Monday 24 June 2013

Goodbye & Hello

After 6 years involvement with Percy Main Amateurs FC, initially as a writer for the programme and since 2009 as Assistant Secretary, I've decided to move on. On the whole I've greatly enjoyed my time at Purivs Park; after all it provided me with the material for my book "Village Voice," which was the reason I set this blog up in the first place. However, I feel it is time to move on as I've been made an offer elsewhere that I really had to take up. Obviously I'd like to wish all the team, players and supporters of Percy Main all the very best for the future and I look forward to seeing them all again on my future visits to Purvis Park. Hopefully it is au revoir and not goodbye.

This blog is the bones of an article I sent to Northern Alliance Press Secretary Jon Tait, who is compiling a book for the Alliance's 125th anniversary in 2015.  I reproduce it here as a way of drawing a line under my involvement in that league. Keep checking back here for news of my next venture...





Aged 8, I attended my first Newcastle United game on January 1st 1973, when we drew 2-2 with Leicester City at St. James Park.  A month later, my second trip to the ground saw my first, numbing experience of the familiar pattern of underachievement and failure that has followed Newcastle United around like a bad smell since we last won the FA Cup in 1955, as we were knocked out of the same competition 2-0 by Luton Town; 40 years later, the wait for silverware continues, with only the capture of the 2007 Inter Toto Cup to celebrate in the intervening period. It’s fair to say I’ve often sought escape routes from following the professional game, with non-league football having provided me with a regular reality check for a good 20 years now. Initially, I watched Northern League football, without really following a team until Benfield arrived from the Alliance in 2003; I still follow them now, but from a distance mainly, as the wonderful Percy Main Amateurs were a side who captured my heart, between 2007 and 2013. For six seasons I wrote for the programme and for four mainly enjoyable years, between 2009 and 2013, I was proud to be Assistant Secretary and a member of the football committee at the club.

My first experience of the Northern Alliance was seeing my local side Heaton Stannington, who have been promoted to the Northern League and whose programme I now edit, defeat Spital Rovers from Berwick by 2-0 on a warm August afternoon in 1998. My son Ben, ex-wife and myself had just moved round the corner from the Stann’s Grounsell Park in the summer of that year and, with Newcastle playing away to Chelsea, in a match that ended 1-1 and was the final one under the managership of Kenny Dalglish, I wanted to get the bairn out of the house and hopefully to see a game.

At the age of 3 my son was already showing an interest in kicking footballs, running after them and throwing them at his daddy. To encourage this, I started to take Ben to see amateur football at a very young age, just so he’d be aware that he may well be cold, bored and disappointed by the experience of live football when he finally got to see Newcastle United in the flesh.

On August 22nd 1998, Ben certainly wasn’t cold as a glorious, still August afternoon lazily slipped past. Initially I was taken aback by how basic the spectator facilities seemed, though not by the football which was of a comparable standard to Northern League Division 2, where Heaton Stannington now find themselves. It became clear to me over the years that the Alliance is reminiscent of club rugby union of the 1970s; players playing a game they love for the sake of it are at the heart of the matter, with officials drawn very much from the ranks of former players and the odd smattering of spectators being seen as an oddity rather than an expectation. Committee members seem to be drawn from both sources, with a bad temper and an utter lack of any sense of humour or human compassion being the only prerequisites for these roles.   

On Cup Final Day 2005, while Arsenal and Manchester United played out a sterile, drab 0-0 draw, I was in the company of several groundhoppers who had travelled from Leeds, London and the West Midlands, happily taking in Seaton Burn’s comfortable 5-0 win over Sport Benfield in Alliance D2 when a league official approached and asked, with a note of incredulity that could have been mistaken as menace by those unfamiliar with the cadences of the Geordie dialect, ”what are you lot doing here?” Perhaps such attitudes and the impossibility of getting a bit of craic going with the other spectators when only a dozen people are watching the game, most of them being substitutes, injury victims and the committee initially led me to remain as an observer rather than a fan of Alliance football. On the whole, I do not regret the decision to become fully involved with one particular club, even if the senses of gratification and appreciation were non-existent.

For the casual supporters, groundhopper and football addict, the Northern Alliance provides a source of great joy in the early summer. The lack of floodlights at almost all grounds means that midweek matches between mid-September and early April are a complete non-starter. Hence, while the Northern League wraps up its fixtures by the May Day Bank Holiday, the Alliance continues on until Whit weekend. This is why my first experience of Percy Main Amateurs came with a visit to Purvis Park on May 14th 2005, to witness the visit of Heaton Stannington, who I was actually supporting, having watched them intermittently since my first visit back in August 1998. Whenever Newcastle were away or inactive, I’d watch Heaton Stannington to ensure I got to see a game each Saturday, though this was something new; an away trip!

The game finished 3-2 to Heaton Stannington and I’ve no real recollection of it, other than standing near the corner flag with Ben and admiring the scenic privet hedge that acts as a barrier between the football ground and the adjoining cricket pitch.  The two sides next met on a cold Saturday in February 2006. It was, in retrospect, a momentous day; Newcastle won 2-1 at Aston Villa, I met my partner Laura for the first time that night and, perhaps most importantly, I discovered the essential spirit of Percy Main Amateurs. The club website carries only a brief outline of the day’s events. In its entirety, the match report consists of the following statement; “by all accounts an even game with chances at both ends and a good performance by Percy Main.” To say the least, that doesn’t tell the full story.

It was a cold but clear afternoon, with temperatures pegged slightly above freezing by a biting wind and ready to decline as the shadows lengthened. With Newcastle away to Villa and Benfield at Squires Gate in Blackpool in the FA Vase, I had resigned myself not to seeing a game, but walking past Grounsell Park, I saw the goal nets were up and corner flags in place. Having purchased a cup of hot brown liquid of indeterminate provenance from the ATS garage next door to Grounsell Park, this being the sole source of sustenance available near the ground before the opening up of fashionable Italian delicatessen Dean & Daniela’s, I was ready to make up approximately 15% of the crowd for this crucial Northern Alliance Premier Division game.

The opposition was immaterial to me as I was simply thankful to be able to see a game, but the claret and blue strips of the away team immediately told me it was Percy Main I’d be watching. 2005/2006 was a rancid season for the Main; a final playing record of won 4, drawn 4, lost 26; goals conceded 94, goal difference minus 65 led to a fairly predictable last place finish. As Heaton Stann were to finish in fourth place, a comfortable home win was to be expected. In fact, this was one of only about half a dozen games I’ve ever seen fail to finish; the other non-completers have been a couple of times for fog, three times because of a deteriorating pitch in monsoon conditions and once, in an Over 40s league game I played in for my team Heaton Winstons at home to Southwick WMC because of high winds. None of those reasons applied here.

Heaton Stannington versus Percy Main Amateurs is the only game I’ve seen abandoned because of fighting. This wasn’t just a couple of players pushing and shoving, or any of the proverbial handbags, this was 21 blokes having a full-scale brawl that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Wild West Saloon during the Goldrush or the Bigg Market taxi rank at closing time on Christmas Eve.

It was an incredible spectacle to watch; with the game goalless and only a few minutes remaining, a disputed throw-in on the touchline led to a swift and frank exchange of opinions that soon escalated in to a no-holds barred fight. Rather like those staged wrestling bouts that Kent Walton would commentate on at the end of World of Sport where half the audience at the Fairfield Hall Croydon or Wolverhampton Civic Theatre would climb through the ropes and do their best to launch a few shots at whoever was available, seemingly everyone from both clubs were windmilling, gesticulating and snarling on the touchline about 10 yards from where I stood, with no sign that it would all be over with a few handshakes and rueful smiles any time soon.

