The Christmas
Holiday period and the realisation that another year is ending can often
provoke introspection. With the knowledge and acceptance that I turn 50 on my
next birthday, my thoughts turn to the question of what mark a man can leave on
this world. In my own case, while there are certain features of my life I’d be
best drawing a veil over, I have to say that I’m proud to have produced both a
fine son and an impressive body of written work, both published and unpublished
(a vacancy exists for a post mortem Boswell; apply c/o my executors when the
time comes), as well as professionally helping more than a thousand adults in
the North Tyneside area to profoundly change their lives with the help of
education. Hand on heart; I know I have done many, many good deeds. However,
cycling through Northumberland Square in North Shields on a crisp Tuesday night
in December, I saw the tangible influence of my late father and felt a surge of
love and gratitude for all he did in his life.
For the last
20 years of his working life, my dad Eddy Cusack was the street lighting
co-ordinator for North Tyneside Council. In an era when many local authorities,
such as Newcastle City Council with the willing assistance of supposed Man of
the People, NUFC Daily Mirror journalist Councillor Simon Bird, are currently seeking
to make massive budget cuts in order to kow-tow to the Tory Government’s
vicious, relentless attacks on the most vulnerable sectors of society, it does
my heart glad to see the Christmas lights still shining from the columns and
lanterns (see Dad; I did learn something of your job) of Shields. You see, the
Christmas lights in North Shields were my dad’s idea.
On the Friday
of my October half term in 1979, Dad took a council van from one of the long
gone depots he worked at; either Tynemouth Road in North Shields beside King
Street Club, or on Hillheads Road, Whitley Bay, down from the football ground
where the new houses now are, and drove down to Blackpool, taking me with him.
Three years previously he’d taken me and my sister down there to see the
illuminations; I’d hated it, but as she was only 6, it was a special treat for
her. Having seen at first hand the concept of street lighting for reasons other
than public safety, an idea germinated in the old fella’s head, which is why he
called his mate Joe Knowles from the Association of Public Lighting Engineers, who
lived in Lytham St Anne’s in the autumn of 79 and was able to sort things out.
I remember a
long drive down, twenty minutes in a council depot that looked no different to
North Tyneside’s to load the van full of festive illuminations and a drive back
up, punctuated by a stop off somewhere on the A66 for a pub lunch; a steak
sandwich in a baguette each, plus two pints of Stones for him and a pint
of Black
Label and lime for me. Well, I was 15, but this gesture made me feel so
grown up. About a month later, BBC Look North covered the switch on
live on telly. Mike Neville did the honours and Northumberland Square was
bathed in yellows, greens and reds; Santa Claus, reindeer, fluorescent holly
leaves. It looked great and it still does.
Of course the
old fella wasn’t there at the ceremony to bask in reflected glory; that simply
wasn’t his style. He was sat at home with his family, watching it on the telly,
no doubt quietly proud of what he’d achieved, but modestly playing down his
part in it all. Well Dad, 34 years on, I’m giving you the praise you deserve. I
just wish you were still here so I could say it to your face.
I’d not
really thought about the North Shields festive lights until I emptied my old
man’s house this summer when my mam moved into a pensioner’s apartment in a
sheltered housing block.
As a council employee, he thought, as everyone who
worked for the council did back then, that the stores were his own personal
property, full of things to use, or not, as he saw fit. Emptying cupboards in
the garage, as well as coming across unopened Durham County Council issue 5
gallon tins of gun metal primer (he stopped working for them in September 1977
and moved house twice in his life after that), I found several packs, each
containing 48 unused green, yellow and red light bulbs, still shrink wrapped in
cellophane; no doubt they were all left over from our to trip to Blackpool back
in 79. Obviously, for sentimental as much for practical reasons, I couldn’t
throw them out. As I type, they’re sat in the cupboard under my stairs as, like
Eddy, I wonder if they might “come in handy” someday. Perhaps one Christmas
will be that time. You’re right; no it won’t be. That still-to-be-appointed
literary executor of mine will have the job of flinging those in a skip, along
with several of my manuscripts. So it goes…
Frankly I’m
not a great one for Christmas, perhaps due to the fact that my dad would always
sing me The Little Boy That Santa Claus Forgot as a lullaby, but I must
admit to having 9 very similar Christmas cards pinned up in my office at work,
each one having arrived regular as clockwork in mid-November, from 2005
onwards; all of them from Fulham FC. My birthday is August 11th; I
know for a fact that by the end of July I’ll be in receipt of a card for my
birthday postmarked SW6 as well. So, how on earth did I get on Mohammed al
Fayed’s Christmas list? It’s a daft story….
