thornaby, while West Allotment Celtic moved their game against Alnwick Town back to the Friday night. They were rewarded with a 2-0 win, but not with a bumper gate, as only 142 were in attendance. Curiously this was the same number as had taken in the cracking Dunston v West Auckland game that ended 5-2 to the home side, which took place while Newcastle United were losing at home to Everton.  Is there a lesson in this? Only the depressing one that whenever games take place, people seem reluctant to come out and watch grassroots football, sadly.

Keep the faith…..

GB89: JFT96

This article was originally part of a Blog post in September 2012 (http://payaso-del-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/gb89.html), but I revisited it for an article in issue 11 of Newcastle United's top fanzine toon talk. It is one of the most important subjects I've ever written about; I hope I do it, and more importantly the 96 innocent people who lost their lives in Sheffield on April 15th 1989, justice.

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

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

Don’t just take my word for it, read David Peace’s mesmerising, brilliant fictional retelling of Governmental malfeasance and the tragic impact it had on the lives of ordinary, dignified working class lives in GB84. Once you’ve read that book, you’ll be prepared for the soon come revelations that deceit, corruption and the vile manipulation of a complaint media by the forces of social control were involved in the shameful absolving of blame of South Yorkshire Constabulary in the Hillsborough disaster. The bastards may have got away with it for 23 years, but the facts will out and they will show that the Government fixed it for the Police to get off scot free in the aftermath of 96 tragic, preventable deaths, as a way of saying thanks to SYP for ensuring the Miners’ Strike failed and ensuring that the boys in blue would continue to act as state condoned shock troops, hell-bent on social repression and drunk on power. I applaud the fact that an inquiry is now being conducted in to South Yorkshire Police’s behaviour that day. Frankly, the fact that Chief Constable Sir Norman Bettison has been allowed to retire, effectively dodging any proper examination of his role in the Hillsborough Disaster is an absolute outrage.

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

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

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

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

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

Death Xisco

As part of my Master’s degree in Twentieth Century American Literature, I was lucky enough to spend some time studying The New Journalism. Obviously the likes of Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood, Joan Didion’s The White Album, Hunter S Thompson’s Fear and Loathing series and just about everything by Tom Wolfe featured heavily on the course, though the book that really struck a chord with me was Joe McGinniss’s The Selling of the President, which told the scarcely credible story of the loathsome Richard Nixon’s successful bid for the White House in 1968. McGinniss’s account of his time on the campaign trail with the GOP’s most successful crook topped the best sellers’ list for six months, which was an extraordinary achievement for a 26 year old left wing freelance writer, helped in part by a ringing denouncement of the book as “Communist crap” by William F Buckley, who’d obviously not read it. Perhaps my favourite section is when Nixon meets Rowan and Martin of Laugh In fame and tells them how he respects them for making him aware of the “funny lady with the little guitar.” Nixon is referring to Tiny Tim; seriously, he is.

The only other book I’ve read by McGinniss, who has had a 40 year career as a writer, is his superb account of both dignity and malfeasance in the land of both Dante and Machiavelli, The Miracle of Castel di Sangro, which tells the story of a successful battle against relegation from Serie B of a team from the tiny village of Castel di Sangro (population 3,500) in 1996/1997, despite the death of two players in a car crash, the arrest of another’s wife for cocaine importation, match fixing allegations and the kind of small town corruption that makes Belusconi and the Cosa Nostra seem like a local AmDram society. It is a wonderful read and a superb companion piece to A Season in Verona by Tim Parks. I only finished the book on New Year’s Day, as it has acted as a kind of safe haven from and appealing alternative to tiptoeing through the entirely preventable tragicomedy of Castel di Nuevo’s unnecessary but seemingly inevitable battle against relegation in 2012/2013.

As Rome burns, the Sockists fiddle with well-dressed away fans, accepting and donating reacharounds from anyone who can boast a North West accent, a wide array of designer labels and a taller set of tales of terrace trouble. The local fourth estate wash their hands of any pretence of impartiality or even competence, running stories cut and pasted from Dutch websites about a possible trial at Newcastle United of AZ Alkmaar’s striker Denzel Slager through Google translate and announcing the player’s name is actually Denzel BUTCHER; I am not making this up. At least I made it to the shortlist for Football Tweet of 2012, with my pretence of being in Athens for the away game against Atromitos in the company of Adam Johnson, who I claimed was about to sign for us; recognition is nice, but it didn’t yield any Premier League points. Neither did the Everton home game, which I didn’t make. The only person I owe an apology to for that is my son Ben, who took the ticket. On reflection, he would have been better revising for his AS Levels or accompanying me and the Hudson Boys to the Kingdom of Fife for the big local derby between Dunfermline Athletic and Raith Rovers at East End Park.