The referee and linesmen beat a tactical retreat as the melee continued unabated for several minutes. Looking on from the sidelines were about 8 spectators, which was a typical crowd for the Stann. One fella, earphones in, surveyed the damage and said “Toon are winning 2-1; Given’s saved a penalty and Babayaro’s been sent off. Mind it seems boring compared to this.” As I turned to leave, a bloke about my age who had only arrived as the fireworks were going off, turned to me and said; “football eh? Bloody hell!” The person who appropriated Sir Alex Ferguson’s immortal words following the 1999 Champions League Final was Villagers secretary Norman de Bruin. He, more than anyone else, built upon the fascination I had with Percy Main following that astonishing introduction, and is the reason why I started to write for the programme and did the best I could to help out at Purvis Park. It was a 7-2 defeat at Wark the following year that led me to take the plunge and abandon my season ticket at St. James’ Park, so I suppose you can call me a glory hunter.

Whilst being involved with Percy Main, I had the pleasure of visiting every Alliance Premier Division ground, with the notable exception of Blyth Town, as well as more than half of those in the first and second divisions, not to mention clubs who are no longer with us, like Wark, Chopwell and Newcastle East End. Win, lose or draw, I found within the Alliance a camaraderie and unity of purpose among all clubs that includes just about every single person I’ve had the pleasure of dealing with, on a casual or formal basis, to be superb company.

At times, it was very hard work being involved, especially when we were short-handed because of holidays or illness, or worse when personalities clashed as they often did at Purvis Park, but I never begrudged a minute of my time and never once received a word of thanks for anything I did; though nor did I expect any. It was just as well I had such a tolerant attitude to giving up my time, because we were talking noon until 6 on a Saturday or 4 until 10 when we played midweek at the end of the season (no floodlights you see). Until the very end, I remained 100% committed to Percy Main, as I am now to Heaton Stannington; indeed, as I approach my 50th birthday, I simply can’t envisage my life not involving my devoted obsessions of: ultra-left wing politics, cycling, Real Ale, obscure indie music at gigs where the bands outnumber the audience, writing articles for esoteric magazines and websites and, best of all, non-league football, with specific reference not just to Heaton Stannington, but to Percy Main Amateurs, whose results I will always look out for.


Wednesday 19 June 2013

Jesus Fucking Krist


 
When looking for a silver lining while evaluating the incredible (in the literal sense of the word) appointment of Joe Kinnear as Director of Football at Newcastle United, I suppose I could make a case that this nonsensical turn of events, provides me with ample material for this week’s blog. Rather than being obliged to hammer out an uninspired, innuendo-laden piece, by stringing out the non-story of Cabaye’s alleged transfer to Monaco (impossible before July 1st, of course) over 3,000 words plus, with reference to how the Francophobic element of our support have taken time out from preparing their Gouffran voodoo dolls and are presumably dancing up and down The Corridor of Hate (aka Pink Lane) at this news, as this gets them off the hook for spreading the appalling untruth that St Mirren are charging more for the visit of NUFC Under 21s on July 30th than they do for an SPL game. For the moment though, we’ll leave that in abeyance as I’ve sorted that dreadful cross-border embarrassment out, by apologising to our buddies The Buddies on behalf of all Newcastle United fans for the way they’ve been mendaciously traduced, as well as forming the Tyneside-Renfrewshire Society for Mutual Friendship and Understanding. I’ll let you know how it develops.
 
However, I would be lying if I claimed any good would come of Ashley’s latest obtuse and seemingly vindictive decision. Let’s be completely clear about this; there is absolutely no positive angle to the appointment of Joe Kinnear to a senior role that means he is effectively second in command at Newcastle United, even when it is contrasted with the unmourned departure of the loathsome Llambias, or Lambezi as he will forever be known. From all he has said and all he has done, not just since the news broke on Sunday night of his return, but in his initial tenure as Newcastle United’s interim manager in 2008/2009, it is my opinion that Joe Kinnear has shown himself to be: a fouled-mouthed buffoon, a seemingly inebriated clown, a slurring, malapropistic idiot, a blustering, cantankerous fool. In short, however long his health or future events allow him to remain in post (and I’d wager his 3 year contract will not be honoured), Ashley’s effective deputy is both a disgrace and an embarrassment to Newcastle United; although, we’ve had plenty of those in the past. One of whom, Freddy Shepherd, has had the temerity to poke his head back above the parapet and give his unasked opinions on the current situation; frankly Shepherd’s audacity even trumps the egotistical chutzpah exhibited by Graeme Souness when offering Pardew tactical advice while things were going wrong last season!!

It needs to be pointed out however that to lambast Kinnear simply because he once had a go at The Daily Mirror’s Simon Bird in a press conference is a foolish thing to do. Lest we forget, as an elected Labour representative for the Denton ward, Simon Bird has been party to Newcastle City Council’s ruling Labour group actively enforcing the Coalition’s savage programme of austerity measures by ruthlessly cutting spending on social services and local amenities for the very working class people who make up a considerable section of Newcastle United’s support. Frankly, those who are prepared to bow to the will of the vile, rapacious Condem government in such a supine fashion are not deserving of our sympathy. Also, Simon lobbed me from 35 yards in a Bobby Robson Charity Foundation game at Hebburn Town last year. Never forgive; never forget. Incidentally, I’d quite like to hear Kinnear having a quiet word with Luke Edwards, but that’s by the by.

Similarly, to denounce Kinnear simply because he gets players’ names wrong, hideously embarrassing though the endless incidences of this was on the atrocious interview that coincided with the first and last time I’ll ever listen to Talk Sport on Monday just gone, may be absolutely correct; but if that is all we do, then we fail to grasp the significance of his appointment. Remember, Bobby Robson used to get the players’ names wrong all the time and, other than when NUFC fans showered him in hockle in September 1982, no-one had a bad word to say about him. I take no pleasure in pointing this out, but I sense that the eventual conclusion of what seemed to me to be childish, personal petulance by large numbers of our support, who demanded Pardew be removed last season as the team so painfully underachieved, has had some part in the last farcical turn of events at SJP.

Those who called for the manager’s head, without giving a second’s thought to who could credibly take on the role of Newcastle United manager, were not stormy petrels among our support, but belligerent teenagers with low concentration spans and an absolute inability to view things from a long term perspective. Let us hope that they have learned a painful lesson about the folly of placing any trust whatsoever in capitalist owners of football clubs. Kinnear’s appointment may partly be the result of bad tempered bairns screaming Pardew Out in the direction of Ashley, either on line or in print, but that is not the full story. Ashley may not have dismissed the manager, but he’s made Pardew’s position at best a compromised one and, if the manager had any balls, an utterly untenable one from which he ought to walk away now. The fact that, at the time of writing, radio silence has been maintained (the club only got round to belatedly confirming Lambezi’s departure and Kinnear’s arrival on Wednesday morning), other than to mention the manager will be remaining in current post, simply shows that Kinnear has had the unique effect of making Pardew look dignified during this whole affair, which takes some doing it has to be admitted.

Being charitable and less censorious, I do recognise that it may not actually be the fault of certain sections of the fans that Kinnear has been appointed, as the other element to this decision, other than a renaissance of the abhorrent cronyism that brought the club to its knees in 2008, is Ashley’s pathological need to have a useful idiot doing his dirty work in the football club; Kinnear is basically Ashley’s own Lavrentiy Beria.  Sadly, for whatever reason, we now have Kinnear on the payroll, an event that may be regarded as a new low water mark in the turbulent history of Ashley’s ownership. Such brow beating and navel gazing may be necessary, but there is a more pressing requirement for our thoughts. In analysing the implications of Kinnear’s appointment, the question that needs answering more than any other is; what precisely are we fans of Newcastle United are going to do about it?

