Straight Gedge

This week I've bought Ben and I tickets for The Wedding Present supporting The Wonder Stuff in March and headlining in September. This piece, which I've submitted to a book asking for memories of The Wedding Present, tries to explain why -:

Were this piece to make it into print, it would surely provoke a response dripping in contempt from all those professional Gedgeophiles who have dedicated the thick end of 30 years following The Wedding Present. There is no other way of putting this; since TWP started gigging in 1986, I have seen them live on 13 separate occasions (with at least 2 and possibly 3 concerts to attend in 2016), though I have, to my great and eternal shame, also failed to see them on another 13 potential instances (including 3 visits by Cinerama), 11 of them in my home city of Newcastle and 2 others in neighbouring Sunderland.  In my defence, there are some reasonable excuses and unfortunate circumstances among those missed opportunities, though I’m sure David, as a Maths graduate, would say that numbers don’t lie.

In 1986, I graduated from Ulster University with a 2:1 in English Literature and zero prospects of paid employment. Returning to Newcastle to sign on, money was tight and boredom a terrible factor. Luckily, I was able to sponge off my parents after I applied for and obtained a place on a postgraduate teaching course at Leeds University for the next year. They saw my potential (cough!). Meanwhile, I claimed the dole, drank in ropey student pubs, watched ropey Newcastle United performances and went to gigs and bought records by loud American guitar bands like Sonic Youth, Swans, Dinosaur Jr, Husker Du, Butthole Surfers and Big Black, all the time viewing the C86 scene with contempt.  The first 2 Wedding Present visits to Newcastle, on 10^th November 1986 and 21^st February 1987 didn’t even cross my radar.

Moving to Leeds in the autumn of 1987, to Headingley of course, I realised just how massively important local bands were to the whole area, which is why I was such a huge fan of Age of Chance and barely noticed the release of George Best though I seem to recall a stunning version of Nobody’s Twisting Your Arm closing an edition of Calendar; am I making that up? It still didn’t stir me into seeing the band when back home on 16^th February 1988, during February half term, again at Newcastle Riverside. Back in Newcastle to start work as a teacher from autumn 88 onwards, one of my new colleagues revealed he’d studied Maths at Leeds University between 1978 and 1981; he didn’t know David and he’d never even heard of The Wedding Present. Perhaps his influence dissuaded me from attending their third Riverside performance on 17^th April 1989.

I tell you a couple of bands I really used to love back then; The Fall and That Petrol Emotion. The former you’ll know about, while the latter included two pals from university and the O’Neill brothers, of ex-Undertones fame.  In August 1989, John Peel was about to turn 50 and his birthday party at Ladbroke Grove Subterrania would feature a reformed Undertones headlining and The Fall as support. Somehow I called in a few favours and got my hands on a ticket. Sadly, the O’Neill brothers lost their father the week before and The Undertones didn’t play, with The House of Love stepping in as openers and The Fall shunted to headliners. I remember them as dreary and posh, while The Fall made absolutely no concession to the occasion by being as thrillingly contemptuous as ever. However, it was the band in the middle of the bill that utterly blew me away; playing a set that was mainly derived from the unreleased Bizarro, I discovered The Wedding Present with fresh ears that night. The songs were longer, the sound more ferocious, innovative and uncompromising. I have subsequently grown to love both original and revisited versions of the band’s early back catalogue, but I maintain they only became the band I adore when they signed to a major label.

Despite this new found affection for The Wedding Present, I didn’t make it to Newcastle Mayfair on 12^th November 1989 and I’ve no idea why. Exactly a year later, Sunderland Poly played host to them, but I opted to stay close to home; Newcastle Uni was the venue and Teenage Fanclub, who I would say are the only band I actually love more than The Wedding Present, were making their debut in town. Truthfully, I can’t say I regretted missing that concert, as TFC were simply sublime. One gig I desperately wish I’d seen was the tour supporting Seamonsters, which visited Newcastle Mayfair on 29^th May 1991. Instead, I opted to watch the European Cup Final between Red Star Belgrade and Olympique Marseilles. Rather than Dalliance, Octopussy and Heather in all their freshly-minted glory, I endured 120 scoreless minutes before Red Star triumphed on penalties, long after inertia had set in. Forty five years of watching Newcastle United should have told me that football always lets you down, while music never does.

