False Memory Syndrome

Recycling is something I'm very keen on; not just bottles, jars and milk containers, but words as well. I saw a competition to win 2 tickets for Newcastle United v Fulham on www.nufc.com asking for memories of supporting The Magpies; rather than writing something new, I simply copied and pasted something I wrote for a book Kriss Knights (Billy Furious) was editing back in 2003, which never saw the light of day, sadly. Instead this piece was featured in the Percy Main v Westerhope programme from September 1st 2007 (lost 6-3); I arrogantly believed it deserved a wider audience and so it's now at http://football.sportingmemories.org/memory/2268-ian-cusack/ but I noticed a couple of small but significant errors that I've corrected for this version. Incidentally I won the tickets, but I'm not going as Heaton Stannington are at home to Stokesley; my son Ben is taking his mate Webby with him. I hope we all see home wins -:

Newcastle 2 Portsmouth 1

6^th October 1990

Team: Burridge, Anderson, Sweeney, Scott, Ranson,  Aitken, O’Brien, Dillon, Brock, Quinn, McGhee

Crowd 17,682

“Three passions, simple but overwhelmingly strong, have governed my life: the longing for love, the search for knowledge, and unbearable pity for the suffering of mankind.”(Bertrand Russell)

I used to get up very late on Saturdays. The cumulative effects of the working week, gallons of imported lager and three or four nights a week standing around in chilly, half-full pub back rooms and cellars took their toll. Especially during the 1990/1991 season; there wasn’t much about Newcastle United that stirred you from sleep, to feverishly anticipate the coming match. . We’d lost the unmentionable play-off game three months previous and seen our squad supposedly strengthened by the arrivals of Scott Sloan and Neil Simpson. Admittedly the season started satisfactorily with wins over Plymouth and Blackburn, at an eerily deserted Ewood Park, but things went downhill with losses to Millwall and Bristol City and wins thrown away against West Ham and Sheff Wed with ludicrous and late equalisers. Three days before Portsmouth rolled up; we’d drawn 0-0 against the Smogs and were marooned in mid table. Crowds had just dipped under twenty thousand and wouldn’t recover, apart from the cup games that season against Derby and Forest, until KK arrived eighteen months later, but that’s another story.

Around this time, though I wasn’t to know it, my life was about to change dramatically; the day after the Boro game, I trudged to work in a foul mood and immediately met the woman I would later marry. This woman, who I quickly learned was called Sara, had been sent by Newcastle University on her postgraduate teacher training to the school in South Shields (long since pulled down) where I spent a decade alternately staring out of the windows and watching the second hand of my watch crawl towards 3.45. Idly chatting in the staff room, we discovered a mutual interest in music. In those days, being single, employed and reasonably affluent, I would regularly see a couple of gigs a week on average; regardless of merit, I’d be there if they were loud and indie. A Peel play or a halfway positive review in the NME was reason enough for me to be there. Riverside, The Broken Doll, The Cumberland Arms and medium sized venues like The University, The Poly and, to a lesser extent, The Mayfair.

The first weekend of October 1990 was perhaps the nearest we’d ever get in Newcastle to musical perfection, with a home game against Portsmouth somewhere in the middle. On the Friday, That Petrol Emotion were playing Riverside, on the Saturday The Pogues were headlining at The Poly and the real biggie was Sunday, when The Pixies would face a sell-out Mayfair. As well as writing for The Mag, I would also scribble a few lines for a now defunct music magazine called Paint It Red, as I thought being able to say “Hi! I’m a music journalist” would get me more than a flat refusal when attempting to impress nubile undergraduates from the Shire counties. It didn’t. Of course you didn’t get paid for those opinionated doodles; that wasn’t the point, because we were all doing it for the love. That said freebies, promos and most important, guest list places made it all worthwhile. I managed to impress Sara by casually offering her a free ticket for The Pixies, which she readily accepted, though it was the chance to see a big name rather than a night out with a pretentious gobshite teacher that impressed her I’d imagine. However, there was a long weekend ahead of me before Sunday evening.

Friday night was about to kickstart the weekend, with That Petrol Emotion headlining at The Riverside. While I curse the fact I didn’t get to see The Undertones in their original incantation, I’d seen That Petrol Emotion, a spikier, less poppy version of the original band, dozens of times in Leeds, London, Belfast and Derry during my student and post student wanderings, but this was their first time in Newcastle since I’d moved back in the summer of 1988 (Typical me, I leave when Keegan signs and return in readiness for our relegation campaign).

The gig was great, I’ve still got the 7” flexi given out to all punters, and naturally, the backstage party I’d invited myself to was extended to the hotel. Over 3 a.m. champagne and cognacs, courtesy of the record company, the rest band expressed a deep disappointment that they had to be away off to Glasgow by Saturday lunchtime and so couldn’t come to St. James Park, as they had wanted to hear “the famous Geordie roar” first hand. The fact that four Irish rock stars (the American singer wasn’t that keen to be fair) who were, unsurprisingly, uniformly Celtic and Man United fans and had, more importantly, released four albums on Virgin wanted to come and watch our shower of shite stunned me. Why would anyone want to watch Newcastle when you didn’t have to? I mean, I loved the team and reckoned we were about to launch our promotion push at any second, but I couldn’t in all honesty have made any sort of sales pitch to the unconverted about the merits of our wonderful stadium and its atmosphere and or the languid ball skills of our team. Especially against non-entities like Portsmouth. As I staggered out on to Osborne Road at first light, I promised them a programme each and struck out for the first Metro home.

When I woke up at noon, my first thought was not the imminent match; it was the raging hangover that was poisoning me. These days the thought of drinking alcohol on successive days sends me lurching towards the Seven Step Recovery programme, but as a callow mid-twenties social gadfly, I knew a hair of the dog was a top priority. A quick visit to Greggs’ later and then I was ready for a substantial liquid lunch. Nowadays 52,000 punters in town on a match day means that all the pubs are heaving before Football Focus has even started, but that wasn’t the case in 1990. You could go on a pub-crawl and we did; The Star, Bourgoynes, The Newcastle Arms and Rosies was an absolute minimum. You could leave at 2.55, pay in to the Gallowgate and still see kick off. For us, negotiating the stairs up to the Milburn Stand was a bigger test of balance and bladder control than stamina. To be frank, the football was so lousy, uninspiring and downright dull that the best part of the day was the pre match boozing. So it was; I took my place among a crowd of 17,682 for this all-to-unimportant mid-table clash.

The game, as far as I remember it through a fug of 23 long years and senses dulled by several pints for breakfast, was as dire as anyone would have anticipated. Mickey Quinn scored both of our goals against the team he would break his kneecap scoring against a year to the day later. Both headers, from O’Brien crosses. Ugly goals. Unimaginative goals. Third rate goals. Jim Smith goals. Yet that is what we were at the time; while the rest of England basked in Gazzamania and the post World Cup feelgood factor and faceless financial whizzkids peered intently at balance sheets and worked out a way to put fewer snouts in a bigger trough, which would eventually become The Premiership, Newcastle continued to shamble aimlessly along. Twenty thousand at the game and two hundred thousand at home whinging about our performance.