While I can understand the deep frustration and sense of despair many supporters now feel, it is wrong to throw up our hands in frustration and say that we can’t do anything. Tactics, so vitally important on the pitch, have an equally compelling place among our support as we seek to make a principled stand. Do not despair; if we supporters work together, we are no longer weak, isolated voices crying in the wilderness; we will be strong, coherent, effective and we will be listened to. However, and this is of the utmost importance, we must  work together; egos, personal spats and historic feuds, need to be put to one side and every concerned Newcastle United fan, whether they are in the NUFC Fans United and toon talk camp, on the fence with Black & White Daft and nufc.com or failing to grasp the nettle with The Mag and the painfully ineffectual and utterly discredited NUST, or even if they’re unaligned and railing in fury and impotent anger on message boards, Twitter or blogs, has to come together as a broad and inclusive alliance, formed from the grassroots up, with the intention of reclaiming our club from the clutches of evil, rapacious capitalists who seek to serve only their own interests at every possible opportunity. What has gone on in the past must remain there; again, the time is right for all supporters to work together to express our collective fury and contempt at this decision and, hopefully, the desire to move the club forward by taking control of it ourselves.

However, it is abundantly clear to me that any supporter-led organisation needs to be very clear about principles and tactics from the outset. WB Yeats claimed The best lack all conviction, while the worst/ Are full of passionate intensity; while I do not necessarily accept this to be the case with our fans, it is of paramount importance that the Newcastle United support transforms itself in to a mass, democratic movement of all supporters, based on unshakeable principles and clear tactics, rather than being born of high minded intentions, but degenerating in to a shouty self-perpetuating vanguard of opportunists with little knowledge of and even less affection for Newcastle United. The danger of the future potential primacy of a cadre of inflexible ideologues using the travails of Newcastle United as a Trojan horse for their own ends, is that our fans will see through this and, rather than being inspired by their rhetoric or empowered to argue their own case, assume once again the depressing cloak of cynicism and the embittered shrug that is the keynote of so much of our recent history and attempts at engaging supporters for change. Were that to be the case, all motivation and enthusiasm for change will be lost.
As an example, look at the scorn and abuse NUFC Fans United engendered for being involved in the replacement of the Leazes gates. Yes I know they weren’t the iconic Gallowgate gates and it was a disgrace they’d somehow ended in possession of Wynyard Hall, like so much that belonged to the club in the 1990s, but surely denigrating the efforts of those who acted in the best interests of supporters to have a small slice of history replaced was not the conduct of self-serving egotists or people with a personal agenda to pursue. As supporters, we need to get over this and we need to work together.
 

 It is my fervent and unshakeable belief that what needs to happen to Newcastle United is that the club is eventually owned 100% by supporters of the team, whether they be born within a goal kick of the Gallowgate End or whether they are part of the worldwide Geordie diaspora and run in the interests of the support, the community and the good of the game as a whole. Am I talking the FC United of Manchester model? Indeed I am. Am I talking the FC Barcelona model? Indeed I am. Whether Newcastle United compete at Northern Premier or Champions League level is, in a sense, immaterial; what matters more than anything else is that the club is run on open, democratic, accountable and honourable lines. Of course I accept that there is a debate to be had and an argument to be won that playing football at six levels lower than we are now is good for Newcastle United, but I relish the challenge of making that case. Repeatedly.

For the moment, the important thing is to start the debate. There is a conduit for anger and for a meeting of all interested parties to try and find a way to work through this. NUFC Fans United have organised a meeting at the Labour Club on Monday 24th June, 6.00pm-8.30; if you care about your club, please make every effort to attend.
 
 

 

Monday 17 June 2013

Sound & Vision III


Circumstances will no doubt dictate that I return to the subject of football by the end of the week, but for the minute let’s just ignore NUFC and have our bi-monthly delve in to my cultural activities instead…

Music:

If you read my blog of June 4th (http://payaso-del-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2013/06/up-for-bit.html), you’ll know I’ve dealt with The Pastels live in Glasgow and their glorious new album, Slow Summits, so I’ll not mention them here, other than saying I’m sorely tempted to head over to Preston on July 26th to see them there.

My last music blog (http://payaso-del-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2013/04/sound-vision-ii.html) was uploaded a few days before 2013 Record Store Day. Like many things, I was late to the party on this moveable feast, only getting involved last year because the very fine Snowgoose were playing Reflex records in town. This year I didn’t even make it to town, sending Ben instead as he’s becoming a bit of a vinyl devotee of late. Instead of giving him a quid for going, I bought him British Sea Power’s 7” release of Machineries of Joy / Facts Are Right, which he loves because it’s brilliant. Incidentally, I must just massage my own ego as a parent, as he’s got me a ticket to see Wire at The Cluny in September for Fathers’ Day, which shows what a wonderful person I must be.

My proxy purchases on RSD 2013 included Vic Godard’s 7” Caught In Midstream / You Bring Out The Demon In Me, which sees the certified genius and postman continuing to reinterpret his early career 30-35 years later, while simultaneously releasing high quality new product, by successfully laying the ghosts of his monochrome, angst punk 77-79 period and embracing his torch song, crooner era, with a couple of jazz and swing tinged numbers, that are drenched in organ and soul percussion. It’s an excellent slice of good time power pop that takes me back to the summer of 1981 and the parallel narratives of positivity from Orange Juice and introspection from Josef K. I recently discovered Vic has booked his annual return to Newcastle for late autumn, which is great news for all concerned.

Last year, The Wedding Present celebrated RSD 2012 with Quatre Chansons, including 4 numbers from the (then) newly released Valentina sung in French. Musically it was great, but vocally David Gedge seemed to be a little less than convincing in the old Charles Aznavour stakes. However this year’s Vier Lieder is an altogether more successful affair, though also a 10” on clear vinyl the same as last time. It isn’t so much that the songs chosen are stronger, including as it does my favourite and least favourite moments from Valentina, namely You Jane and Girl From The DDR respectively, it’s just that the German language seems to suit Gedge’s delivery more than French does. He simply sounds more convincing. Either that or I’m just desperate for more Weddoes material. One consolation is that they’ve booked a Newcastle gig for October 28th, which is half term and means I’m definitely considering a trip to Liverpool for their show there the next night.
 
 

Tame Impala are big and heading towards massive. While they’ve a reputation for being the great new hope of Stoner Rock, I detect enough melody and subtlety in their work to appeal to my jangly pop sensitive ears and consequently I’m able to view them as the mid-point between Dinosaur Jr and Teenage Fanclub, which is pretty high praise indeed. Their re-released debut EP was probably the first 12” single (on blood red vinyl no less) I’ve bought new since Swervedriver’s Rave Down, which is another decent reference point. Regardless of influences and similarities, the fact is that Half Full Glass of Wine is the best thing they’ve done or are likely to do. With a stunning mixture of laconic vocals, a powerful bass riff and a closing drum solo, this one ticks all the classic rock category essentials from Led Zep to the present day and back again. Whether I investigate Tame Impala further is a moot point; this lot are shoo-ins for headlining stadium gigs within a couple of years and I don’t think I’ll be following them in the flesh, unless they can guarantee songs of the quality of Desire Be Desire Go frequently.

I alluded to The Pastels’ personalised mixtape, Insane Energy Drop, in my blog about them; well, it has 2 Scottish cousins that I’ve come across recently. Released on RSD 2013, but donated to me out of friendship by Bill from Pop Klubb was a sampler from Mogwai’s own Rock Action Records and simply stunning it is too, full of eclectic aestheticisms culled from the label’s 5 year history. Moving effortlessly from glorious, uplifting ambient post rock anthems by Mogwai, Remember Remember and Envy, to angular, shouty pieces by The Yummy Fur and Afrir Ampo, it is a superb 80 minute journey through the record collection of true connoisseurs of anti-commercial excellence. To borrow a phrase from ATP, Mogwai have truly curated a textbook of tunes that deserves a wide audience.

