Season of the Witch

For about a week now, I’ve had the growing realisation that we are headed for another prolonged period of civil disorder in this country. As ever, these imminent, spontaneous explosions of improvised, seething anger will be enacted mainly by frustrated youths in the most underprivileged and deprived areas of the country, by those who see absolutely no hope for the future in the context of their blighted communities and blighted lives. Equally predictably, the fault for any such outpourings of righteous despair will not be lawlessness or left wing agitators (more’s the pity), as any blame must be lain squarely at the feet of the vile capitalist ruling elite, aided by their collaborationist, class-traitor puppets in the Labour Party, nominally headed by chief quisling Milliband, whose corrupt and failed system has, once again, brought the working classes who endure their sick, divisive policies from their knees to their feet.

The smouldering powder keg of justifiable anger and contempt has been lit by the latest raft of pernicious, spiteful Tory welfare cuts and repulsive attitudes expressing their contempt for those they seek to exploit and oppress: the bedroom tax, the death of the National Health Service as a functioning entity after 65 proud and glorious years, Iain Duncan Smith’s crass statements relating to the ease with which the lower orders ought to be grateful for the £53 a week hand-outs many are now expected to live on, as food banks spring up all over the country to address want, poverty and need in one of the most developed countries in the world, the repeated loathsome coverage of the deaths of the 6 Philpott children, whereby the actions of one savage sociopath are seen by the Daily Mail and the nauseating, preening George Osborne as being emblematic of the morals and conduct of a whole section of society. Offensive, ignorant, contemptuous attitudes; though wholly predictable.

However, the anti-establishment dynamite that will ignite mass action and explode pockets of anger across Britain in a previously unimagined wave of dissent will be that evil tyrant Thatcher’s funeral next Wednesday. The hatred I bear for the figurehead of the Police State that was Britain in the 1980s remains undimmed, though her death brought me neither pleasure nor satisfaction. Words simply cannot do justice to the bilious hatred and contempt I felt, and will continue to feel until my dying breath, for her, her party and those who aided her in a systematic, pernicious, divisive, evil political philosophy that had the eradication of the organised working class and unionised British industry at its core. Those who say it is wrong to speak of the dead ought to revisit Thatcher’s responses to the sinking of the Belgrano, the deaths of Bobby Sands and other republican prisoners and the Hillsborough Disaster. The tyrant who called Nelson Mandela a terrorist and supported Pinochet has gone to her grave with the blood of literally millions on her hands.

Yet, I feel no closure at her death, for the legacy of her policies remains in every blighted and decimated post-industrial corner of the realm. Take a walk along the north bank of the River Tyne from Byker to Newburn, along the south side from Tyne Dock to Blaydon; their population shows generations, blighted and deracinated by the policies of Thatcher and her descendants of all political hues, cast adrift to while away their hopeless, despairing days with cheap alcohol and prescription painkillers. Even worse, venture to the former mining towns and villages of South East Northumberland or East Durham; from Ashington to Blackhall and back again, dead and dying communities that have endured poverty for more than three decades. On every street of inadequate low-rent housing, in every cheap off licence or closed library and primary school; the stench and stain of the pervasive poverty of aspiration that shows no sign of ever receding. While I will not raise a hand in civil disobedience next week; I understand the motivations of those who will. Similarly, while I smiled at the spontaneous street parties celebrating Thatcher’s death in Derry, West Belfast, Glasgow, Liverpool and Brixton, not a drop of alcohol passed my lips on Monday 8^th April 2013.

Being honest, the main reason for that was my post-match indulgence in strong porter in The Bodega following Cisse’s injury time winner against Fulham the day before. Despite other events putting football in to context, I must talk about this game, as well as the one that preceded it, by which I don’t mean Morpeth Town’s tremendous swearing festival in their 3-2 away loss at Jarrow Roofing. Following the winners against West Brom, Anji and Stoke, we ought to be used to such late drama as occasioned by Cisse gloriously lashing the ball past Schwarzer, but this dramatic denouement felt even better. In the context of a game which we ought to have won by 3 clear goals if chances had been taken, this winner felt like a season saver; “a David Kelly moment,” as my slightly hoarse pal David told me later.