One incident I remember clearly was Portsmouth’s goal, scored by one of the most honest players I’ve ever been privileged to watch. A Portsmouth throw-in, taken by John Beresford, from the East Stand side came in to the box at the Gallowgate end. One person rose tallest, prepared to do his duty; John Anderson appeared from nowhere to bullet a header past Burridge to give the dozen or so Pompey fans false hope of a point. Ando’s head in his hands, Burridge hand on hips, hundreds of indignant signs denoting sexual self-abuse appearing out of the Gallowgate and all of us pissed ones in the Milburn laughing. It was as good as Dabizas v Spurs or Scott v Brentford.

 Thankfully, Portsmouth were as dreadful as we were, if not worse, as they finished 17^th to our 15^th in the final table. They failed to produce another shot during the game as the clock aimlessly ticked away. We held out for our first win in five games and made it down to the traditional post match watering hole of The Three Bulls with a spring in our step. While poring over our copies of The Pink, it seemed clear a couple of good wins would have us putting pressure on pacesetters Oldham and Notts County (ahem). It’ll come as no surprise to most of you that we embarked upon a seven game winless run after the Portsmouth match. Now the gang of us who went to the match then, are pretty much the same gang as I go with now, on my infrequent visits. As ever, I was the odd one out; they were all either married with kids, shacked up or courting strong and their idea of music was Texas or Simple Minds. The fact that I was not only staying out, instead of going home to for a wash and a clean shirt was bad enough, but the fact I was about to spend my Saturday night with a thousand sweaty students at a Pogues gig was incomprehensible to them.

To this day, The Pogues are one of my all time favourites, but they were in a fallow period back then. Shane McGowan was in his last days of his first phase and their recently released album Hell’s Ditch had bombed. While the lyrics were still as good as ever, the voice had gone and the music was all mid tempo rock. Frankly, the gig was an absolute turkey; McGowan sang about five songs maximum and kept wandering off stage. It didn’t seem to bother the audience though, as they bobbed up and down and sang Celtic and Ireland songs in a Home Counties accent. Now I’m as guilty as anyone of being a Plastic Paddy, with my Irish passport and lifelong support for the Shamrock as opposed to the Three Lions, but this got on my nerves. We were in Newcastle and what is more, the lads had won. Much to the disgust of my mate Al, whose only experience of football was our 4-0 howking by Everton on Boxing Day 1986, I started to sing Newcastle football songs, in the hope of rallying the crowd. Not a chance; I was a voice crying in the wilderness. Maybe it would be more accurate to say I was drowning in beer. The louder I battled through I Love To Go A Wandering Along The Cliffs Of Dover or We’ve Been To Chelsea, We’ve Been To Stoke, the worse it got. Half-cut students slam danced in to me as a downbeat Pogues struggled through low quality karaoke versions of songs that should have made us all stand and cheer. Pissed and pissed off, I cut my losses with a carry out and a taxi home, in which I left the Newcastle v Portsmouth programmes I’d bought for the TPE lads. I tried to engage the driver in conversation about the match, but he wasn’t interested.

Next morning, my performance in the Tyneside Sunday League was a study in immobility.  I didn’t do it because I was any good at it, in fact my performances deteriorated on those rare occasions I played without a hangover, nor did I do it for social reasons, as I was always the most unpopular player among my peers, I did it to scourge myself for all the boozing I did. On this particular Sunday, the Khmer Rouge could have come up with a more cruel and unusual punishment than making me walk around for 90 minutes on a grassy corner of Gateshead. Suffice to say, I was ready for bed come full time. However, in the nearest approximation I had to being a dutiful son, I went to see the parents for Sunday dinner and to pick up my ironing. Over lunch my dad, whose last game had been against Sheff Wed in August 1984, gave me a blow-by-blow summary of the match, courtesy of what he’d picked up from the Sunday Sun and Radio Newcastle.

Come five o’clock, I was back home and relaxed; stretched out in front of the fire at home marking exercise books and listening to Swervedriver’s debut album. I was aching from the football, dehydrated from the beer, exhausted from the lack of sleep and looking forward to an early night. The phone rang; it was Sara, wondering where and at what time we were meeting for The Pixies. Quite frankly, the idea of another night on my feet if not the beer, when I had an early start and a full week ahead of me, was not an appealing one. However, I am nothing if not honourable and so found myself in The Trent House at seven thirty. For an hour and a bit Sara and I made stilted, self-conscious conversation about teaching, our background and music. The fact I was exhausted and not even drinking made me tense and her bored. Chemistry? We were two inert gases in a deep freeze. Going to the gig should have been a relief, but it wasn’t. The Pixies, after conquering the world with their previous album Doolittle had received lousy reviews for its follow-up Trompe Du Monde and tensions were growing in the band. None of us watching were to know it, but this would be their last tour before splitting. Their astonishing descent in to mediocrity and then oblivion was hinted in the show, whereby older material was fiercely played and ecstatically received, while the new material was perfunctorily dashed off to muted applause. Members of the band stormed off stage for no apparent reason and then came back again. There wasn’t a word addressed from the stage to the audience. Thankfully, the whole thing was over by nine thirty. A total let down. I didn’t bother even asking Sara if she fancied another drink, but she asked me.

We went to The Strawberry, which was still in its radfem Friday and radgey Saturday incarnation. Gesturing at the ground with my pint of blackcurrant and soda, I mentioned that I’d been there the day before to see a hopeless game. Imagine my surprise when Sara not only repeated the score, but announced she’d seen the goals on the telly and further volunteered the information she was a Barnsley fan, who had gone to games regularly all her life. To say I was impressed would be an understatement. From then on, we relaxed and had a laugh, talking about football of course. Three weeks later, I took her on our first proper date to see Newcastle draw 0-0 with Barnsley in a game that made the Portsmouth one seem like the 1970 World Cup final in comparison. On January 2^nd 1991, the day after Mark Stimson scored an injury time equaliser against Oldham on the Boundary Park plastic pitch to deny us victory, we moved in together and we married in the summer of 1992.

Looking back that weekend in October 1990, it tells me a lot of things about my life. Firstly, people move on. That Petrol Emotion split in 1994, only to reform last year as The Everlasting Yeah Shane McGowan is a hopeless alcoholic somewhere in County Tipperary. Both he and Frank Black, the leader of The Pixies, reformed their bands. I can’t understand why anyone wants to go and see them; October 7^th 1990 was enough to sour my attitude to them to the extent I have no interest whatsoever in their reformation shows this autumn. The only thing that lasts is love; I’m still hopelessly, head over heels and wide-eyed in love with the greatest, most positive, life-affirming aspect of that weekend.

While Sara and I divorced in 2001, home victories (for Heaton Stannington more than Newcastle United) are as treasured and doted upon as ever.

Herding Cats

Have you signed up for your free copy of  #9 the new, on-line Newcastle united fanzine? If not, go to http://www.no9fanzine.co.uk/ immediately and register you interest, to receive a free copy tomorrow morning. Frankly, it's the only thing to get excited about at SJP at the minute. I pity those of you who are going; Grounsell Park is my preferred destination for Heaton Stannington v Tow Law Town. However, I do have an article in #9, which you'll find right here -:

Rise like Lions after slumber

In unvanquishable number -

Shake your chains to earth like dew

Which in sleep had fallen on you -

Ye are many - they are few! (Percy Bysshe Shelley: The Masque of Anarchy)

On a gloriously hot Saturday in July 2013, I was proud to be one of the 150,000 individuals who converged on Durham for the 129^th Miners’ Gala. Some were there mainly out of respect for tradition; others came merely for an all-day session in the Swan & Three Cygnets. Personally I was there as I felt honoured at having been asked to carry my union’s banner during the procession through the city. In my judgement, it seemed that all those people gathered on the site of the former Durham Racecourse, who heard impassioned speeches from RTM leader Bob Crow and Independent columnist Owen Jones, had come together on that day and in that location as we held a common, shared belief in the fact that the current Government have proven themselves to be flint-faced, implacable enemies of the working class in thought, in word and in deed. Not only that, but I sensed that a growing realisation is developing in this country that the Labour Party are finished; viewed with scorn by those they should be standing up for, who see them as utterly discredited as a force for positive opposition and change. While there were zealous Marxist ideologues and charismatic Leninist Vanguardistas among those voicing such opinions, most were just ordinary working class folk, fed up to the back teeth of cuts and austerity measures being foisted on them while the ruling elite and their mates the bankers continued to bathe in money. When those you’ve placed your trust in throw it back in your face with their smug indifference and zest for self-aggrandizement, the time has come to strike out in a radical direction.

