James Ellroy is the world’s greatest crime writer, with the
ability to construct frightening tales of political corruption, state terror
and criminal conspiracies that weave factual events and characters with his own
version of ultra hard boiled fiction. His masterpiece is Underworld USA; a ghastly
trilogy of political malfeasance and imperialistic bad juju from 1958 to 1972;
the first volume American Tabloid, covers 1958 to 1963, the middle book The
Cold Six Thousand addresses the matrix of American politics and crime
from 1963 to 1968, so you can see exactly where the final volume, Blood’s
a Rover, is going: the '68 election, the Mob's foreign casino plan,
Nixon in office, though it stops short of Watergate. When asked why, Ellroy
commented “Watergate bores me. It’s been done to death. And most of the
characters are still alive, so you can’t use them fictionally.” Similarly, I’ve
only even seen one Stoke City v Newcastle United game; the 0-4 League Cup game
in October 1995, so instead I’m going to tell you about my one and only trip to
Vale Park.
On Friday 20th December 1991, we moved into a new
house about a quarter of a mile from the city centre on the night Newcastle
lost 2-0 at Plymouth Argyle to drop into the relegation zone of Division 2. Boxing
Day we lost 1-0 at home to Middlesbrough in a noon kick off that I slept in
for; waking at 11.52 and entering the ground at 12.17. On 28th December,
we struggled past Bristol Rovers 2-1 and headed down to her family in South
Yorkshire at full time. Newcastle lost 4-0 at Southend United on New Year’s Day
to drop to 23rd and her brother-in-law took me to Sheffield
Wednesday 1 Oldham Athletic 1, as the family’s team Barnsley were losing 2-0
away to sunderland. After a cup loss to Bournemouth on penalties, 11th
January saw us 2-0 down to Watford by 3.05; we pulled back to draw as I watched
Hull City 3 Stockport County 1, having taken my sister back down to university
in the East Riding. Remember Kingmaker? We saw them on 18th January,
after Charlton Athletic had come from 3-0 down to win 4-3 at SJP with a last
minute own goal by Liam O’Brien. After a blank weekend, Newcastle dropped to
bottom of the table at the start of February, losing 5-2 at Oxford, while I
took in Gateshead 1 Barrow 0 in the FA Vase. Things were grim.
Ossie Ardiles was sacked and Kevin Keegan appointed in the
next midweek, before we beat Bristol City 3-0 at home on the 8th.
The week after, as I watched Hartlepool defeat Preston 2-0, momentum slowed
with a 3-1 loss at Blackburn Rovers, for whom David Speedie scored a hat trick.
We held a belated housewarming party on Friday 21st, inviting 80
friends, colleagues and neighbours, while accommodating most of her family. The
next day Newcastle were held 1-1 by Barnsley, to remain in the bottom three.
Back then I taught in a school, which is where we met; she was a postgraduate student teacher on placement and me three years into the job. We hit it off by conversing in the universal language of gigs and football, going to see The Pixies, Galaxie 500 and That Petrol Emotion, as well as a goalless draw between Newcastle and Barnsley in November 1990 in our first fortnight together. We shacked up in January 91. She finished her course and got a job, so I sold my flat and we bought our house; started planning a future together and spent February half term decorating the lounge and front bedroom, as well as seeing The Wedding Present on the Tuesday night. She went down to her family on the Friday morning and I would follow the day after, via a circuitous route.
1991/1992 St James Park had a 30,000 capacity and an 18,000
average crowd before Keegan took over. Season tickets in the Milburn Stand were
£161; that’s £7 a game. About a dozen of us sat together; not always in the
same seats, because it wasn’t busy enough for that, but in the same area; mid
20s to early 30s, lifelong, cynical fans, having a drink and a smoke on a
Saturday, laughing at the clueless shit on display, but not taking it too
seriously. Except when we went away, of course. I’d reined in the Newcastle
away games since we’d got together; still watched a game every Saturday, but figured
a total spend of a tenner on a local game compared to a ton all-in on an
awayday showed my commitment and maturity. She was great though as she
understood the game; she loved football and we loved each other, so when I told
her I’d never been to Burslem she encouraged me to go.
Saturday morning; 8.30 and the lift arrived. Paddy driving, Mark acting as navigator and Peter dying of a hangover in
the back. I snuck in next to him and we floored it out of the city, heading
west to Carlisle on the A69, then a long trawl south down the M6, with Peter snoring
and farting the whole way. Go on Google now and it tells you A1(M),
M62, M6, A500 to Port Vale in just over 3 hours from Tyneside, but we didn’t
have Google
22 years ago; just those big spiral bound AA road atlases with the ripped or
missing pages and footprints across the section you needed to look at.
