Patrimoine

Patrimoine (nm):  ensemble des biens reçus en héritage 

For a long time, both discourse analysis and literary studies have focused on those narratives that define and confirm the culture from which they spring. It should of course be remembered, and become clear during the course of this piece, that the discourse being analysed does not necessarily exist because of any notion of creativity or imagination in the sense of a literary or authored text, in whatever way we seek to define authorship or authorial intent, but may be actually a series of real life events that have been recorded, refracted and responded to in myriad ways that change and are affected not in terms of the topographical or temporal distance any “reader,” in the sense of the physical location of the interpreter of said events, has from the analysed discourse itself (which has de facto become a text, through unbidden analyses, because of the plurality of interpretations visited upon the discourse), but because of the emotional proximity or indeed distance, whether accidental or intentional, of any reader.

However, what any movement to study the narratives and counter-narratives of the events that took place at Wigan Soccerdome around 2.30pm on Sunday 17^th March 2013 has revealed and is continuing to reveal is exactly what should have been obvious to those who sought to impose an irrefutable fixed meaning on both the physical events, their significance and the subsequent response of the whole panoply of seemingly interested and/or involved parties: there has always been a reactionary element to the discourse analysis of certain competing narrators and the methodologies employed by such critics has resulted in their appropriation of an especially potent reactionary and illiberal brand of both textual and cultural analysis. The logical conclusion to such lines of thought is, of course, that traditional, dirigistic, critical narratives all too readily provide a logocentric, intellectual and cultural validity to the economic and political ambitions of both capitalism and the attendant forces of repression, whose unquestioned analysis of the textual narrative and signification, provides no outlet for alternate readings of the events of 17^th March. Rejecting nuanced critiques of the discourse of 17^th  March, which anecdotally appears to be a more prevalent approach than addressing the subtleties of non-traditional discourse analysis, ensures the hegemony of influentially powerful discourse narratives, which may not often be blessed with instrumental power, but are able to create a monocultural, false consciousness through the public utterances of their defenders and supporters, despite the efforts of the  unempowered critics to confront the complicity of unambiguous advocates of the established discourse analysis machine. In terms of Newcastle United, it seems that certain elements, while attiring themselves in the robes of radicalism, are happiest when acting as the apologists for the forces of reaction and repression by doing unbidden the offices of the state, when voluntarily informing on their fellow supporters to the police. Is this acceptable?

The events of 17th March were not the re-enactment of the Watts Riots of 1965. It was not even the grandchildren of May 1968 in Paris or Prague. This was a load of pissed teenagers stealing corner flags and I didn’t like it much. Would I have invaded the pitch during the Wigan Cosmos v Leigh Centurions game? Aged 48; no. Aged 48 and pissed; no. Aged 18 in 1983; no. Aged 18 in 1983 and pissed; no. Would my 17 year old son have invaded the pitch in 2013, pissed or sober? No. Why? Because he’s got more sense and because I respect the integrity and the perfection of football too much to besmirch the honour of the sport. Every single game of football, from a World Cup final to a wooden spoon contest in Division 4 of the North East Over 40s League, has the right to be honoured and respected, because it has encapsulated both the passion and the emotional attachment of all those taking part and, lest we forget, all those watching.  Do I condemn those who invaded the pitch, pissed and young though they were? Oh absolutely and in the most profane, intemperate terms possible.

However, would I condemn those foolish young lads who ran on that pitch in public to the wider world than the Newcastle United family? Not a chance. Would I involve myself in cyber vigilantism by attempting to find out the identities of those daft, pissed kids involved so that they could have the pleasure of a 7am visit from Northumbria Police and at best a harrowing haranguing and at worst a Public Order Offence caution or conviction? You have got to be joking. The idea of being complicit in an orchestrated campaign to create a raft of criminal records for Newcastle United fans barely old enough to shave appals me at an elemental level. Newcastle United fans are a family; we should keep parental duties in house. It may mean praise; it may mean scolding. It does not mean disporting ourselves, as supporters of Newcastle United, at the feet of the organisation greatly responsible for Orgreave and Hillsborough. 

Collusion with the police is not akin to Alice Walker responding to criticism of her portrayal of black men in The Color Purple by saying her first duty in the production of a text (what some may call "authorship") was as a woman, then as a lesbian and then as a black woman. Collusion with the police over the events of 17th March by any Newcastle United fan is collaboration. We may have rightly dispensed with the tar and feathers, but the shaven head mark of the quisling is a powerful image, even if it has a genetic cause and is hidden beneath a hat indoors.

These kids who disrupted this game weren’t just pissed; they were disrespectful to the game and that is bad. Very bad. However, in mitigation, they are the logical, incarnate conclusion of the Sky TV generation. To them, football is all about the Premier League, where the only time they step outside that anodyne bubble is to opt for Barca or Real when La Liga is on Sky. It isn’t their fault; they know no better. In the most part, they prefer to play FIFA on their lap tops than get hacky dirty each Sunday morning, on a proper pitch with a real ball, which is why they don’t understand this wonderful game of ours. Fundamentally though, that isn’t the fault of the bairns for, as Philip Larkin said -:

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.  

    They may not mean to, but they do.  

They fill you with the faults they had

    And add some extra, just for you.

These drunken hobbledehoys in their Toms and Quicksilver hoodies are the deracinated progeny of those atrichous Donnay clad bores, who sit in chain pubs of a Saturday afternoon, affecting an interest in Everton v Stoke, while necking Carling as the grassroots game, which is in magnificent health on the pitch in our region, dies a lingering, unloved death. I blame the parents, I really do. Instead of encountering the rime and Graupel showers of late March at Hillheads, Blue Flames or Sam Smiths Park, they sit in their Jacomo polo shirts and Nike trainers and baseball caps, griping at another sub-standard England display. Well, listen mate, if you thought that was shoddy; you ought to have seen Whickham v Ryton, because then you’d really know what dross is.

Now, if I can have your confidence in this,  I don’t know what’s worse; wannabe tough guys in their sixth decade, who shoot their thousand yard stares up and down Pink Lane, pretend they want Newcastle United to be the Millwall of the north and complain when the wealthy curled darlings of our nation act like cocks when they’re full of supper and distempering draughts, or those insecure kidults in rap / metal crossover hats indoors as if it’s 1993, surrounding themselves with toadying intellectual pygmies, like they’re big fish surrounded by pond life because they can’t take a word of criticism. Frankly, I just don’t know. When it comes to Danny Kieron Dyer facing off with Tim Lovejoy-Westwood, I’m just glad I’m Ed Tom Yeats.

And then I woke up.

(This is the first blog I’ve written when drunk, which is why I’m not discussing our injury situation in advance of the Manchester City away game, or the impending departure of media personality and erstwhile goalkeeper Steve Harper from NUFC. As a wise man with a lot of bouncy hair pointed out; if Harper had a testimonial, he’d let Krul play the first half and Elliot the second, just so he could commentate on it for Radio Newcastle.)