I’m a Socialist; I don’t hide the fact and I make no apologies for referring to politics in this piece, but I am also a Newcastle United supporter and I can see so many parallels between the indignation, anger and desire for change expressed at the Durham Miners’ Gala and what is happening at my football club. In 2008, capitalism’s version of progress ground to a halt. There hadn’t been a natural disaster or food shortage, but simply the capitalist elite’s way of moving abstract loans and debts around had failed. The ruling class told us the only way the world could avoid calamity was for us all to agree to work harder for less money and for our bairns and grandkids to do the same. At the same time, Mike Ashley appointed Dennis Wise as Director of Football at Newcastle United. You hear what I’m saying? 

Cards on the table time; I am a passionate believer in fan ownership and would regard Ashley selling the club to another mega-rich Capitalist businessman as no sort of progress whatsoever. In my lifetime Westwood, Seymour, McKeague, Hall, Shepherd and Ashley have offered us nothing other than vague, empty promises of jam tomorrow; in a sense, Ashley is the most honest of that bunch as he offers nothing and promises less.

My dream, idealistic though it may be, is of a sustained, mass, democratic, passionate, non-violent movement of Newcastle United supporters, with an agenda and an ideology decided democratically among us all, where our voices are of equal importance, bringing such pressure on Ashley that he cuts and runs, giving the club to the fans, washing his hands of the whole deal. At such a time, a properly constituted, democratic constitution, giving all members an equal say in the framework of the club, based not on our monetary interests but in the legitimacy of our involvement as supporters of the club, could be drafted, allowing for the provision of appointed, accountable, co-ordinating executives in a range of positions, both sporting and otherwise, to manage the club, but not for profit, ego or personal gain, simply for the good of the club, the city and the region. I’m talking Barca; I’m talking FC United of Manchester. Impossibly idealistic though this may seem; this is my fervently held hope. Remember, Newcastle United has existed since 1892 and the incredible pace and nature of the changes wrought on the game in that time may be dwarfed by what lies in the future. None of us know what that future may be, but we can all agree that, in the same way that Cameron and Clegg have managed to make the fiasco left behind by New Labour a whole lot worse, the 6 years of Ashley’s ownership have been even more disastrous than the Shepherd administration.

By any standards, the period following the end of the 2012/2013 has been even more farcical than usual at SJP. No new players and the appointment of a contemptible, discredited figure of scorn and abuse as Director of Football has had the effect of engendering a rekindling of the flame of sympathy for Pardew that was effectively snuffed out with his incompetent misuse of his 5 player get out of jail card from February onwards. However, tough as it may be to accept this is the case, it is my belief that whoever pulls on a black and white shirt, wherever we end up in the league and whatever happens in terms of back room staff appointments during 2013/2014, are all complete red herrings and as near as damn it utterly irrelevant to the ultimate future well-being of Newcastle United. Relegation has happened before and it doesn’t scare me; what scares me is the thought of Ashley remaining in charge of our club, which is why I urge us all to bury hatchets and accept olive branches, then get involved in a mass movement of fans to help topple this terrible regime, before we lose our club forever.

So, that is my position; what can be done to bring it about? Well, as I said before, this club is 131 years old; history tells us that we need to play the long game and we need to be organised. Perhaps the biggest criticism we have of ourselves as fans of Newcastle United has nothing to do with the insulting media stereotype of us as impatient cry-babies demanding immediate success or else (look at our history and laugh at that farcical opinion), but the fact that we have found it impossible over the years to work together. Ego, self-interest, back-biting and whispering campaigns have nullified all those supporters who’ve tried to work tirelessly for positive change in the past, but that was then and this is now. The time has passed when photographs of Steve Harmison joining NUST are enough to satisfy the desire for change among our support. To suggest such gestures, and I’m aware NUST do tremendous community work, are steps in the right direction or, worse, that our fans will forget all about this if we fluke a point at Man city on the opening day, is patronising, insulting and downright inaccurate. Ignore the smug Twitterati who claim this to be the case; as Secret Affair said, this is the time for action.

In the same way that Bob Crow at the Big Meeting called for the formation of a new party to represent the working classes now that Labour is finished, it seems to me as if the Newcastle United Supporters’ Trust have had their day; neither they nor The Mag appear to be interested in mobilising our support to campaign against Ashley, preferring mild hand-wringing in the case of the Trust and a head in the sand approach in the case of The Mag. Of course, they have time to learn the folly of their inaction and to get involved. I call on the Trust and those who relentlessly espouse its legitimacy as the sole elected voice of NUFC’s support, to do something other than repeat the mantra of the validity of elections; are NUST more like Kier Hardie or Milliband?

On June 24^th, the only credible organisation able to mobilise anything other than a tiny number of supporters, namely Newcastle Fans United held a sometimes rowdy, sometimes ill-disciplined, but always passionate, meeting in the Labour Club to try and make some sense of the Kinnear appointment and take the temperature among the support. In retrospect, perhaps those of us involved in Newcastle Fans United were naïve in our expectations of how the evening would unfold; certainly my heart went out to Bill Corcoran and Steve Wraith who did brilliantly to keep the lid on a seething vat of hatred in the room, especially with local and national media present. Fair play also to the likes of George Caulkin and Mark Douglas, who penned superbly articulate pieces about the legitimacy of the gathering in the days after; their opinions educated many message board observers who had previously sought to denigrate and blackguard those involved and, for once, it appears that there is an appreciable groundswell of fan opinion in favour of Newcastle Fans United. Don’t just take my word for it; check out the website http://www.nufcfansutd.com/ then come along to our next meeting and get involved. We are a democracy and your voice is as valid as mine and every other member’s.

Newcastle Fans United  is a loose amalgam of support that is evolving meeting by meeting; what we are and will always be, is a democracy, that is a growing organisation and one that will be de facto even more democratic the more voices are represented. For example, I would love to see those from NUFC.com and Black & White Daft in our ranks.

However, Newcastle Fans United is not simply a talking shop; it is a dynamic organisation that encompasses diplomatic, cordial relations with the football club, with more firebrand opinions; in that sense, to steal a phrase from Gerry Adams, we have both the Armalite and the ballot box. It would be unfair to describe the meeting following Kinnear’s appointment as a bear pit, but the anger was palpable and demonstrated in the adoption of an uncompromising resolution drafted by Graeme Cansdale, of the Mike Ashley Out Campaign; yet the more the movement grows, the more we will learn whether this opinion is a majority or a minority one. Newcastle Fans United is democratic; the policies, opinions and campaigns involved come not from any assumed leadership, but from the authentic voice of our members. Come along and join in; all we have to lose are our chains.