The flip side of the coin is to be found on The Barne Society CD; assembled by Marco Rea and Stuart Kidd from the gorgeous The Wellgreens, this release is as organic and heterogeneous a collection as I can remember since Pillows & Prayers, as well as being what I gave Bill in return for Rock Action Records 3. This is contemporary Scottish west coast pop, with the coast in mind being California and the era being 1965 to 1968 or thereabouts. The fact that many of the songs are similar sounding is actually one of the greatest strengths of the release, as this house sound is exactly what I love to hear. Particular highlights are the achingly sad Endless Lullaby by Robbie MacInnes and the equally heart rending I’ve Been Mad for Fucking Years by Picture Houses. Retailing at only a fiver, this is a great bargain and a yin to RSD’s steep prices; £12 for Tame Impala indeed.

My final purchase from RSD 2013, albeit slightly belated as I got it mail order from Norman Records in Leeds was The Fall’s 7” Sir William Wray / Jetplane / Hittite Man; all 3 tracks, as well as last year’s Fall RSD Victrola, which I only managed to get hold of as a download, appear on the latest Fall album Re-Mit. Having just checked, I believe it is The Fall’s 30th studio album and of course I’ve got them all. 2011’s Ersatz GB didn’t last long on the iPod, with only Nate and Happi Song remaining now. On that release MES sounded like he’d lost his false teeth, with his unintelligible mumble punctuated by bizarre whistling at the end of words, but that wasn’t a bad thing. What really made it so dull an experience was the bland uniformity of so much of the music on there that made many of the tracks interchangeable and indistinguishable. Re-Mit is a massive improvement, possibly because of the familiarity I approached it with; of the 12 tracks, 2 are versions of the same song (No Respects) and the 4 mentioned earlier have been released before.

Das Gruppe consists of the superb band MES toured with last time, as well as this year even if he missed Newcastle from the itinerary. His lads churn out a series of intriguing, quality numbers that veer between no-fi Krautrock workouts, like Jam Song, Noise or Kinder of Spine to almost rockabilly, stripped down hellraisers, like Sir William Wray, which ironically sounds the spit of Teesside Fall impersonators Shrug’s Hood Street Gyratory. The absolute standout is the brilliant, multi-lingual narrative Jetplane that combines arcane, yet compelling lyrics with minimalist backing and could have been on either Hex Enduction Hour or Room to Live; yes it’s that good. Indeed, this is a very intriguing Fall album; perhaps the fact it is tame, well-rehearsed and properly executed means they’ve released something they can be proud of and that MES won’t be disowning it in 6 months’ time. Certainly I’d imagine it’ll stay on my iPod for a while yet.
 
 

The same cannot be said of Camera Obscura’s Desire Lines, which is an eminently pleasurable, unchallenging listen, but far too polished and sparkling for my tastes. In fact, it is decidedly mainstream as they appear to have moved on from sounding like a pastiche of Belle & Sebastian to Sheena Easton fronting Scouting For Girls; that’s bad isn’t it? Well, yes it is if you like an element of humanity and a large dose of independence of thought and method to your pop music; perhaps something akin to what The Pastels produce, for instance?

Let’s be honest, there’s nothing wrong with Desire Lines and it will remain a distinctly comfortable listen that is certainly a few notches above most of the mainstream, but it is awfully clean sounding and basically two dimensional. Perhaps Camera Obscura want to be famous pop stars; certainly their gig at Northumbria University on June 8th showed they’ve invested an enormous amount in this album as they played it pretty much straight through. Sadly, the audience didn’t seem all that familiar with the new release and the gig just didn’t catch fire until the twin show stoppers Tears for Affairs and Are You Ready to be Heartbroken? Obviously, with Tracy Ann being 6 months pregnant the gig was never going to be a stage diving, slam dancing festival of fun, but it seemed to me that this was a desperate last hurrah by a band who want to be massive, but who’d produce better music and be happier in themselves if they slowed it down, lost the silly flamenco flurries and played music they believed in. You really have to believe in what you do if you want to sustain your creative power and vital force, which brings us to the life defining night I spent in the presence of Neil Young.

Being too young to connect Prelude’s After the Goldrush with its author, my first actual exposure to Neil Young was via The Old Grey Whistle Test in December 1977. A best of year compilation featured a live version of Like a Hurricane, which was music the likes I’d never heard before; a tortured, operatic vocal and blistering, aching guitar beauty than wrung blistered tears from every note, spread out over 8 and a half, beguiling minutes. I still see the check-shirted Young, wreathed in sweat, his lank hair plastered across his face by the on stage wind machine, eyes closed in concentration, wrestling more and more impassioned sounds from his guitar; I was the one getting blown away.

Seven months later, in a basement in St. Etienne du Rouvray, across the Seine from Rouen in Normandy, I came across Heart of Gold for the first time and simply choked up at the beautiful simplicity of the song. As a Dylan devotee, I understand exactly how two parallel, contrasting, divergent musical styles could happily coexist in the work of an artist. For 35 years I’ve loved Neil Young, but had never had the opportunity to see him live. When he announced this tour last December, it provided a rite of passage opportunity for me and for Ben; for me, it was Fathers’ Day and for him an early 18th Birthday present. At £53 a ticket, it was the most expensive gig I’ve ever been to, but it was worth it and, being realistic, it is highly unlikely I’ll get to see the 67 year old Mr Bernard Shakey ever again. So, from the perspective of a week’s distance after the event, all I can say is that it was one of the seminal, musical nights of my life.


It was wonderful to wander around the Arena foyer and catch up in the time before the gig started with 40 or 50 blokes in their 40s and 50s that I bumped in to, who I knew from all aspects of my life: music, football, work, wherever, who were all as excited at the prospect of this momentous event as I was. In the aftermath, text messages and social media updates show they’ve almost all given the evening an incredibly positive thumbs up, so here’s to: Nella, Craggzy, Mike, Neil, Davey, GWL, Malley, Paddy, Richard, Calla, Paul and Carol, Rob, Pauline and Alex and everyone else I saw there who was there and who loved the night, but have been missed off this list. We’ll just ignore Richyy’s trademark eeyoreism as a by-product of his new, healthy regime. However, aside from him, there was one drunken moron who did his best to ruin the evening for Ben and I, but ended up with his tail between his legs.

The bare facts are these; on stage at 8.48 with A Day in the Life, followed by the bizarre sight of Neil Young and Crazy Horse standing to attention for God Save the Queen (I wonder if Glasgow had the same song? Or whether Dublin was treated to Amhrán na bhFiann at the start of the night not the end?) and eventually off stage at 11.13 after a set that consisted of -:

1. Love & Only Love

2. Powderfinger

3. Psychedelic Pill

4. Walk like a Giant

5. Hole in the Sky (Unreleased)

6. Comes a Time (Solo acoustic)

7. Blowin’ in the Wind (Solo acoustic; Bob Dylan cover)

8. Singer without a Song (Unreleased)

9. Ramada Inn

10. Cinnamon Girl

11. Fuckin' Up

12. Surfer Joe & Moe the Sleaze

13. Mr Soul (Buffalo Springfield)

14. Into the Black

ENCORE:

15. Rockin' in the Free World

It was around the time of Walk like a Giant that our would-be party pooper came to my attention, screaming “play something proper you lazy Canadian cunt.” Now while I’ve a great love for Cripple Creek Ferry and Coming Apart at Every Nail, I was aware this was a Neil Young and Crazy Horse gig; the accent would be on volume and guitars, rather than harmonicas and harmony. This was obviously lost on the moustachioed mackem in the K-Swiss white, Velcro trainers, BHS chinos & Jacomo polo behind us, who missed most of the superb newie Hole in the Sky, returning from the bar with 2 pints and a bottle of wine for his wife, who reminded him she was driving and asked just why he’d bought so much drink. His intelligent reply was; “So I can put up with this fucking shite.”