In February
2005, Newcastle were due to play Fulham away at Craven Cottage and, not having
been there since a 2-2 in February 1983, I fancied going back to see how the
ground had changed. At the time my sister lived in Shepherd’s Bush just up the
other end of the Fulham Palace Road and could provide me with digs while Easy
Jet still knocked out dirt cheap air fares, so I got on with it.
Typically enough, my plans were thwarted when Fulham drew away to Derby in the
4th round of the FA Cup, meaning the replay took precedence and the
Newcastle game I’d sorted myself some tickets for was postponed until May, when
we won 3-1 and Kluivert scored a beauty.
Being in
receipt of comprehensive travel plans, I decided to still make the trip down
for a weekend in the smoke but, checking the fixtures, didn’t see many other
games to appeal to me. Consequently, Fulham it was. I registered on-line to get
my ticket in the Stevenage Road stand and enjoyed a rip-roaring 4-2 home win in
a classic cup tie, where I managed to run into the only Fulham fan I’d ever
known; a bloke called Alex. Not too surprising really, other than the fact he
lives in Seville and I knew him from working in Bratislava back in 1999.
Anyway, I
thought nothing more of Fulham until late July of that year, when I received a
birthday card, “to a true Cottager with best wishes from Chris Coleman and the
gang at Fulham FC,” along with an A5 flyer, advertising their season ticket
offers. Come mid-November, the first Christmas card arrived, with exactly the
same greetings and the same photo of the current first team squad, only with added
holly and tinsel adornments and, this time, an advert for a part season ticket.
Since then I’ve continued to receive contact twice a year, successively from
Roy Hodgson, Lawrie Sanchez (I felt guilty when our 1-0 win there in December
2007 got him the boot a week after he’d written me such a nice card), Mark
Hughes and Martin Jol. Tellingly, this year’s card simply said “from everyone
at Fulham,” which told me the big Dutchman was on his way out.
What amazes
me is that in all this time, I’ve never bought a ticket or any merchandise from
them, much less even been back to Craven Cottage, yet they continue to send me
cards twice a year. Still, these missives are one of the aspects of modern
football I’m most in favour of; faceless cold calling dressed up as the
personal touch.
Newcastle
United’s merchandising wing continues to bombard me with emails; I’d wager an
average of 3 per day come from the club, offering everything from match tickets
to merchandise to corporate packages. It’s shit; what I really want from my
club is to be given the opportunity to be an equal shareholder, along with
every other fan who wishes to be part of the ownership of the club, in a
completely democratic fashion. That may be unlikely in the short term, so I’ll
settle in the meantime for constructive dialogue between the club and the
supporters.
The best way
for this to exist is through the medium of the Fans’ Forum, which Supporters’
Liaison Officer Lee Marshall and NUFC Fans United ordinary member and Fans’
forum representative Steve Hastie worked so hard to bring to fruition. Sadly,
as we all know, the appallingly unprofessional antics of NUST, in breaching
protocol and making no effort to either apologise or upbraid the individual
concerned for this shocking act of sabotage, mean that the Fans’ Forum has been
fatally undermined by the only subscription-based convened supporters’ body the
club has. What is more, NUST is a constituent part of Supporters Direct (in
itself supported by the PL, FA and Government), which should mean NUST has
correct governance arrangements, bearing in mind it has a proper constitution;
its officers are appointed after properly constituted elections. Consequently,
it ought to follow that the elected officials of NUST should be accountable to
those who are ordinary members of NUST, who have raised issues they might be
concerned about. Except this has not happened. On December 9th, I
sent the following email to Norman Watson, chair of NUST -:
Having become disenchanted with what I
perceived to be NUST’s abject inaction following the 2010 elections to the
Trust board, I allowed my membership to lapse at the end of that year. However,
I recently re-joined. My reason for doing so is to register my disgust at the
way NUST approached the matter of posting minutes of the NUFC Fans’ Forum
meeting on line.