Casino Royale

A couple of weeks back I posted my article from the new Barnsley fanzine "West Stand Bogs," before The Tykes opened their season with a home game against Wigan. Latics won 4-0 and I've got this article in the first issue of their fanzine "Mudhutter," coming out this week -:

I don’t like rugby league and I’m not an aficionado of Northern Soul, though I have read the complete works of George Orwell. All things considered, I’m not that well informed about your home town, as I’ve only ever been to Wigan once in my life; Saturday 15^th October 2005 to be precise, when  Latics beat my team Newcastle United  1-0, courtesy of a Jason Roberts goal. Now as we’re talking WAFC v NUFC, I suppose I really should engage in the sickening, self-pitying, grief tourism many of my fellow supporters in the so-called Toon Army (bleurgh!) insist upon when fixtures between the sides are discussed; this particular instance involves a wailing and a beating of the breast at the failure of a linesman (Andy Williams was the fella; a real home loving man…) to notice Shearer’s header had crossed the line. It did, but it wasn’t given and as it was almost 8 years ago, you’ll forgive me for not sulking about it still. Frankly, mainly because of Vigo and Ives on Twitter (even if it broke my heart when the latter unfollowed me), Wigan were becoming almost a second team of mine last season. Honestly, I didn’t want you to go down; to tell the truth, I wanted Newcastle to take a tumble, as the Championship is far better fun than the Premier. Take it from someone with recent experience.

I bought my first Newcastle United season ticket in 1988 and we promptly got relegated, finishing bottom of the table. Still flushed with youthful optimism, I renewed the next season and we lost in the play-offs to sunderland. Undaunted, I kept buying them, even getting 2 a year from 2003 onwards, once my son started coming as well, until I bought my last pair in 2008, when we promptly got relegated again and so I stopped lacing out a grand a year on something that was giving me high blood pressure and making me miserable most of the time.  To clarify though,  I didn’t actually stop watching Newcastle on a regular basis because we got relegated, but because my son couldn’t get to Saturday games any longer as, sincere apologies for this, he’s a rugby player; the XV man code of course.  Really, I just didn’t want to go without him. Looking back from 4 years distant, it’s the best thing I’ve ever done, football-wise.

Freed from the tyranny of a fortnightly trip to SJP, I embraced non-league football with a passion and continue to do so; these days I edit the programme for Northern League Division 2 side Heaton Stannington (www.heatonstanningtonfc.co.uk). However, I didn’t abandon supporting Newcastle as it’s quite difficult to go that far, though cutting the umbilical cord of attendance and cancelling my Sky sports subscription made it easier to view things as they unfolded rationally, which isn’t a word often associated with NUFC.

Once Newcastle were comfortably ensconced in the lower division, I noticed that not only are there loads more games to play, but with the additional play-offs to schedule, the ordinary season is over much earlier; to squeeze 46 games in, there are perforce midweek games a plenty and sometimes two home games in a week, which is a big ask for a lot of fans to get to. Being a kind hearted sort, I offered to take any spare tickets off the hands of friends and acquaintances whose work or home life precluded their attendance at these games, not changing for my service either and thus managing to see a dozen home games for nowt. 

Even better, we won nearly all of them against teams I’d heard of, but hadn’t seen for decades, like Scunthorpe, Peterborough or Preston. Reacquainting oneself with the hitherto more recondite reaches of the 72 Football League sides outside of the Premier is one of the charming things about Championship football. Other lovable idiosyncrasies related to the second tier include the fact all opposition teams have a bulky, top heavy keeper, a pair of ponderous Dutch midfielders with daft names, a whippet of a winger who can’t cross to save his life and a long haired Hungarian striker who comes on as sub and puts a free header over the bar in injury time.  You mightn’t be too keen on the prospect of Championship football right now, but remember the fact that you lucky sods aren’t going to endure visits from Everton, Stoke or Fulham; you’ve got the enticing prospect of Yeovil, Bournemouth and Brighton to look forward to.

I mean, seriously; what is there to enjoy about the Premier? Chelsea, Man United, citeh, Arse, Spurs and Liverpool have the top 6 places already booked, while Palace, Hull and sunderland have placed reserved signs on the relegation berths. Can you really get excited about winning the race for 11^th spot over Fulham and Southampton? It’s far better, if you can manage it, to piss the lower division and simply enjoy the old-fashioned pleasure of going to games, expecting to see a win and a few goals again. Being serious, I do recognise that when Newcastle went down in 2009, almost everyone expected us to “do a Leeds;” we didn’t, but Wolves did last year. Therefore, your hope should be to “do a Newcastle.”  Whether Oden Coyle is the man to do this is frankly a question I’m unable to answer; perhaps James Perch will be the final part of his promotion jigsaw.

I remember Wigan’s first visit to SJP after we came back up (not when you first came up as I was on holiday in Portugal over Easter 2006 when we beat you 3-1) on 15^th October 2010. Of course I didn’t go to it, having opted to attend Percy Main 4 Peterlee Town 1 instead, but I came in to town for a drink post match. The “big” game had ended 2-2; N’Zogbia’s early brace for you eventually negated by a Coloccini headed equaliser deep in stoppage time. In the pub there were the usual moans and groans about the result, as apparently a massive club like Newcastle shouldn’t be drawing with shite like wigan (I’m only repeating what I was told) but I stated, and still maintain, that this game would be the point that kickstarted Newcastle’s season, as a draw against a well-established Premier side who play good football, like Wigan, should be celebrated. Few shared my opinion, but Newcastle beat West Ham, sunderland (5-1) and Arsenal at the Emirates in the next 3 games.

That 2-2 draw started a superstition of mine, which has involved me not watching any Newcastle v Wigan game since; the return in January 2011 when we won for the only time at your place saw me take Sunday lunch with my friends Paul & Alison, who hate football. In 2011/2012, Heaton Stannington twice took my fancy, as 1-1 draw with Ashington Colliers was preferable to seeing Cabaye’s late winner and a 5-0 stuffing of Killingworth won hands down over the 4-0 crushing Newcastle endured. You’d think 2012/2013 was a tougher ask, but Team Northumbria of the Northern League play their midweek games on a Monday, so a 2-0 win over Bishop Auckland saved me from the 3-0 result at SJP, while a dutiful Sunday visit to my elderly mother kept me away from the St. Patrick’s Day massacre.

Just as well, as I was ashamed of Newcastle United that day; our pissed teenage fans spoiling the amateur game before kick-off was a pathetic spectacle, trumped only by John Carver’s ignorant belligerence towards McManaman at half time,shouting and bawling  like an irate, sleep-deprived neighbour attempting to intimidate a teenage lass holding a 16^th birthday house party in a middle class suburb. Even more shameful was the reaction of the NUFC Twitterati to Haidara’s injury; yes it was a crap tackle, yes it was a red card (Whelan talked bollocks as usual), but he was back playing in 3 weeks.  People get injured in football; deal with it. I have to deal with the envy I feel about you and your club. To conclude, let me tell you a bit about my family history to illustrate things.