Admittedly he did quieten down during Comes a Time and Blowin’ in the Wind, remarking “that’s better after each one,” but he really started to kick off during the unreleased Singer without a Song, which admittedly was the weakest part of the set, complaining about “gullible twats lapping up this shite,” which made me turn round. He pulled himself up to his full 5ft 7 and tried to stare me out; it is pretty hard to take being menaced by someone in bi-focals seriously, so when he asked me if I had “a fucking problem pal,” I smiled and told him I was just enjoying my son’s 18th birthday celebration.

The wonderful Neil Young setlist site www.sugarmtn.org reveals that the last time Neil Young played Newcastle, was at the City Hall on 9th November 1973, when he played -:

1.       Tonight’s the Night

2.       Mellow on my Mind

3.       World on a String

4.       Speakin’ Out

5.       Albuquerque

6.       New Mama

7.       Roll Another Number

8.       Tired Eyes

9.       Tonight’s the Night

10.   Flying on the Ground is Wrong

11.   Human Highway

12.   Helpless

13.   Cinnamon Girl

14.   Southern Man

15.   The Losing End

16.   Don’t be Denied

A link to a review, from almost 40 years ago, mentions that “while most of the crowd were enthusiastic and appreciative of the varying styles of music Young played, there were certain of the audience who were distinctly unappreciative of the electric rock parts of the show.” Some things never change eh? I bet you Velcro trainers was one of them at the Albert Hall in 66 screaming “Judas” at Bob Dylan. 

At the end of Singer without a Song, Ben and I decided to move forward as I wasn’t prepared to endure a worse view of proceedings because of that meathead. As we went to move, unknown to me, he attempted to trip Ben up; at which point Ben turned round and used his 4 years’ experience as a prop forward to bang him in the chest. Tough guy, who had taken his geps off ready for a pagga, staggered back and announced “I’m going to knock you two out at the end.” He didn’t, of course; he actually scuttled off through the opposite exit, presumably having been humiliated by a 17 year old lad being enough embarrassment for one night. Now, if he was hating the evening, I can understand his frustration at having lashed out £100 on tickets, but if it was me I’d have either cleared off, or gone for a pint to calm down, before coming back for a song I liked. If he didn’t want to hear anything by Crazy Horse, why buy the tickets in the first place? He could have sat at home, like the conformist populist he undoubtedly is, and watched some shite documentary on the military on BBC2.



 

Thankfully, he was out of our hair from the minute we moved forwards, to within 20 yards of the stage, from which position we were as blown away by Neil as I’d been that winter night of 1977 watching The OGWT Christmas Special. Personally, I have to say that my adoration of the evening is tinged with sadness that Like a Hurricane wasn’t the last encore, but this is tempered by the fact that Ben’s favourite Neil Young song is Rockin’ in the Free World and I’m glad he got to hear that; equally none of the British or Irish dates included Like a Hurricane, though Birmingham got Heart of Gold, as did Glasgow and Cortez the Killer too, which also appeared in the Dublin set list. It’s all quid pro quo with Neil though; he has a 45 year career to try and cram in to one evening. He’s included 2 new songs, something from his earliest recorded output, a cover version of a song that influenced him and several crowd pleasers. The man is a fountain of arcing creativity and he thinks deeply about what he does; I can’t praise him highly enough.

To be picky, the 40 minute version of Walk like a Giant could have been shorn of the 15 minute Arcweld feedback coda and Fuckin’ Up of its singalong, crowd participation section, to allow for a few more songs, but you have to remember Neil Young has released a whole CD of Sonic Youth inspired feedback and likes to make his guitars work for their money. I am satisfied that I was in the presence of genius that night, especially during the glorious highlights of Powderfinger, Ramada Inn and Into the Black, where the guitar sounded like an amplified avalanche and the floor actually vibrated.

Leaving the gig, we were both on a massive high. In fact the adrenalin meant I didn’t sleep until after 2, while Ben reckoned it was nearer 4 when he finally dropped off. What an experience.

Books:

I’ve been busy at work with marking and stuff since Easter, so reading has been on something of a back burner unfortunately, though I’ve still managed to get through a whole shedload of new fanzines; see last week’s blog for details. As far as books go, well I’ve made slow progress. The first book I read was Billy by Pamela Stephenson, which was trumpeted at the time as a harrowing, deeply intimate portrayal of a tortured genius. I certainly didn’t get that from reading it. Indeed, Connolly simply came across as a star struck egotist who had less quality control than Michael Caine and really ought to have stuck to what he was good at; being funny. Obviously the Glasgow tenement humour had long passed him by, but the observational stuff could still crack anyone up. Sadly, we learn more about Pamela Stephenson than Connolly and frankly she’s not exactly an endearing figure; a talentless groupie with a Ph.D, utterly without a concept of confidentiality and providing less insights in to The Big Yin than many of the glamorous, Hollywood high rollers he hob nobs with. A dull and disappointing read.

 

The other book I’ve finished is Cormac McCarthy’s Border Trilogy, comprising the novels All the Pretty Horses, The Crossing and Cities of the Plain, which tell of the parallel lives of John Grady Cole and Billy Parham, a pair of contemporary cowboys, living marginal lives both sides of the Rio Grande in the years after World War II. Unlike the grandeur of Blood Meridian or the taut fatalism of No Country for Old Men, the three novels exhibit a wistful, elegiac quality that puts them closer to Suttree in terms of McCarthy’s oeuvre.

In All the Pretty Horses, Cormac McCarthy begins his Border Trilogy with a coming of age tale that is a departure from the bizarre richness and mysterious violence of his early novels, yet in many ways preserves the mystery and the richness in a more understated form. Like Blood Meridian, this novel follows a young man’s journey to the regions of the unknown. John Grady Cole, more heroic than the protagonists of McCarthy’s earlier novels, confronts the evil that is an inescapable part of the universe as well as the evil that grows out of his own ignorance and pride. His story is told in a style often restrained and simple, embedded with lyrical passages that echo his dreams and memory. All the Pretty Horses is a hero’s quest without a neat resolution, a book in which the strange light of mythic struggle shines through the quick-paced adventure.

 

The Crossing is the initiation story of Billy Parham and his younger brother Boyd (who are 16 and 14 respectively when the novel opens). The novel, set just before and during World War II, is structured around three round-trip crossings that Billy makes from New Mexico into Mexico. Each trip tests Billy as he must try to salvage something once he fails in his original goal. On both his first and last quest he is reduced (or perhaps exalted) to some symbolic futile gesture in his attempt, against all obstacles, to maintain his integrity and to be true to his moral obligations. This novel explores such issues as guilt, the acquisition of wisdom, heroism, and the crucial importance of stories. The novel ends with Billy symbolically weeping after he has abusively chased away a pathetic, crippled dog that had “howled again and again in its heart’s despair.”

Cities of the Plain binds together the separate tales of John Grady Cole and Billy Parham to create a more realistic Billy and a more mythic John Grady. Within the confines of a relatively spare 293 pages, the classic all American cowboy John Grady devotes his life to saving every hurt or wounded creature that crosses his path, a noble and impossible task that leads ultimately to his own destruction. The tragedy of his failed rescue of the epileptic prostitute Magdalena makes a martyr of the near-faultless John Grady, yet McCarthy stubbornly refuses to let the novel backslide into blubbery melodrama. Told in both McCarthy’s signature lyrical style and his dead-on ranchero dialogue, Cities of the Plain ends the trilogy at the height of McCarthy’s storytelling skill.