Rather than allowing the club to put
it on their site, NUST had their version of the minutes, written in
what I felt was a cynical, negative tone it has to be said, up within a day.
I’m not sure who wrote the minutes or who made the decision to upload them, in
clear breach of agreed protocol. Whatever the reason, I have to say that to me,
this was an unprofessional and discourteous act, especially as those in
attendance had, as far as I understand it, all agreed to and subsequently
signed a code of conduct.
Let’s be clear about this; the Trust
were not banned from the Fans’ Forum for speaking their mind, but for behaving
in this crass manner. Now, personally, I do not know whether the decision to
place the minutes on-line in breach of protocol was done in error or as a
deliberate act of sabotage, but the effect of it was not only to
get NUST banned, but to ultimately render the Fans’ Forum almost an
irrelevance, mainly because of the increased profile recent events have
given NUST. I’m not sure if this is simply my instinct, but it certainly
feels as if the actions of NUST have had the effect of totally
discrediting an idea that both Lee Marshall and NUFC Fans United have worked so
hard and so painstakingly to make real. Rather than being a cause of regret,
their exclusion has been a publicity opportunity NUST has seized with
both fists. As a member of NUST, I find this abhorrent.
I would like to propose
that NUST make a full and public apology to the club for the breach
of protocol, in the hope of being subsequently reinstated to the Fans’ Forum,
hopefully in time for next week’s meeting. In addition, I would suggest that
whoever made the decision to breach protocol and post the minutes on line is
censured for their conduct.
Now, I may be
being naïve here, but my desire to see something done was fairly cogently
expressed. When consulting the NUST constitution, my complaint is covered by
Rule 21a, which states -:
A member may be expelled by a
resolution carried by the votes of not less than two-thirds of the members
present in person or by proxy and voting on a poll at an annual or special
general meeting of the Society of which notice has been duly given. The
following procedure will be adopted:
A
written complaint must be made to the Society Board that the member has acted
in a way detrimental to the interests of the Society.
I’d wager
that getting NUST banned from the Fans’ Forum pretty much covers the above
rule. Amazingly, or perhaps not on reflection, the response I received in
return was as follows -:
Dear Mr Cusack
Thank you for taking the time to
contact the Newcastle United Supporters' Trust. Your opinions have been
noted by the Board.
Kind regards,
Newcastle United Supporters Trust
With
impotent, inert responses like the above, is it any wonder that NUST are almost
totally discredited as an organisation, while NUFC Fans’ United remain active,
voluble and prepared to mediate between all actions in a way to drive
everything forward. Typically though, the club let everyone down by postponing
the 16th December Fans’ forum meeting until 6th January.
They really do themselves no favours whatsoever, especially when one considers
the articulate, magnanimous and inspirational letter NUFC Fans United sent Lee
Marshall in advance of this postponed meeting -:
Dear Lee
With the next Fans’ Forum taking place
on 16th December we feel it is important to state our position concerning the
forum as a whole and the need for a continuation of the open and honest
dialogue that was a feature of the first Forum meeting. This is particularly so
given the events that transpired after this first meeting and which resulted in
the club imposing a ban on Newcastle United Supporters’ Trust (NUST) attending
future meetings. The Fans’ Forum is a huge step forward for everyone and the
way in which NUFC have embraced the concept has been extremely well received by
those who see the benefit of communication in whatever form.
We understand the concept of the meetings
and fully appreciate that there has to be huge elements of trust on both sides.
Invited members, the organisations or groups they represent and the Club itself
must work together to ensure the success of this concept of open and honest
dialogue that best serves the interests of supporters and club alike. However,
we also feel that the club's imposition of a 'ban' on NUST does not serve in
the best interests of either party and
we call upon the Club to review their decision and re instate the
Supporters’ Trust so that it can participate positively and in the interests of
the club and its own members alike.