My maternal grandfather was a Newcastle United season ticket holder back in the 1960s, when to be such a thing was almost unknown. I’ve still got the mainly unused 1967/1968 booklet, rendered useless as he died at the tragically early age of 54, on Margaret Thatcher’s 42nd birthday; Friday 13^th October 1967. Well it was certainly unlucky for him. If he’d been spared, he would have turned 100 on Saturday 18^th May 2013. So what? Well, his name was Ben Watson. Coincidence eh?  My granddad, though I’ve only vague memories of him as I was 3 when he died, was able to celebrate Newcastle’s last League Championship win in 1927 and 5 FA Cup victories, the latter 3 in 51, 52 and 55 he was present at. I’m 50 next year and during my life all we’ve won was the 1969 Fairs Cup (I was 4 at the time) and the 2007 Inter Toto Cup; even that was only because Livorno beat Auxerre 1-0 (it was a complex competition).  So, no I don’t hate Wigan; I’m actually deeply jealous of you. I only hope I can share the feeling that you had when Ben Watson scored that goal at Wembley, because I’ve never felt anything so good; relegations fade, but successes live forever, or so I’m told.

Sound & Vision IV

Culturally, I’ve had an interesting couple of months.  In many ways I could, and indeed probably should, legitimately, have written about my trip to Northumberland v Bedfordshire in the Minor Counties Cricket at Jesmond with Harry Pearson and the events of the Durham Miners’ Gala the week after; in fact, it has been quite remiss of me not to do so. I could have mentioned them in a special category of Outings, but that would have been to understate the massively important political significance of The Big Meeting, which has unfortunately gone unrecorded by me; though I suggest you listen to Bob Crow’s characteristically pusillanimous and conciliatory oration here; http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZVihB2hEW9E

As regards the cricket, it had been my intention to write a specific cricket blog about the game I attended and to compare it with my intended visit to Durham’s 20/20 game with Derbyshire, but squally showers on the Saturday night previous suggested a delay in play and persuaded me not to attend this game, which was a mistake as Durham thumped 183/7 to win by 33 runs. Therefore, sadly, another blog opportunity was lost; of course I wasn’t going to lash out on a ticket for the test match just for the sake of writing a blog. A third gift horse missed a dental check-up when I failed to attend my annual Shakespeare in Jesmond Dene soiree; Romeo & Juliet on August 1^st, my dad’s anniversary, went unwatched and an £18.50 ticket went unused as I simply couldn’t face the world that night. However there was plenty of other stuff to enjoy, which I’ve listed below.

Art:

The last time I voluntarily took myself to sunderland for a cultural event was the sparsely attended gig by Jonny in February 2011. Frankly, there’s generally not a great compulsion for me to visit a place where the cutting edge of the local music scene is provided by the pedestrian Futureheads or the laughable Frankie & The Heartstrings, the latter who have just opened a samizdat, pop-up record shop called Pop Rec Ltd on Fawcett Street. All well and good that they’re putting on free gigs and selling new and old vinyl, at premium prices it has to be said, but my trip there coincided with someone doing a drums soundcheck for that evening’s gig, driving me back out the door. Nice to see the “beautiful and creative” people of sunderland involved in this adventure to the extent that the bar is being done by Wylam Brewery and the café by Ouseburn Coffee Company…

And so to the real reason for my visit; an exhibition of Grayson Perry’s dystopian tapestries, The Vanity of Small Differences at the Museum & Winter Gardens on Burdon Road. I like Grayson Perry a great deal; I find his work amusing, challenging and incredibly inventive. To be frank, I feel he has excelled himself with these six large tapestries (The Adoration of the Cage Fighters, The Agony in the Car Park, Expulsion from Number 8 Eden Close, The Annunciation of the Virgin Deal, The Upper Class at Bay and Lamentation) that are a loose retelling of Hogarth’s A Rake’s Progress in a contemporary context, with knowing intertextual nods to Renaissance devotional paintings, on which many of these tapestries are based. Perry gives us the life and death of Tim Rakewell, born to a dysfunctional family in a rough part of sunderland, but blessed with intelligence and the opportunity to escape his background through education, whereby he marries in to the middle classes, makes his fortune, before dying in middle age at the wheel of his crashed Ferrari after a drunken race.

Perry has produced a series of enormously intricate, vibrant celebrations of the demotic, particularly in his minutely observed celebrations of the destructive, escapist, hedonistic lifestyle of Rakewell’s family in the first 2 tapestries, which are perhaps the most relevant to sunderland, being topographically and temporally located in the town. The text that Perry inscribes among the visual images was based, loosely, on conversation he overheard when in sunderland, on boozy nights out, preparing himself for his art. A sample being from The Adoration of the Cage Fighters; “I could have gone to Uni, but I did the best I could, considering his father upped and left. He was always a clever little boy, he knows how to wind me up. My mother liked a drink, my father liked one too. Ex miner a real man, open with his love, and his anger. My Nan though is the salt of the earth, the boy loves her. She spent her whole life looking after others. There are no jobs round here anymore, just the gym and the football. A normal family, a divorce or two, mental illness, addiction, domestic violence… the usual thing… My friends they keep me sane… take me out… listen… a night out of the weekend is a precious ritual.”

Perry’s particular skill is how he is able to portray the poverty of aspiration is such a non-condemnatory fashion, where the self-destructive reality is combined with garish colour in an unsentimental fashion that acts as a celebration of many diverse aspects of working class culture. It is once Tim has been absorbed into “The sunlit uplands of the middle classes” that Perry turns the focus of his work from the observational to the scornful. Sarcastic depictions of aspirational, petit bourgeois life in the middle 2 tapestries give way to a nightmarish vision of Tim’s millionaire lifestyle in the final two tapestries that could almost have been a retelling of Hieronymus Bosch, but is actually a bitterly ironic take on a Thomas Gainsborough painting.

All in all, this exhibition is a triumph for Perry and a real coup for sunderland, though I’m not sure it will boost tourism to the town. My only moment of sadness was on realising that Alan Measles hadn’t been involved…

Books:

Unlike last time, when I’d only managed to leaf through a couple of texts, I’ve done quite well this last while in the reading stakes; some of the stuff I’ve ploughed through has been rubbish like. I don’t know what it is with comedians, but what may seem hilarious when delivered live or on film, can seem flat and banal on the page; for instance, Harry Hill’s spoof diary for the year 2010, Livin’ the Dreem was both painful and pitiful to read. Frankly, it is definitely the worst book I’ve read this year and I honestly did not even smile once; rather than amusement, boredom and a vague sense of irritation were the primary emotions it engendered. If the Hill effort was irritating, then the scrapings from the bottom of Spike Milligan’s creative barrel, Box 18 (so named as this was the number of the Lever Arch File in his study that contained all his unfinished ideas) was actually quite upsetting. Obviously some of Milligan’s work, especially Puckoon, the War Memoirs and the Q series were some of the most hilarious, anarchic comic moments I can recall from my childhood, even if The Goon Show leaves me completely cold (an age thing I guess); I do wonder if Milligan’s reputation would have been enhanced by the production or publication in his life time of these vague, meandering sketches and stories. Clearly his bi-polar condition affected his self-criticism at many times, but even he must have realised that a great number of the letters he submitted to newspapers were curmudgeonly, mean-spirited and decidedly socially intolerant, especially in his later days. This depressing collection did absolutely nothing to advance his memory in my eyes; a thoroughly dispiriting read.