The epilogue takes place fifty years after the main narrative, as a 78-year-old Billy rests under an overpass in Arizona and talks with a nameless, mysterious stranger. In an intricate and intensely lyrical dialogue, the man tells Billy the story of his dream of a traveller and the traveller’s own dream of death by pagan sacrifice. The conversation weaves in and out of alternate realities and dream worlds, which Billy struggles to understand and make sense of. In the final scene, he tells a woman who gives him a place to sleep that he understands neither his identity nor his purpose; the woman, with the voice of a kind listener or a reader coming to the end of a long tale, assures him that she knows both very well.

 

Now, I’ve read everything Cormac McCarthy has published; all I can do is wait for the film he’s written the screenplay for, The Counsellor, to be released this autumn. It is a wait, like that for the new Teenage Fanclub album that leaves me intensely impatient and nervously expectant.

Saturday 15 June 2013

"The Sporting Life;" a short story

I'm a bit of a romantic consumer, in the sense that I love to buy my music on vinyl rather than by download and my reading material in fanzine form, rather than seeing it on line. Consequently 2013 has been a fantastic year for me, with something of a renaissance of the printed word in samizdat inkies that I'm proud to be associated with. As a consumer I can't praise FCUM's A Fine Lung http://www.afinelung.com/), Liverpool's Boss Magazine http://www.bossmag.co.uk/) or Wigan's Mudhutter (http://www.mudhutter.co.uk/) too highly. In addition, I'm proud to have been involved with Hibernian's Mass Hibsteria (details from  https://twitter.com/GrahamEwing) and the general, ground-breaking Stand AMF (http://www.standamf.com/), whose 6th July Ale Music Football night in Liverpool clashes with our Ben's 18th birthday family do sadly.

However, the most fascinating publication I've come across is Push magazine, a 120 circulation A5 literary fanzine, that includes poetry and short fiction that shows the astonishing talent there is hidden beneath the literary establishment in the country today. Details are available on Facebook from Paul Pomeroy, on Twitter from https://twitter.com/JoeEnglandBooks while copies cost £2.50 inc P&P via PayPal from joe.england64@gmail.com while contributions can be sent to pushmag@email.com

Here is the story I've got in issue #4. It's fictional, incidentally........



Athletics may have gained mass approval across the UK after the 2012 London Olympics, but on Tyneside, running has been popular for decades now. In the 1976 summer games held in Montreal, Brendan Foster won a bronze medal in the 10,000 metres and, despite breaking the Olympic Record in his heat, finished fifth in the 5,000 metres final. Strictly speaking, the pub at the bottom of Chowdene Bank in Low Fell that was opened in his honour soon afterwards was inaccurately named The Gold Medal. My suggestion The Boring Ex Chemistry Teacher Who Mumbles out the Corner of His Mouth didn’t even make the long list.

Time passed; memories dimmed and the pub relaunched itself around the millennium as Porcupine Park, styling itself as a revolutionary concept in 21st century leisure, where dancing and dining go hand in hand ALL NITE LONG. Another decade on and the vogue for sports’ bars showing unreliable internet feeds of Fulham v Stoke on Saturday afternoons to 30 bored blokes with severe Carling habits meant the place reverted to its original name. However, I am able to shed some light on why it was known as Porcupine Park for that unconvincing interregnum.

When training for the 76 games, Foster and his fellow Gateshead Harriers, 400 metre sprinter and subsequent convicted drug dealer David Jenkins (an eventual seventh in his final) and Charles Manson lookalike steeplechaser Dennis Coates (twelfth overall) made camp in the hills above Hollywood at a former movie ranch. The Harriers’ companions included the remnants of Ken Kesey’s Merry Pranksters, though not the man himself as he was engaged in post-production duties on One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest, as well as Allen Ginsberg and William S. Burroughs, enjoying a brief period of rapprochement in their tortuous relationship.

In the camp Foster, a University educated organic Chemist; fell under the spell of occasional visitor Dr. Timothy Leary. Brendan experimented not only with LSD 25 and psilocybin, but with the peyote and mescal Ginsberg had brought with him as a sign of his continued fascination with Mayan culture. The hallucinations Foster enjoyed, influenced his future philosophy, while the junk Burroughs shared with Jenkins shaped the latter’s subsequent career. Dennis busied himself by jumping over tree stumps and the ranch barbecue, simulating the track conditions he would soon face, while reciting Buddhist incantations. Clearly, competitive athletics had taken a back seat.

Post competition, the athletes were granted a civic reception at Gateshead Town Hall and then chauffeur driven to meet their adoring fans at their home track, the International Stadium. In the limousine, Jenkins freebased cocaine, Coates recited mantras and Foster ingested 200mg of lysergic acid, in the form of a blotter, as they sped along the A184 Felling Bypass.

At the stadium, Jenkins slumped wild-eyed across the podium, while Coates sat cross-legged in meditation, while Foster seized the mic from local radio DJ and Master of Ceremonies, Frank Wappat, and began extemporising beat poetry to the awed audience. I am privileged to say I was one of those gathered to hear him speak.

Foster’s final performance piece was dedicated to “all the fish of the oceans and birds of the air.” It featured an impassioned plea for ecological awareness, strict adherence to vegan principles and complete disarmament by all nations of the earth. As he recited it, Foster provocatively undressed and jived lewdly with a hand-picked selection of ample breasted women from the audience, endlessly repeating this totemic tercet -:

We’re gonna build us a Porcupine Park,
With a dozen apple trees
And space for the hedgehogs as well.



Clearly, the poem struck a note with all who were there, being plucked from the most obscure corner of sporting history to rename a pub. Certainly, whatever the place is called now, I feel Porcupine Park is a more fitting tribute to Foster’s achievements than The Gold Medal, but opinions differ…

Monday 10 June 2013

How Late It Was, How Late

It’s been another slow week in the fortunes of Newcastle United, other than the heart-breaking news that soon to be departing full-back Danny Simpson has been shitcanned by his former squeeze Tulisa, though I’m not clear whether the reasons for this final fissure have anything to do with his choice of footwear. The lady in question, Ms Contostavlos, who was apparently a member of N-Dubz, whatever that may be, has of late endured some unpleasant business with the Metropolitan Police. As the matter is sub judice, we’ll draw a veil over recent events and seek not to comment on matters about which we know nothing. How such an approach would be appreciated by those of us who understand that the transfer window remains closed, other than for currently free agents or those whose employment is about to expire and who are entering in to pre contract agreements, until July 1st.

Such facts butter no parsnips with the easily panicked Twitterati who responded to a non-story about Yohan Cabaye heading to Manchester United with the kind of embarrassing, emotional cry-arsing on Friday last that had them bewailing our imminent relegation by bed time. There are two ways to look at this factually bereft screed of baseless innuendo; if you’re one of the YPSM Francophobes who drink down the Corridor of Hate, in The Forth perhaps, you’ll be delighted to see the back of Cabaye, even if he hasn’t been sold (remember irritating details such as facts spoil a good Twitter rant). However, if you’re normal, sane adult, you’ll understand that the only way newspapers can sell copy in the close season, is by filling their pages with sensational guff that has only a passing acquaintance with reality. This is why The Chronicle has actually been of some interest of late; their extracts from Craig Bellamy’s autobiography, paranoid little workie-ticket he may be, were deeply amusing, especially in his outing of Shearer as a 1 dimensional, self-obsessed paper tiger.



Frankly though, the only real football stories in Newcastle this weekend involved the international 4 nations Futsal tournament at Sport Central at Northumbria University, in a competition sponsored by the Football Association. As tickets were only £3, I decided it would be rude not to investigate what is basically a glorified version of the games of 5-a-side you can see any night of the week at any sports centre in the country. In the building where NUST hosted some of their public meetings, no doubt in a second floor broom cupboard at 3 o’clock in the morning to maximise attendance and any consequent, potential dissent, England, Malaysia, Poland and the USA came together to spread the word about the indoor version of the game in front of 409 hysterical fans on Friday. The tournament had started on Thursday with Poland beating Malaysia 5-2 and the USA defeating England 2-1, but I reasoned that 2 days of this sort of thing in a row might be pushing it.