This forum can be an exciting step forward
for us supporters and we are in no doubt that it has to be good news for NUFC.
We look forward to all likeminded supporters groups and representatives being
part of this progressive and positive engagement.
Yours
NUFC FANS UTD
Truly, NUFC
Fans United are the greatest chance we have of rescuing anything from the
turgid impasse of fan communication. Yet it still remains true that NUST are
still an organisation with the potential to be even more effective than NUFC
Fans United. 2014 is election year for NUST and, as far as I understand it,
there has been a noticeable increase in membership; veterans of 1980s Trotskyist
groups may recognise the tactic known as entrism. The NUST AGM should be a
fascinating occasion and the subsequent elections a wonderful opportunity to
steer NUST onto a more productive course. Comrades, let us seize the time.
It is
instructive, when the team is doing so well on the pitch, to remember my
mantra; wherever Newcastle United finish in the league, whoever plays for or
manages them is irrelevant while Mike Ashley is in charge of the club. We need
Ashley OUT and 100% Fan Ownership IN, or 51% as a transitional demand. As I’ve
repeatedly mentioned, the only NUFC game I saw before Christmas was the Man
City cup tie and even then I’d rather have been at West Allotment Celtic versus
Northallerton Town. My intention was to always make the Stoke city game on
Boxing Day my seasonal league bow. Thankfully, the old Free Ticket Mag came up
trumps for this one, and the Arsenal game on the 29th that I’d no
intention of going to as I’d long planned to be at Hibs against Kilmarnock that
day, as my mate Ken’s wife Janine is
nurse and was required to work on both those dates.
The thought
of a Boxing Day trip to SJP was fairly far from my mind when I collapsed into a
malodrous heap after consuming 4 pints of astoundingly beautiful Draught Bass,
an ale as suitable for framing and displaying in an art gallery as it is for
drinking, in The Tynemouth Lodge with my pal Ginger Dave (Caisley not
Kitson) and then topping it up with a bottle of rioja, opened by the slumbering
lady of the house whose earlier carousing had left the wine uncorked, almost
untouched and begging to be consumed. I’m not sure about the vineyard or the
vintage, but it put my lights out in double quick time. Any residual football
thoughts were removed completely from the agenda by a 7.30am alarm call from
the District Nurse who visits my mother, aged almost 80 and with a litany of
mobility and other health problems, twice a day to administer medication.
It appeared
my mam had fallen in her bathroom in the late evening and had spent the night
on the floor. Living as she does in a purpose built retirement block, the
temperature is a steady 25 degrees (you could grow tomatoes all year round) and
the design of the place, with underfloor heating and bevelled door jambs to
reduce the risks of burning or bleeding from falls, is both safe and superbly
designed for the elderly. Typically, Mam had failed to wear her panic alarm
necklace and so had been unable to contact anyone regarding her fate. Unable to
get an answer next morning, the block’s Duty Manager had allowed the Nurse
entry, at which point they found Mam on the floor; disorientated and distressed.
Paramedics were on their way by the time I was called and I was advised to meet
them at the hospital.
Unshaven,
unwashed, unbreakfasted and still half tight, I soon realised that the
Geriatric Assessment Unit of North Tyneside General Hospital is not a place to
spend Christmas Morning, or any time in fact. Having recently been diagnosed
with short term memory problems that may be vascular dementia, in the best case
scenario; my mam was upset and tearful. However the medical staff were utterly
brilliant and soon made it clear there had been no lasting or even minor damage
to the old girl and that she could be discharged into our care, if she liked.
She did like and thus, my partner Laura and I were able to have Christmas Day
with our elderly widowed mothers after all. A couple of hours later than
scheduled, the living room hot enough to melt steel, the old lasses tucked into
their slightly delayed pre-prandial G&Ts, before making a good attempt at
clearing their plates.