If Milligan was part of my childhood comedy memories, then The Clancy Brothers were avowedly part of my childhood musical ones. With my mother downsizing to a retirement apartment, there is a great deal of personal clutter to be removed from the family home before she finally leaves. I’ve done my part by accepting some of the decent music (my dad’s Irish folk collection), but other stuff will have to go to landfill, such as the 70 James Last LPs she inherited from my late aunt in 2008; actually that was all she inherited from her sister, as my sister pocketed the rest of it and wouldn’t give anyone the skin off her shite, never mind the money my aunt had borrowed from my dad. Still, that’s between my sister and her conscience now I guess, though it’s noticeable she didn’t visit my dad’s grave on his anniversary, choosing instead to read some of her embarrassing attempts at poetry to 40 ego-massaging non-entities in The Ballarat that night instead…

As well as records by The Dubliners and The Clancy Brothers, I reclaimed the last book I ever bought my dad (well, there were only two; the other being Angela’s Ashes which he proclaimed “canny”); this book is The Men Behind the Sweaters by Connor Murphy, which is a dreary chronology of The Clancy Brothers, their lives and careers. It’s lavishly illustrated with a series of blurred black and white photos, includes hundreds of statistical errors and inaccurate comments about Irish history and geography, as well as being blessed by containing not a single quotation from any member of the band. Frankly I can understand why my dad didn’t rate this one as “canny,” but as “alreet.” The other book I’ve recently read that is set in Ireland was my friend John McQuaid’s beautiful and evocative tribute to his late wife Mary’s illness and death from cancer; A Very Special Lady is a very special book and a deeply fitting tribute to a wonderful person. I feel privileged to have been given a copy.

I was lucky to have been donated a couple of thoroughly enjoyable sports books recently; firstly Harry Pearson gave me a copy of his devotional text to the dying art of medium pace bowling, The Trundlers, which I found to be fascinating and educational, as my knowledge of cricket prior to 1970 is sketchy at best. Not having read any of Harry’s last 5 books, I note that is style his now much more factual rather than replete with comic asides; perhaps this is a sign of either his maturity (I’m joking) or the more serious discipline required for cricket writing. Either way, I thoroughly enjoyed this book and his prose style, meaning I may just investigate those books of his I missed out on. “Fascinating and educational” would also be how I would describe Paul Brown’s labour of historical love, The Victorian Football Miscellany, which intricately details the lives, decisions and places that helped to shape the game we all love so much. The men, clubs and grounds detailed within this volume are long dead and in many instances long forgotten, but Paul’s book gives them a fitting valediction and makes the early players, administrators and managers more than just a dusty footnote in history. This is the ideal book for those who still believe football began with the advent of Sky TV and The Premier League in 1992.

There were some serious novels to be read as well; while Roddy Doyle’s The Guts  came out just too late to be included in this round-up, I did read the eagerly anticipated Red or Dead by David Peace. While his fame may have been assured by the furore surrounding The Damned United and, in retrospect, the utterly bizarre film based on the book, and while the stylistically brilliant but challenging and, as yet incomplete, Tokyo trilogy may have split critical opinion, it is my contention that 5 of the most important contemporary British novels are Peace’s Red Riding Quartet and his coruscating account of the Miners’ Strike, GB84 that provides an unremittingly bleak but completely honest portrayal of the fascist Police State that was Britain under Thatcher. Consequently it is something of a disappointment to discover that his account of Bill Shankly’s life, from assuming the role of Liverpool manager in late 1959 until his relatively early death in 1981, is by turns a monotonously repetitive, almost self-parodic series of exhaustive match reports and a mawkishly sentimental hagiographic veneration of an undeniably talented football manager. It is a moot point, but as an aside I’d say both Bob Paisley and Alex Ferguson subsequently outdid Shankly’s achievements as a manager in the English game; the latter is also much more real as a figure in the modern game as Shankly, almost 40 years retired and over 30 dead, is almost receding into the historical distance the way Herbert Chapman, Major Frank Buckley or Alf Ramsey did for my generation.

Of course, like Chapman, Shankly’s early days in management involved a spell at the old Leeds Road home of Huddersfield Town, the team that David Peace supports. Heartwarmingly, he is taking his role as a supporter seriously by attending their home game with QPR on August 10^th. How do I know this? David Peace told me in the rarefied environs of Durham Castle for the event that marked the launch of Durham Book Festival; it wasn’t quite the basement of Millgarth Police Station in Leeds in the mid-1970s, but it was the best I could do.

On a blindingly hot and beautifully sunny, first Wednesday in August, I lashed out £20 on a ticket to hear David Peace read. To be fair, there were 4 free canapés (Northumberland Blue cheese and organic leek mini tartlets and peppered chorizo and rocket on mini focaccia) and a glass of Prosecco each; “one glass is no fucking use to me, sonna” as I said to the barman before liberating an unclaimed brace of fizz, one having been discarded after a fly drowned in it. Mind, looking around the room before the start I wished I’d brought a carry-out with me; still, I suppose if these were the beautiful people, I no longer felt quite so ugly. Most of the NE literary set were augmented by a Durham academic elite who appeared to have been sculpted by Fluck and Law, then provided with a script by Chris Morris; Hosannah Bell and Nathan Barley in real life.

The event kicked off with some functionally illiterate 23 stone Labour councillor speed babbling a few shallow inanities at 78rpm, before this American bloke who is on an Arts Council sinecure as writer-in-residence for the Ashes (!!) announced how pleased he was to be there. I suppose with expenditure like that, it is why the Lindisfarne Gospels are free to see at the British Museum but a tenner a pop up here; shameful. Next up, last year’s Durham Book Festival writer-in-residence Linda France, read a fabulous poem about ants in Australia, before the camp and dull Stevie Ronnie droned on for 20 minutes about a trip to the Arctic, and then read 2 shit stanzas; the creative urge and how to avoid it…

Finally David Peace appeared, initially to introduce the shortlist for the fascinating and entirely praiseworthy Gordon Burn Memorial Prize that he is judging, before reading two sections from Red or Dead. His flat Yorkshire monotone has been untamed by years away from home and it helped to pay tribute to the cadences and inflections occasioned by the repetitive structures of the language in this novel; aloud, rather than on the page, the hypnotic, almost Nymanesque and scarcely perceptible changes in word patterns and patterning struck home with genuine poignancy. Perhaps Red or Dead’s effect is a cumulative one, borne from 270,000 words of dense semi-poetic, semi-banal prosody.

Peace’s most fascinating insight was how the relentless depiction of evil in his work has had a draining effect on his demeanour; his candour explained his need to write about a “good” man in Shankly, who affected Peace’s psyche as he grew by being both a Huddersfield Town legend and “at whatever simplistic level” a socialist. The event was then curtailed by someone fainting and the need for half a dozen busybodies to bring glasses of water at near hysteria levels. As Waterstone’s were sponsoring the event and urging people to buy books, I realised I’d need to jump in quick if I wanted a word with Peace. Ignoring protocol, I presented him with my pre-owned copy of GB84, mouthed some glib, fawning platitudes about football and evil, and then wished The Terriers all the best against QPR, while he signed it for me. He came across as a genuine, interesting man and someone I would love to spend time talking to again.

However, Peace’s work is as a novelist and it is by this criterion we must judge Red or Dead. While the final 200 pages of the novel, if one accepts that Peace is intent on venerating Shankly, are genuinely engaging and affectingly elegiac, showing a man utterly cut adrift from life when work is removed from the equation, these interesting aspects of Shankly’s otiose final days do not make up for the frankly boring opening 513 pages. Peace is a master stylist, who managed in the Tokyo novels to engage in an anti-Platonic dissociation between sign and signifier, whereby language became redundant as a medium for presenting messages and meaning itself. Unfortunately, Peace’s attempt at hypnotic patterning in language, presumably as an attempt to show the driven nature of Shankly’s personality and the cyclical nature of the game, fails and it comes across as almost laughably unconvincing and, sadly, dull.  Many readers have admitted to skim reading large sections of the book; this is the greatest condemnation of Peace’s work imaginable.