Regular readers will know of my passion for Scotland as a place and the twin joys of Scottish football and Scottish indie music in particular. Consequently the plan that was hatched on our way back from Horden on Saturday came to fruition as we left Tyneside at 10 for a three hour journey, ending on the far side of the Firth of Forth. I’d never been to Dunfermline, the unlikely twin town of Albufeira that’s referred to as “Vichy Fife,” by Jason, the professional Subbuteo playing protagonist of Irvine Welsh’s fine novella The Kingdom of Fife. Interestingly, it’s also twinned with Vichy, though I saw nothing in common with either the Algarve of the capital of Nazi collaborating France in the birthplace of Andrew Carnegie and former Scottish royal seat (we’re going back a while mind) that’s mentioned in Fairport Convention’s Sir Patrick Spens.

Parking up just before 1, we went to the ground to get tickets, as Dunfermline for some reason require people to purchase tickets from the club shop or a kiosk, rather than hand over cash at the turnstile. It cost £17 for a seat in the North West Stand, which was the same as Partick Thistle cost, two seasons earlier. The tickets we got were from the club shop, where the club insisted one slow moving queue for all purchases. One fella, obviously suffering the January Fear, was queuing up to buy an away shirt, perhaps the only person in the place wanting a jersey as opposed to a brief (I’ve been swotting up on my Scottish dialect), but the snail pace movement did nothing for his hangover and even less for his sartorial choices; his patience finally snapped and he flounced out like a theatrical luvvy in a gargantuan hissy fit, flinging the away kit on a nearby hanger, claiming ah didnae want the fuckin’ thing anyway.

Tickets eventually bought, we killed time in a deserted pub where the barman was English, with coffees and desiccated beanburgers that tasted like a dozen cork coasters fused together. As this was derby day, the police were out in force, with the Fife Constabulary paying us a visit; they withdrew shamefaced at the sight of 4 English idiots watching Sky News on mute, accompanied by a soundtrack of The Stereophonics. Dunfermline may be a reasonably scenic and seemingly sedate town, unlike Central Fife which is a trifle lawless in parts, but East End Park is a lovely ground; with a full house and a good team, this would be a hell of a place to see a game under lights. Even better, the teams come out to Into The Valley by local heroes The Skids; allied to the fact Dunfermline play in black and white stripes, it was a no-brainer who I was supporting, even if when we got to the game at 2.45, we found we’d been afforded a traditional Scottish welcome; the dirty English bastards had been sat behind a pillar. No matter; the seat next to me was free and anyway, the game was rancid in the first period, so who needed to see it?

Back in 1994 Raith Rovers beat Celtic on penalties to win the Scottish League Cup, qualifying for the UEFA Cup in 1995 as a result. Their first game in Europe at Stark’s Park was in late July and as we were, coincidentally, holidaying in nearby Crail (in the scenic East Neuk of Fife near St. Andrews) at the time, so I took the opportunity of a tick and saw them record a 4-1 victory over a Faroese team, where future Fulham and Bolton fullback Stephen McAnespie scored a beautiful free kick. Despite this, I’ve no residual affection for the Kirkcaldy outfit, mainly because Gordon Brown supports them. I wasn’t alone in this opinion in East Endf Park, though the locals held Raith in far greater contempt than I did. According to the Dunfermline zealots, every Raith player is a sex offender, which seems a good deal more extreme and far less advisable a recruitment policy than even Athletic Club’s Basque only stance. At least, this is what I assumed to be the case, from the constant shouts of ya baldy, wee, lanky, fat, ginger, skinny, paedo bastard to every Raith player who came within screaming distance.

After the break, the Pars stepped it up considerably and deservedly won it with a fine downward header by Andy Geggan after 70 minutes, which was the only goal, to the delight of a raucous crowd of 5,083. This was a first win in 5 for The Pars (I don’t know what it means either) and cemented their third place in the table, two points behind both Morton and Partick Thistle, in the hunt for the single Scottish Premier spot, that Dunfermline lost last season. We got away fairly quickly after full time (massive thanks to Andy Hudson for the driving and both him and Michael for being superb company as ever), but a build-up of traffic on the Edinburgh bypass delayed us slightly, meaning I was dropped off at the big match on Tyneside just as the half time whistle blew. We’re talking Wellington Road not Strawberry Place.