The Festive
Season doesn’t mean much to me, but as Laura’s only other relative, her brother,
lives in Calgary, Canada and rarely gets home, while my mam’s daughter cut off
all contact with her a number of years ago, the idea of Christmas being more
about the giving than the receiving does ring true. None of us know how long
we’re on this earth; it’s essential to make the most of opportunities for such
quality time together. It’s also ironic that now my son from my first marriage
is 18 and requires little direct parenting from me, those organisational and
negotiating skills I developed during his childhood are starting to serve me
well with the older generation. On reflection, I think that is the most tragic
thing about ageing; the seemingly inevitable loss of independence and dignity.
As children we did not know of such things; as geriatrics we may forget their
importance, consciously or unconsciously.
By 8.00pm,
the old dears were back in their respective houses and, freed from the shackles
of caring responsibilities, I began drinking steadily. Around midnight, as I
alternated between cherry brandy and gingerbread rum, it became clear to me my
first drink on Boxing Day would have to be a neat Gaviscon; in the end, it
was near to half a bottle to shut off the self-inflicted acid reflux. At my age,
I accept that drinking for 3 successive days is now physically impossible. The
state of my head and intestines informed me well before noon that I wouldn’t be
partaking of anything alcoholic before late evening Boxing Day, if at all.
I still took
myself into town at the normal time for a match day, arriving a couple of hours
before kick-off, hanging round the usual haunts to wish people all the best and
taking in the second half of the Hull against Man United game in The
Bodega. When this was over, I headed off up to the ground, stopping off
to buy a bottle of water from a newsagent’s on the way. This was the last time
I was to see my wallet, as I changed a £20 to do so, putting the notes back
inside and the change in my pocket. I always put my wallet in my coat’s outside
breast pocket as it has a button down flap; this time, probably because it was
20 minutes to kick off and the shop was heaving, I didn’t. I know this for a
fact because, at 5.15pm in The Town Wall on Pink Lane, I went
to the bar to get the drinks in and found my coat pocket securely fastened, but
the wallet nowhere to be seen. I checked all my pockets; nothing. Luckily I
still had the borrowed season ticket and could pass it on to my mate Norman for
the Sunday against Arsenal, when I’d be at Easter Road; you’ll hear a lot more
about that trip next time around.
Making my
excuse (a good one I felt), I headed back to the ground, retracing my steps in
darkness, fruitlessly scouring the blackened pavement for sign of my
possessions. Back at SJP, I explained the score to security who took me to my
seat, allowed me to check my route to and from the seat, as well as scoot round
the bogs and back of the stand; nothing. All I could do was head down to Market
Street cop station, file a lost property report and head home in a sulk. I did
this, phoned the bank to cancel my cards and took a gloomy ride home on the
Metro, before settling in for an early night of mineral water and coffee as the
potential party urge was gone. In point of fact, I was in bed immediately after
Match
of the Day.
Losing money
I could live with and ordering replacement cards was no hassle; it was the loss
of irreplaceable personal mementoes that cut me to the quick. Photographs of my
son from 2 years to 16; all gone. Autographs from Nolberto Solano and The
Wedding Present’s David Gedge; disappeared. Worst of all for me was the
loss of a snap of my ex-wife, taken at a friend’s wedding in June 1994; she
looked so beautiful that day and I’ve kept it through all these years as I
never recalled us being so happy again, as we were that summer afternoon in
South London. Silly, sentimental me…
Despite the
5-1 score at SJP, I’d never felt that low coming away from football since April
20th 1992, when Newcastle United left the Baseball Ground after a
4-1 scudding, all due to a cheating, incompetent referee called Brian
Coddington from Sheffield, who sent off Kevin Brock for denying a supposed
clear goal scoring opportunity that wasn’t, Kevin Scott for 2 fouls that
weren’t worthy of yellow cards either singularly or in combination and Liam
O’Brien for a kick at a Derby player that failed to connect. The sense of depression
has faded over time, but the injustice of that day remains. Coddington’s name
will forever raise the hackles of NUFC fans who remember that game. Only the
anguish of Easter Monday 22 years ago could compare with the emotional
desolation I felt as the train rattled away from the city centre and towards
the Coast.