While I am tempted to reread GB84 every few months and remain genuinely excited by future Peace projects, such as the final instalment of the Tokyo trilogy, UKDK his account of the fall of Harold Wilson and The Yorkshire Rippers about Geoffrey Boycott, I am afraid that Red of Dead will take its place on my bookshelf and remain there, as forgotten as Shankly is, outwith his dwindling band of worshippers.

Music:

Somewhat surprisingly, during the period since my last music blog, I’ve only obtained 1 new release, which was gifted to me by my mate Chris Tait (Happy Birthday for 9^th August; you’re still 2 days older than me!!). It is the Australia 6-track EP by The New Mendicants, who are Norman Blake from Teenage Fanclub and Joe Pernice from The Pernice Brothers. Unsurprisingly considering who it features, the harmonies are as beautiful as the tunes and it augers well for their forthcoming album. The EP begins with a thoroughly convincing and beautifully executed cover of This Time by INXS and includes versions of Norman’s trademark number I Don’t Want Control of You and The Pernice Brothers’s track Amazing Glow, as well as three gorgeous new compositions: Follow You Down, High on the Skyline and the closing highlight of the whole release, Sarasota that is as glorious and fragile a slice of articulate, harmony driven pop you could wish to hear. Certainly a 2013 highlight for me.

Sadly, I didn’t get to see The New Mendicants on tour, mainly because their Glasgow date coincided with a must-see for Laura and I; Trembling Bells with Mike Heron, late of the Incredible String Band, at Sage 2. Having just managed to get over the disappointment of the cancellation of Trembling Bells at Morden Tower at the end of June, there was no way I was going to miss this. Obviously, I knew what to expect from Trembling Bells, but I felt I needed a brush up on the Incredible String Band, so I bought The 5,000 Spirits or The Layers of the Onion in preparation. Rather like the Dr. Strangely Strange CDs I bought back in January, it had that wigged-out, beardy-weirdy, late 60s hippy folk vibe to it. The strange thing is that Heron’s collaborator Robin Williamson (not Mike’s dad….) has that odd Stewey from Family Guy vocal phrasing thing going on in his songs, rather similar to certain Dr. Strangely Strange numbers, while Mike Heron’s are somewhat more straightforward. That is in the context of the times of course as The Hedgehog Song is one of the maddest, trippiest numbers I’ve ever come across.

The night before the Sage gig, Mike Heron fell over and broke his arm, meaning he couldn’t play guitar. Just as well Mike Hastings is a musical genius, like all of the Bells (Alex’s drum work tonight deserved an encore all of his own; in fact he deserved an Oscar), and could fill in both lead and rhythm. The first number saw the lanky Scotsman having to almost limbo dance his way through the harmonica solo as his mic stand collapsed, but it wasn’t the only Spinal Tap moment of the evening; when the Bells took a spell off stage to allow Heron and his daughter, who played keyboards, to take centre stage, this ended in hilarity as the duo got lost trying to find a way off and ended up wandering in to the disabled toilet. So much for a spine-tingling end to the set.

However, I’m pleased to say the gig was an absolute gem, with the particular highlights being Lavinia’s magnificent take on Williamson’s Cold Days of February, an almost soca version of The Hedgehog Song and the absolute sold gold classic moment of Trembling Bells doing The Wide Majestic Aire; this song must be released soon. Even better afterwards was grabbing a word with Alex, Lavinia and Mike and being presented with one of the exquisite hand-printed posters Lavinia had designed for the tour that deserve a mention in the art section of this blog; an absolute treasure that I was humbled to accept. I love this band.

I bought the ISB album on Monday 1^st July, which is Canada Day; consequently, I also got myself a plug for a gaping hole in my music collection and invested in Blue by Joni Mitchell at the same time. By popular acclaim, Blue is regarded as one of the finest 50 albums of all time and that is a verdict I will not deviate from. Though it is 42 years old, it is as fresh and fragrant as when first released; simply put, I could listen to this album straight through three times in a row and not tire of it. People claim they have listened to it frequently since it was released and constantly find new things to adore about it; the slide guitar on This Flight Tonight, hidden depth in the lyrics to Carey, the poignancy of The Last Time I Saw and the amazing vocal dexterity of A Case of You are all instances in point. If you don’t own this album, please go out and buy it; only £3 in HMV.

I’ve only been to one other gig of late; Jon Langford at the Americana Festival at the Sage the Sunday after Trembling Bells. However, I’ve only missed one gig I wanted to see though; Jon Langford at The schooner the Saturday after Trembling Bells. I’ve only been to one other art show; Jon Langford’s exhibition of his paintings of country and western influenced musical heroes at the Sage as part of the Americana Festival, when Laura spoiled me for my birthday by buying me his painting of Gram Parsons. I also put my hand in my pocket to buy Jon’s wonderfully anarchic, bellowing cowpunk tour de force All the Fame of Lofty Deeds CD, on which he’d based much of his acoustic set. While he did a couple of bars of Never Been in a Riot, I was out of luck in my request of Corporal Chalkie. In all seriousness though, it was both a great set (we did get Millionaire and Wild & Blue from The Mekons) and a great afternoon. Jon has promised that The Mekons will be back here soon, not having last appeared in the city since February 1994.

The free Americana Festival is always a highlight of the Tyneside summer season. We took a picnic and plenty of booze, meeting up with friends like Garry and Deborah from growing up in Felling days and several lads from Winstons, meaning that I simply don’t recall any of the other acts. Indeed, we were in The Central Bar awaiting a taxi by the time Tom Russell closed the show. At 6pm… However, after my birthday I’ll have the Gram Parsons painting to remember the day by, along with the CD; the autobiographical Sputnik 57, the biographical Nashville Radio and the affecting cover of Homburg make this an excellent purchase. I intend to search out more of Mr Langford’s solo career.

I did the same with Cornershop; following Ben’s insistence on hearing all their early 7” vinyl releases, I went on their website to purchase what they had going cheap; a one sided 7” The Roll Off Characteristics of History in the Making for him and the fantastic Battle of New Orleans EP  for me. I love the idea of Tjinder Singh doing a down-home truckers C&W recipe song on Houston Hash, as well as paying homage to Lonnie Donegan on The Battle of New Orleans. A great, fun release and well worth £2 of anyone’s money!! Go to www.cornershop.com to find out more…

That’s it for this bulletin; I’ll be back early in the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness with more consumerist crap.

Parrot Fashion

On 31st July, it was my 21st Wedding Anniversary. Well, it would have been if I'd not got divorced in 2001. My ex-wife Sara is from Barnsley & from meeting her until our divorce (we're great friends now; all adult about stuff), I followed the team from Oakwell as my second side. This involved writing quite a few articles for their then fanzine "South Riding." LKo and behold, a new one called "West Stand Bogs" has ridden the fanzine renaissance wave & will be out on 17th August; I've got this piece in it. As the Football League starts tomorrow, with Barnsley hosting Wigan (I've a bit in the next issue of "Mudhutter" as well, which I'll stick up here in time), I thought it appropriate to celebrate that, my anniversary and Yorkshire Day (1st August).