At that point, Dunston had come back from 2-0 down to lead West Auckland 3-2. I met up with the ever handsome Shaun Smith and we saw an enjoyable second half on a claggy pitch, with Dunston extending their lead and winning 5-2. Sadly, Cisse’s goal after 74 seconds that we’d celebrated with such gusto in the car had proved to be in vain as Everton won 2-1. This means Newcastle have lost 9 of the last 11 Premier League games; despite decent performances in more than half of those games (Stoke, Fulham, Man City, Man United, Arsenal), there is only a 2 point gap above the relegation zone that the Magpies may be in danger of spending the next four months hovering above. Even sunderland’s trouncing at Anfield, where a 3-0 score line could have been in double figures, was of neither consolation nor relevance.

After the Dunston game, I scrounged a lift to Gateshead from handsome Shaun and spent a slightly unreal journey home through the subterranean tunnels of the city, following the game that unfolded above my head on my phone. It isn’t a scenario I would really be that comfortable about replicating, especially as I read vastly conflicting accounts of the game. Now as far as I’m concerned, the very fact I didn’t see Wednesday’s game means that any comments I make about it are pretty much invalid, as all I’ve seen were highlights. I have to say though, Match of the Day did seem to suggest it had been a good game and one we were unlucky to lose; responses at full time on Twitter did not bear this out, with the vast majority of people absolutely furious at weak defence (Krul was awful for the equaliser) and spurned chances. However, as I say, my opinion is worthless; the opinions of two people whose opinions I value above almost all other (@tt9m and @LeazesTerrace) were at total variance. Take from that what you want; as far as I’m concerned, the FA Cup interlude is an opportunity to cool off. Just watch the useless sods get a draw…..

While Demba Ba’s departure to Chelsea and Debuchy’s arrival from Lille have not been completed; both seem inevitable. I am genuinely sad to see Ba go, as he has provided both quantity and quality in his goalscoring. Stories about his degenerative knee condition may have been exaggerated, bearing in mind it hasn’t kept him out of many games for us, though it does appear to be the case that only clubs with the cash reserves of Chelsea can ignore this and avoid insuring him. I’m not even that stirred up by claims that he has used us. Yes I’m very sad he has gone and I do realise money will be a massive factor in his departure, but I do find some consolation in the fact he has chosen Chelsea (a club with genuine aspirations to win things) rather than QPR (where we would definitely only have gone for cash reasons). I also find it amusing that a journalist with The Daily Telegraph, who moved there from a local paper is the most vociferous in his claims of Ba’s avarice; surely career advancement plays a part in such moves as well as cash money? It would be ludicrous to pretend it doesn't.

What does disappoint me is that when Ba arrived, in summer 2011, his transfer in and out, as well as seemingly all the dealings in between times, allowed Newcastle United to be strung along, hung out to dry and eventually checkmated by football agents, including the disgraceful Barry Silkman who apparently wished Sir Bobby Robson's cancer spread all over his face, after he failed to gain a kickback following the Clarence Acuna transfer. The more I know of these licensed parasites, and we should all remember the malign influence of Willie McKay on our club, the more I admire players who use the PFA to help them negotiate moves and improved contracts. Am I naïve in hoping that this approach could become compulsory in the future?

Anyone believing Matthieu Debuchy’s arrival, welcome though it is, will be enough to sort out our defence is being naïve. He is an excellent player, from what I’ve seen, but the need for a centre half and a striker remains more than pressing; more than imperative even.  Certainly, the period between the defeat by Everton and the next game, away to Norwich on January 12^th, is one of the most crucial on the training ground and in the boardroom, which this club has had in the past 3 seasons. January 2012 is as important to the future direction of this club as May 2009 was.

The result of the FA Cup game at Brighton is meaningless; Pardew needs to get everything ready for the trip to Carrow Road and the subsequent league games at home to Reading and away to Villa. Nine points may be beyond us, but 7 would be excellent and 5 the absolute minimum; less than 5 and relegation starts to look ominous and Pardew becomes vulnerable. He has to stand up to what Joe McGinniss has got me calling la presenza oculta of Mike Ashley and the Signor Gravina of the roulette wheel, his pal Llambias.  The alternative, of course, is that 2013 becomes the year of Francisco Jimenez Tejada. Number 32, Xisco; your day has come.

Goodness, I wish every person involved in football had the dignified courage of his convictions shown by Kevin Prince Boateng when leading his AC Milan side off after he'd been racially abused in a friendly against Pro Patria on January 2nd; Alan Pardew's statement that Nile Ranger would never play for Newcastle United look very shallow when compared to Prince Boateng's actions. Perhaps Pardew would do well to study Roberto Mancini's man management tactics with Mario Balotelli in future when "handling" Ranger. Closer to home, I wish every surrent NUFC player cared as much about Newcastle as the fella I saw shopping in Sainsbury’s High Heaton on January 3^rd.