Thinking
about the game, it was almost surreal to reflect on a 5-1 victory, when after
an encouraging opening few minutes, Stoke had utterly assumed control as
Pardew’s decision to bring in Ben Arfa for Tiote left us tactically lopsided.
Sissoko and Gouffran got in each other’s way on the left, leaving Remy
isolated. With Ben Arfa in the team, too often the instinct is to give him the
ball and stand back to watch him create; his creativity needs to be harnessed
to a more flexible line up, preferably a 4-3-3. As it was, Stoke took control.
Under Hughes they are less intimidating than Pulis, but more methodical and
patient to the point of ponderousness. It was no surprise though when they took
the lead with an excellent finish.
After 40
minutes, we were in trouble, until Stoke players, Mark Hughes and Martin
Atkinson got things spectacularly wrong. Firstly Whelan was booked for a
combination of a foul, squaring up to Cabaye then booting the ball away; all
very daft. He then made a total prick of himself by booting Cabaye’s right
shin, which was a clear booking and an inevitable red. I’m mystified why Hughes
had to outdo Poyet in the coat flinging stakes, though I suppose Poyet’s
meltdown was at Stoke, so Hughes may have picked up the nylon baton; will
Pardew be next for the anorak throwing tantrum stakes? I do hope so.
Almost
immediately after this, Wilson’s red for bringing down Remy overshadowed Anita
making the most sublime, simple pass through the heart of their defence. Well
done Little Vurn; sorry you were hauled off at half time, but it was the right
thing to do when going for the win.
I didn’t want
Remy to take the penalty; why Cabaye or even Ben Arfa, who’d scored one 4 days
earlier at Palace, didn’t take it, I’ll never know. Instead Sorensen does what
Sorensen does; he saved penalties at St James Park, for his third different
club. I am sure only Southampton (and Brondby obviously) haven’t had the
benefit of him stopping a spot kick up here. He was powerless when Remy’s
deflected shot flew past him for the equaliser, but we should be honest and
admit the goal should never have stood as Williamson clearly handled the ball
and wasn’t punished before we broke to score, a fact that no doubt made for a
far easier interval talk by Pardew.
The manager
has so often been berated for his second half tactics, but he was spot on in
this game. Shola’s introduction and Ben Arfa’s free role allowed us to hammer
them. The supposed controversial second goal was not clearly over the line before
Ben Arfa crossed it and looks fair enough to me. Cabaye’s finish was lovely,
Haidara looked great and Cisse’s penalty was a real festive heartwarmer. Strange
how the feelings of exultation at 5.00pm had faded to abject gloom within half
an hour…
Thinking
about the stress of my mam’s fall and then the gloom caused by losing my
wallet, I’m sure you’ll agree with me that when compared to the Christmas I
had, Stoke City’s 500 travelling support may have had cause to count their
blessings on Boxing Day 2013. It may just take a little time for them to
achieve perspective on the game.
There is a
happy ending to the story of the wallet though; having gone to social media to
explain my loss, occasioning many shares and retweets; I was elated to receive
a message on Facebook early on Friday from someone who had found my wallet.
A fella from Liverpool, a red, married to a Geordie lass and up here with their
bairn for Christmas, had been to the game and, walking down Barrack Road from
the ground (a route I would never take), he’d seen my wallet discarded near a
bin. The money was gone and the cards were cancelled, but it meant I could get
all my sentimental belongs back again, including a set list from The
Jesus & Mary Chain at Kilburn National in 1986. I collected the
wallet from him Friday afternoon, buzzing as the essential goodness of human
nature had been reaffirmed to me by his act. The gentleman he was, he refused
point blank all attempts to reward him for his selfless actions. Thank you
Karl, you made Christmas special for me. All the best to you and yours.
Mind, the
little bastard who had either picked my pocket or found the wallet, took the
cash and dumped it, needs a hiding. Not for taking the money, but for the
inconvenience of having to queue up in the Central Station travel centre for
half an hour to get my tickets for the trip to Edinburgh to see Hibs against
Kilmarnock on the Sunday, but that’s another story...
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