My first trip to Oakwell was on Monday 4th May 1983; I came away delighted following my team Newcastle United’s 5-0 success, though the home fans were rather less pleased and not just with the result. Little was I to know that a few years later this, for me, hitherto obscure Yorkshire town and team would become a vital part of my life for a decade or more. The game in question had been originally scheduled for the previous Saturday and, with Newcastle still in with an outside shout for promotion (we finished 5^th that season) in Kevin Keegan’s first season as a player, about 6,000 Geordies made the ultimately fruitless trip down, though I wasn’t one of them. As an 18 year old who was about to go to University, I was doing my best to earn pin money for college (beer as much as books) by working in a betting shop on Saturdays when NUFC were away and in a pub at night. Fortuitously for me, the weather intervened and an incessant downpour resulted in the game being postponed for 48 hours just after lunchtime, which allowed me to make the rearranged fixture.

Typically, the away supporters had been in town on the Saturday since opening time and were drinking deeply in every establishment that would serve them. One such place was The Ring of Bells, renowned for its main attraction; a talking parrot that would charm away fans with its range of football chants for a variety of teams. These days, Newcastle’s support is tolerant, easy going and fun to be around; 30 years ago it consisted of a minimum 90% of maniacs. Putting them in a pub with a talking parrot and a coal fire was always going to end badly. When I arrived down as part of a much smaller travelling support on the Bank Holiday Monday, we tried for a pint in The Ring of Bells, only to find a sign saying Closed due to family Bereavement pinned to the door; it was the parrot and not Varadi 2, MacDonald 2 and Keegan that upset the denizens of the Brewery Stand and Ponte End at full time, as we tried to inconspicuously make our way from the Kop to our coaches, parked where Metrodome would eventually stand.

Ordinarily, away travellers tend to appropriate such tragicomic stories as something they themselves had experienced, in the way that if everyone who’d attended the Sex Pistols debut gig at the 100 Club had actually been there, they would have had to play Wembley Stadium. However, from late 1990 until around 2003, I found myself explaining to various Barnsley fans at least 3 times a season, that I wasn’t the person responsible for the demise of The Ring of Bells parrot, because I wasn’t even there. The reason for my insistence on this alibi? My first wife is from Darton and throughout the 1990s, I was proud to call Barnsley my second home and also my second team.

I’m an old romantic you know; Sara (for that is her name) and I had our first date at St. James’ Park on 17^th November 1990, when Newcastle and Barnsley played out a despicable goalless draw that didn’t include a single shot on target. Rather more importantly though, the afternoon set in motion a course of events that led to us tying the knot at Barnsley Town Hall on July 31^st 1992. We were young, she was foolish and I was happy…

In all seriousness, I was lucky to be married to Sara, who is the mother of my son and someone I still consider one of my closest friends as we get on remarkably well. Looking back on things now, I will always remember the times I spent in Barnsley, especially at the football ground, even under Mel Machin, with great affection. After all, not many people can say they were lucky enough to see Phil Gridelet or Troy Bennett in the flesh.

After my 1983 debut visit to Oakwell, circumstances involving geographical details related to education and work dictated that I didn’t set foot in the ground until 1^st January 1991 when, suffering from a desperate hangover occasioned by the New Year’s Eve trek from The Hermit in High Hoyland to the Crown & Anchor (White House) at Barugh (Bark?) Green and all bars en route, I blearily saw goals from Andy Rammell and Gerry Taggart defeat Bristol City 2-0, with former Owl Gary Shelton getting a red card as well. Sara and I stood on the West Stand Paddock towards the Kop with her sister’s then boyfriend Nick; this was to be my favourite and indeed only spot to watch games until redevelopment, and despite the ups and downs of all the relationships involved, Nick is still a mate to this day.

I think what I immediately liked about Oakwell was the laconic, latent misery among the impatient observers, which contrasted to the intense, unreal expectations of the hysterical support that I was used to at SJP. Remember, for the first few years of my time watching Barnsley, they finished above Newcastle in the table. Almost a quarter of a century later, Barnsley are in a similar position to when I first started watching them and if Mike Ashley has his way, Newcastle will be back to the same level as well. As my son, so proud of being half Yorkshireman, prepares for to apply to Leeds and Sheffield Universities, he’ll no doubt arrive in what he considers his ancestral county just as the wheel of football fortune comes full circle; even if his paternal grandfather has influenced him in to having The Blunts as his second team. 

Over Easter 1991, I attended a dreary 1-0 win over Plymouth, but a superb post-match session in The Manx (it used to be my favourite bar; is it still there?) was one of the reasons I found that I was increasingly drawn to following Barnsley, to the extent that the release of fixtures each June would decide whether we spent Christmas or New Year in Barnsley. Nothing will ever beat the enjoyment of the 4-1 walloping of Grimsby on Boxing Day 1994, when Craig Shakespeare’s red card was followed by an East Stand wit solemnly intoning; now ist Winter of iz discontent…

If Barnsley’s pub scene was a little earthy in the early 1990s (other than the aforementioned Manx, the Corner Pin, Shakespeare or Radical & Liberal were about as exciting as it got of a Friday night, before Hedonism opened), then at least there was a superb fanzine in the shape of South Riding. Having scribbled about punk and indie in various music fanzines since I was at school, I had leaped on board the football fanzine phenomenon from the outset by writing for NUFC’s The Mag from 1988 and I still write for The Number 9 to this day (not to mention keeping a blog at http://payaso-del-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/). 

Nervously I submitted an article chronicling an outsider’s view of Barnsley to South Riding and was delighted when they not only published it, but invited me to wrote for them whenever I wanted.

I was honoured to write for SR for 6 seasons, producing articles musing on the intense banalities of Keith Lodge’s journalism, querying why Dave Copping’s commentary sounded like he was actually in fear of his life when describing play, as if a knife wielding maniac was sat beside him or wondering exactly why only 3,185 turned up to a 3-1 win over Southend (Stan Collymore scored for them) in April 1993 and half of them started scrapping each other when debating whether Machin should stay or not. I quite admired how SR called it a day after promotion in 1997, which was when I began to imperceptibly lose interest in Barnsley. At the time I thought it was because they were in the same division as Newcastle again, or that the ground was losing its quaint appeal after redevelopment, or that the new fans in the new seats seemed to be Leeds or Owls followers on a gap year. In retrospect, I suppose it was because my marriage was falling apart. Ironically, Sara and I received our decree absolute on 9^th October 2001; at least I got the final word that day, as Craig Bellamy’s goal put Newcastle through at Oakwell in a League Cup tie the same night, though I wasn’t there as I was seeing The Fall in Newcastle.

The last time I was in Oakwell was 17^th August 2002 when I took my son, who’d just arrived home from a holiday with his grandparents, to see Chris Lumsdon’s goal defeat QPR. He was 7 and cheered the winner fervently; I was just glad to be back there, on the now seated West Stand. I particularly enjoyed how Kevin Betsy had picked up the abuse baton from Andy Rammell, whose name I actually thought was Pathetic for about a season, so often was the phrase Pathetic Rammell shouted from the terraces.

Sadly, I don’t know when I’ll get back to Oakwell again, but I must. Perhaps one autumn Saturday when my son’s at University in another Yorkshire town we can meet up and revisit the town that is definitely his second home; to watch the side who were once my second club and for whom I’ll always have the utmost affection. Mind that 3-0 loss on 30^th November 1991 still smarts to this day!!