After negotiating airport levels of security, with besuited, earphoned security personnel doing bag and body searches (24 hours later, a yellow polo shirted Showsec goon made an ostentatious show of confiscating  a room temperature can of Diet Irn Bru from out of my satchel, as I effected entry to the Camera Obscura gig across the campus), gaggles of ill-informed and unprepared students earning San Miguel money for later that night by attempting to punt an “ official souvenir brochure” were unable to direct me to a functioning hot drinks machine, the men’s bogs or even the seating area. However, I managed to establish a working relationship with these things under my own steam and was soon sat in a large, well equipped school gymnasium, with around 50 others as some unhelpfully loud landfill techno that is more often associated with step aerobics classes on Tuesday afternoons, heralded the arrival of Malaysia and America. Somewhat predictably, I kept up my resolute lack of engagement with acceptable codes of public behaviour by remaining seated during The Star Spangled Banner, but springing to my feet for Negaraku, the anthem of Malaysia -:

Negaraku,
Tanah tumpahnya darahku,
Rakyat hidup, bersatu dan maju,
Rahmat bahagia, Tuhan kurniakan,
Raja kita, Selamat bertakhta!
Rahmat bahagia, Tuhan kurniakan,
Raja kita, Selamat bertakhta!

(The land where my blood has spilt
The people living united and progressive
May God bestow blessing and happiness
May our King have a successful reign!
May God bestow blessing and happiness,
May our King have a successful reign.)

It inspired the Malaysian side, backed enthusiastically by a knot of international students cheerfully waving their country’s flag, which contained several participants (I hesitate to use the word players) who appeared never to have kicked a football before, to a resounding 8-1 loss at the hands of The Great Satan, who kicked on from a 2-0 half time lead and could easily have doubled their score, having hit the post on 6 occasions. It’s not a cheap jibe at the Malaysian team, but an observation based on the fact that several of them appeared to shoot quizzical glances at the 2 referees when decisions were given against them, as if they didn’t know the laws. The FA website explains Futsal thus -:

Futsal is an exciting, fast-paced small sided football game that is widely played across the world and is officially recognised by both UEFA and FIFA.  The nature of the game places a large emphasis on technical skill and ability in situations of high pressure, and is subsequently an excellent breeding ground for football competencies that can be translated into the 11-a-side format of the game.  Futsal is a five-a-side game, normally played on a flat indoor pitch with hockey sized goals and a size 4 ball with a reduced bounce.  It is played to touchlines and all players are free to enter the penalty area and play the ball over head-height.  Games are 20 minutes per half, played to a stopping clock (similar to basketball) with time-outs permitted. There are a number of differences to our traditional version of small sided football, but the dominant elements are the absence of rebound boards and amendments in the laws that encourage and foster skilful, creative play above the physical contact that tends to be a feature of English five-a-side.

That last point is a particularly moot one, as sliding tackles are allowed. However, get them wrong and you’re in bother, as 6 fouls in a game means the opposition gets a penalty and another penalty for each subsequent foul. God knows how that would go down at Pitz, where I’ve seen games abandoned after descending in to the kind of free-form pugilism normally associated with taxi ranks in the Bigg Market on Christmas Eve, even if the most notable instance of someone losing their head in a game of 5 a side I’ve ever witnessed involved a self-elected, uberfan and cultural gauleiter attempting to kick a Radio Newcastle broadcaster six feet in the air as his side were getting trounced at the JJB. It was a couple of years ago; perhaps he’s moved on from then…

The main problem I had with these Futsal games was the organisers’ insistence on bombarding us with loud, piped music during all stoppages, including the time out each team can call in each half, that was accompanied by The Clash’s I Fought The Law; quite what Joe Strummer, whose only known comment on football was to state his sense of national pride when hearing about English club fans trashing ferries and European pavement cafes in the 80s, would have made of this I really don’t know. It was like being at a Middlesbrough home game, save for the lack of face paint, foam hands, curly wigs and swathes of empty red seats.  However, in defence of the piped music, it was marginally less irritating than the fingernails down a blackboard squeak of trainer soles on the polished wooden floor that really began to hurt my fillings after a while. Simultaneously, the most idiotic rule was that the roll-on, roll-off subs (squads of 15 with 5 allowed on the pitch at any one time) had to wear bibs when on the side line; many of the poor buggers spent more time trying to put them on or take them off than actually playing!

Star player for the States in this more than comprehensive victory was gangly, cumbersome Jamaican-born, Baltimore Blast (I do my research you know) front man Machel Millwood, who scored 5 and missed twice as many far simpler chances; the fact he was wearing shirt number 23 ought to be of interest to Newcastle United fans.  His best goal was during an ill-advised Malaysian attempt to get back in to the game, by taking off their keeper and putting an outfield player in a keeper top. Predictably, play broke down and Millwood rolled the ball in to an empty net from well within his own half.

The second game between the hosts and Poland was considerably better attended, with the overwhelming majority of the audience being either youngsters from local football clubs (Killingworth and Prudhoe youth teams were the ballboys and mascots) or adults involved in the coaching and development of Futsal. While Newcastle has no team involved in the national league, both Carlisle and Middlesbrough, the latter no doubt inspired by former Garforth Town manager, PE teacher, British Futsal pioneer, Juninho’s bag man and inveterate self-publicist Simon Clifford, who introduced the game to this country at the turn of the millennium, are experiencing a rapid growth in both local interest and players. The rest of the crowd was made up of about 50 Poland fans, as the game has always been popular in Central and Eastern Europe (while I lived in Slovakia, brief highlights of the national league would be shown on TV sports programmes) during the harsh winters as the outdoor game is a non-starter with 6 inches of snow on the ground from November to March. The Poles had plenty to shout about, which they did both vociferously and enthusiastically, as their team battered England and cruised to a 2-0 lead, before conceding a late free kick to make the final score 2-1, much to the delight of their supporters.



Poland and the USA played each other for the honour of winning the tournament on Sunday afternoon, with America coming out on top 4-2, while the wooden spoon event between England and Malaysia ending 2-2, but it was such a lovely sunny day I didn’t bother attending, preferring a walk down by the sea side. I must say though that I’m glad I made the effort to see the game played live, but I don’t think I’ll be in a hurry to see it again anytime soon; 5-a-side isn’t a great spectator sport, however you dress it up. Scottish Junior Football on the other hand, is always worth making the effort to get along to, regardless of the quality of the play.

Back about 15 years ago when I was doing my MA, I fell in love with the work of two writers whose entire body of work I devoured over the summer of 1998. Firstly, there was Charles Bukowski which probably says more about the state of my head at the time than my literary tastes. As Bukowski died in 1994, he hasn’t produced much more in the way of a body of work since then, apart from Black Sparrow Press churning out an annual volume of his “previously uncollected poems.” I’ve given many of these posthumous publications a swerve as Bukowski’s approach to writing poetry was to drink two bottles of wine and type a whole load of free association doggerel and banal non-sequiturs before collapsing pissed and calling the resulting squiggles on the page a collection of poems. Other than completists, Ph.D researchers and those with little or any critical faculties, I’d wonder just why anyone would buy these rectangles of hopelessness. The lack of consistency in the quality of his writing is a regular and repeated failing of the Bukowski canon; basically, he struggles with plot in other words. While his short stories tend to be taut, compelling and effective, only the autobiographical novels (Post Office, Factotum and Ham on Rye in particular) work, as his levels of concentration and attention to detail dip markedly in the other of his longer works, especially the dire Pulp and dull Hollywood.