A Jonah behind us watched the game unfold and said early in the second half, “you know what this reminds me of? Fulham in 2009.” Desperate memories of blowing it in an all or nothing game that ended in a monsoon, after a perfectly legitimate Viduka goal had been ruled out by Howard Webb (the original Payaso de Mierda), Nicky Butt’s last gasp shot brilliantly saved by Schwarzer and Bassong sent off. Such memories were as disturbing as they were unpleasant. Meanwhile, despite the astonishing sight of Damien Duff actually trying his hardest on the pitch at SJP, Fulham apart from Berbatov, who was the best player on display by a country mile, didn’t look that bothered or capable of hurting us, profligate finishing (Taylor put two free headers over the bar for starters) and bad luck seemed to have squandered the additional points for us.

The thoughts about the meaning of a frustrating stalemate I was rehearsing before Cisse’s goal, despite excellent performances by Gutierrez and Anita, were distinctly negative in tone towards Pardew; not excessively so, but I was at a loss to explain why Cabaye was wasted (sacrificed?) in the holding role, especially with his snappy tackling, or the logic behind the lively Gouffran’s withdrawal for the slow moving eldest Ameobi sibling, especially as the former will not be involved versus Benfica. I think that Pardew had more than a sense that Cisse’s goal had spared the boss some unwelcome attention as regards his team set up and substitutions; hence the somewhat over the top and unconvincing populist celebrations. I’m not saying he staged managed his eventual state of louche undress, but the cynic in me knows that the media attention would be on the hysterical post goal reactions not the gloomy mutterings while the score remained blank.

The winner gave us a 5 point gap (it would have been 6 if Wigan hadn’t equalised at QPR) above relegation, which affords some breathing space before the next league game and I suggest this entitles, indeed compels, Pardew to select a first choice team with the idea of having a go at Benfica, albeit with a bench full of bairns who should be stripped and ready to go on if the Portuguese score, as if that happens, our attention will move immediately to Sunday’s game. I didn’t get to see the first leg live, opting instead to take in Whitley Bay’s 1-0 home win over Dunston UTS. It was a good game, but the crowd was sparse and distracted by events in Lisbon. The irony was that the winning goal was scored by Man of the Match Tomi Ameobi, who strutted his stuff in front of 250 at Hillheads, while his brother was on duty at Estadio de Luz. Whitley Bay’s poetically named substitute was a Dylan Blake, who immediately gained the nickname William Thomas from the terrace wits.

Cycling back from Hillheads, I caught only the last few minutes and post-match highlights package. To me, the defeat combined outrageously bad luck, with Cisse’s two efforts that he should have buried, defying physics to come back off the inside of the post and outrageously bad defending, including weak keeping by Krul for the first goal, though the other two goals were far worse. His season-ending hamstring injury against Fulham will give Santon time to reflect on his awful back pass, while Taylor needs to stop believing his own publicity and accept his handball for the penalty was moronic decision making at the very best. With the atrocious Howard Webb on duty versus the Mackems, Taylor needs to calm himself down and concentrate on playing football, as the last thing we need in that game is an over emotional loose cannon on the pitch, as we’ve enough in the stands and on line to be going on with. While I did my best to cool the Twitter situation after the Benfica game, urging calm and rational thinking, many were not reading to take on board my message about the need to take only one game at a time, preferring the usual orgy of bloodletting. I’m just glad I didn’t see any of the Sunday afternoon stuff, as I was at the game.

Now, the Fulham game has gone and we look ahead to the chance of a semi-final spot in the Europa League. It will be very difficult to come back from 2 down against a side as good as Benfica, but passion, belief, tactics, patience and luck in equal measures are what we must hope for. Sadly, I won’t be at SJP; Whitley Bay versus Spennymoor has claimed my attention instead. It is my fervent hope that Newcastle can do enough to afford me the opportunity of attending a semi-final tie in the next few weeks.