We had a rare treat because of the presence of CD player
though, as Paddy’s car from work was a sleek executive saloon; Nevermind,
Bandwagonesque
and Loveless
were the playlist that morning. We stopped at Killington Lake services for a
pissbreak and ruminated over Keegan’s new signings of Kevin Sheedy on a free
from Everton and Brian Kilcline on loan from Coventry, while chewing on
overpriced bacon sandwiches as Feed Me With Your Kisses airburst
huge clouds of staccato feedback all across the Cumbrian fells on a dark
Saturday morning. This is doing fuck all
for my hangover, opined Peter as he jettisoned his breakfast roll in favour
of a Marlboro.
Almost a quarter of a century later and I’d defend those selections with my
life; Teenage Fanclub, My Bloody Valentine and Nirvana remain firm favourites
and, I’m proud to say, have filtered down the generations as my son adores all
three bands as well.
Back on the road, we swapped the sounds to Shiftwork
by The Fall (“When have they let you down? When have they ever?” John
Peel circa 1979) and made slow progress through roadworks, finally arriving in
the Potteries around 1.00; it had taken us nearly 4 hours, discounting the
comfort break and we were thirsty, apart from Peter who then volunteered to
drive back as his condition was such that drink was off the agenda. I remember
we passed Eric Bristow’s pub; was there a large electronic dartboard outside?
Were him and Maureen still loved up back then? Paddy parked up and found the
nearest bar; nondescript, functional, fizzy lager and fizzy keg. I don’t recall
its name, but we got the regulation pre-match half gallon and then headed for
the ground, paying on the door of course, as a damp afternoon turned ever
colder.
SJP was a dump back then, most grounds were, but Vale Park
seemed to take this to another dimension. All I remember is the NCB Opencast orange stand and an away
end fringed on all sides by sheets of corrugated iron; brilliant for percussive
accompaniment to chanting, but lacking any architectural merit. The pitch was
massive and spongy; mud churned as our yellow away shirts were begrimed in
filth as we toiled away. Steve Watson scored the only goal in front of us on
the half hour and we went collectively insane; maybe 2,000 of us on crumbling
terraces watching a relegation battle at the bottom of Division 2, but it meant
so much. Lee Clark should have added a second, but fired wide and we all
nervously held our breath when former NUFC youth striker Joe Allon came on for
them, but he was shit and we won the game 1-0.
At the end of the season, Vale
went down and we stayed up, so it was an important win, as all wins are.
Full time, we ecstatically found the car and a corner shop
for some cans to aid the journey, using Radio 5 as entertainment as we
headed east, to eventually drop me at Junction 38 of the M1, just as 606
was finishing. Paddy and Mark would be in town for 9.00 at the latest and Peter
would be in bed. She picked me up and we headed out to The Cherry Tree in the
village of High Hoyland for a family meal. They were in a good mood as The
Tykes had beaten Charlton 1-0 and it was a great night.
About 9.30, mine and her paths coincided in the corridor by
the bogs; her coming out and me going in. She asked me if I knew what date it
was; I didn’t. Turns out it was 29th February; the Leap Year day.
She did as she was entitled to and proposed to me; marriage was something we’d
never talked of before, being vehemently opposed to such bourgeois conformism,
but I was flattered. I loved her and it seemed a good idea, so I said yes. A
good day out turned wonderful and we had an even better one on Friday 31st
July; tying the knot in Barnsley Registry Office and having the do in The
Cherry Tree, with a strict playlist of Johnny Cash, The Pogues and The
Wedding Present (naturally).
Paddy, Peter and Mark were all there. Sadly I don’t see them
any longer. Paddy’s married with two grown up kids and living in County
Wicklow, where his parents were from. Peter took redundancy from the Civil
Service and lives in the middle of nowhere outside Northallerton, working as a
painter. Mark sacked off being a Financial Advisor to run a beachside café at
Tynemouth. I’m still in teaching, but involved with adult, community education.
She’s still a teacher; Deputy Head in fact.
We talk on the phone maybe once a month, now our son’s
almost 19 and away to University come September. It was difficult after the
divorce in 2001 to behave in an adult fashion, but that’s a while ago now and
we’re past all that. Life moves on, but we’ll always have Burslem…
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