The other writer who arrested my attention, mainly because of his Kafkaesque, labyrinthine plots and assured mastery of the nuances of dialogue and argot, was James Kelman and I’m ashamed to say having adored and proselytised his first four novels and first four collections of short stories, I’ve read nothing by him since then, which neatly consists of another four novels and another four collections of short stories; it really must be time for me to reconnect with this astonishing writer.

While the dystopian nightmare of How Late It Was, How Late and the brutal, uncompromising depiction of the centrality of gambling to working class life in A Chancer are seen as his early masterpieces, my particular favourites were the gentler, more character driven The Bus Conductor Hines and A Disaffection. While How Late It Was, How Late may have grabbed the headlines and The Busconductor Hines may have been more seminal, it is A Disaffection, quietly, which is James Kelman’s best early book. The protagonist is Patrick Doyle, a single, bored English teacher. Each day he gently pines for a married colleague, clashes with his racist brother and fires frustrated polemic at his sixth-formers. Aware that he has succumbed to the rottenness of the system, disgusted by his employment as tool of the British state, he rebels in a most peculiar manner: by trying to fashion some old pipes into a musical instrument on which he can play the song of his sorrow. It is a symbol both of hope and the ridiculous.

Doyle stumbles through the novel’s barren plains, searching for something, anything that will help salve his pain, but makes no progress beyond endless cups of tea and stubbed out cigarettes. The characters in every Kelman novel are incarcerated not only in a socio-economic hell, but in their very existence. As such, Kelman becomes a novelist-philosopher in the tradition of Camus and Kafka, an experimentalist as redoubtable as Joyce or Beckett, and a writer who mines for the dignity in his characters even deeper than Steinbeck can. It is in A Disaffection that his vision is most complete: sad, human and vital. This book is a deep, slow, moving feast, in which Kelman captures the tremors and tempo of consciousness itself, immersing the reader in the yearning, futility and drained moments of hope in each hour of Patrick’s world.

 Returning to the book last month, I was reminded of one of Patrick Doyle’s ultimately futile attempts to find solace in the real world, by attending a Scottish Junior game on a freezing cold December Saturday. Doyle, wrapped up in his own personal world of grief and despair, misses the only goal as Yoker Athletic defeat Glasgow Perthshire. Last weekend, a similar level of despair to Patrick’s could be discerned among the Shire’s support as they lost on penalties to Glenafton Athletic in the final of the West of Scotland Cup played at Pollok.


In searching for a game this weekend, my choices in the West Region were limited to another trip to Pollok for Hurlford United against multi title and cup winning Auchinleck Talbot in the Evening Times Cup final, Shotts Bon Accord v Irvine Meadow XI, but I was there last season, or already relegated Kello Rovers against Yoker in the West Region Super League First Division. There really wasn’t a choice…

If you look up Kello on a map, you’ll probably be directed to the East Durham no-horse pit village of Kelloe, as Kello Rovers play in the seething metropolis of Kirkconnel in Dumfriesshire. Their freakish location makes them liable for a return to the Central District First Division, rather than the Ayrshire District League, despite being within 3 miles of Ayrshire and excuses them, in the main, from the onerous task of playing midweek fixtures. The West Region of the Juniors considers asking teams to travel 60 miles on a school night to be beyond the pale; compare this with the 300 mile round trip that Whitehaven have to make to play Alnwick in the Northern League. Indeed.

There are 2 great things about Kirkconnel; firstly Kello Rovers play there and secondly there’s a direct train from Newcastle, which was the one that took me home from Barrhead when I went to see Arthurlie play Irvine Meadow XI two years ago. As a result, I was able to get the train up via Carlisle, leaving at 9.26 and arriving at 12.23, watch the game, have a potter around and leave on the 17.23 direct train, getting g in to Newcastle at 20.15, allowing me ample time to get to Northumbria University for the Camera Obscura gig. Incidentally, if you’re reading this week’s blog in the hope of finding a review of either the gig or their new album Desire Lines, then I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. This week is football; call back next week for a musical overview of events. Sorry for making you plough through nearly 3,000 words to find that out, but there you go….

I’m glad I got to see Kello Rovers play at home, as I’ll never, ever return to Kirkconnel in my life as there is absolutely nothing to see. Every single shop was closed and, bar the village’s only pub, the only building of interest was the superbly maintained public toilet where I had cause to pause on a couple of occasions. It was certainly the yin to the malodorous, stained, concrete block of a men’s bog at Nithsdale Park, resplendent with surprising PIRA graffiti considering the number of Newco shirts on display among those watching, that appeared to rival the one in Trainspotting. In short there was nothing to do pre match and because I wasn’t bevvying, the best idea was to find a shaded spot near the memorial to miners who died in accents at the local Fauldhouse pit (1864-1968) and read; I managed to complete The Crossing, the second volume of Cormac McCarthy’s Border Trilogy during my day out, but if you’re reading this week’s blog in the hope of finding a review then I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. This week is football; call back next week for a critical overview of my recent reading. Sorry for making you plough through more than 3,000 words to find that out, but there you go….


Despite noticing a huge gap in the wall behind one goal, where the pile of bricks hinted at a recent vehicular mishap, I was a professional and made my way to the turnstile, where I contemplated handing over the West Region Scottish Junior Football Association complimentary ticket I’d been given up at Pollok last weekend as I was there on journalistic business, but instead I gladly parted company with a fiver and then, having made my way round the concrete terracing behind one gaol, I parted with a further £1.60 for ice cold cans of Diet Irn Bru from the well-stocked catering outlet that shares the pavilion with the dressing rooms. This set-up and the outside latrines reminded my other Seaton Delaval amateurs lately, though with a nod to North Shields with a licensed Portakabin, brilliantly named The Rovers’ Return at the side of it.

Perhaps reluctant to wave farewell to the season, Yoker emerged in their bright orange strips a good 5 minutes after Kello, in faded black and white, had lined up. The game eventually kicked off about 6 minutes late and on a hard, bumpy, uneven surface, the relegated home side tried their best to liven up the crowd of about 80, including perhaps half a dozen from Yoker and a similar number of groundhoppers. The first half an hour was an even contest, but Yoker pounced twice in five minutes, firstly via an impressive diving header and secondly via a tap in after a woefully scuffed shot turned out to be a more than inviting cross.

Thus, 2-0 at half time and so I made my way behind the unterraced bottom goal, where the wall was missing and in to the shade over the covered enclosure (packed dirt rather than concreted in the manner of Bathgate Thistle’s Creamery Park) for the second period. Yoker made it 3-0 after a penalty was awarded for obvious and unnecessary holding and then 4-0 with a beautiful curling effort in to the top corner.



As the clocked ticked down to injury time, I began to contemplate the end of a season which began on a day like today, gloriously sunny and warm, though at my very closest football ground, when Heaton Stannington defeated Ashington in a pre-season friendly on July 7th. It had been 11 long months with only 2 Saturdays when I’d not seen a game of football; August 11th saw me at the hurling and May 11th was the inaugural UCU IBL conference. Just as I almost fell in to a reverie, the referee woke everyone up with two penalties awarded to Kello. The first appeared the softest award I’d seen all season, apparently for a foul, but the second was a clear trip. Both were converted and the second had the distinction of emulating Cisse’s winner against Anji, by being the very last kick of the game. I’d not seen it before this season and now I’ve seen it twice in 3 months; canny.

So, at full time, I took a slow walk up to the station, lay down on a bench and read a bit more, being kept awake by the automated station announcements about the need for security and watching one’s belongings that rent the air every 15 minutes. I really wouldn’t like to be stuck in Kirkconnel in the winter; a glorious day and a good book were the ideal accompaniments to an interesting game that made for a fitting way to end the 2012/2013 season.


Roll on North Shields v Blyth Spartans on July 6th