I learned from my mistakes though; 25^th February 1992 and I was up at the front in Newcastle Riverside as the band tore through the first, full-length, headlining set I’d seen from them. If the London gig for Peel’s 50^th was an epiphany, this one was confirmation that I’d wasted a lot of time not watching The Wedding Present. I was even inspired enough to travel down to Sheffield Leadmill on 5^th April 1993 to see them headline the Radio 1 Sound City; tremendous night, tremendous gig, tremendous venue. Nothing was going to stop me seeing The Wedding Present from now on; well, that’s not strictly true, as 27^th November 1993 saw them playing Newcastle Poly, while at the same time Teenage Fanclub played Newcastle Uni. I took the Scotch option. Again.

Next to Seamonsters, I would opt for Watusi as my next favourite first period TWP album, even if Mr Gedge found my revelation at the 2014 celebration of that release, that I had purchased the cassette version somewhat baffling. In terms of first period live experiences, the performance at Newcastle University on 4^th October 1994 was probably my favourite. On fire from start to finish, engaging, electric and a supportive crowd. It was a very memorable night, as was their final appearance at the original, late-lamented Newcastle Riverside on 6^th October 1996. I wasn’t there; I was watching The Fall disintegrate at South Shields Custom House. A visibly paralytic Mark E Smith wouldn’t take the stage when asked to and the plugs were pulled. It was an utter fiasco. Mates who’d done The Wedding Present instead praised their performance from the very heavens. Typical.

That final Riverside gig marked the end of The Wedding Present’s first phase visits to Newcastle. Around then I had become a dad and, while I’m now happy to say I go to gigs with my son (he’s at Leeds studying History and living round the corner from Brudenell Social Club), his initial existence meant the responsibilities parenthood involved resulted in me almost becoming detached from live music for a number of years. Consequently, the three visits to my region by Cinerama on 14^th October 2001, 6^th October 2003 and 13^th April 2004 simply passed under my radar completely. I still bought the Cinerama releases, listened intently and developed an affection for them, but it didn’t occur to me to see them live.

News of the return of The Wedding Present and the release of Take Fountain did make me sit up and take notice, though infuriatingly, I missed out on tickets for a sold out return to live performances at Newcastle University on 2^nd March 2005 as I realised it was happening just too late. At that point I had seen The Wedding Present live on 4 occasions and missed them (and Cinerama) 13 times; I just wasn’t prepared to let that damning statistic get even worse. Since then, 13^th November 2005 (Northumbria Uni), 15^th December 2008, 4^th December 2010 (both Newcastle Academy), 13^th August 2011 (Middlesbrough Town Hall), 30^th December 2011 (Leeds Academy), 10^th November 2012 (Newcastle Academy),  28^th October 2013 (Newcastle Think Tank), 10^th November 2014 (Newcastle Cluny) and 7^th November 2015 (Newcastle new Riverside) have all been experienced, enjoyed and appreciated. Looking ahead, I’ve got tickets for The Wonderstuff tour (though I intend to be in the pub 2 minutes after The Wedding Present’s set) and the Sage (seats A1 and A2 in the stalls) for the Going, Going premiere and I’ll be at Brudenell Social Club for Saturnalia if the bairn has finished his exams by then.

In many ways, I am a Johnny Come Lately TWP fan, but after almost 27 years I think I can be forgiven for my lack of engagement in the early years and the daft choices I made, missing gigs I ought to have attended. To this day choosing Red Star Belgrade v Olympique Marseilles ahead of Seamonsters still keeps me awake at night. Whatever you say about me is far milder than the things I’ve said about myself.

Eyes Down & Ears Open

Before I begin this first cultural blog of 2016, I must pay my respects to David Bowie. He was, by any measure, an iconic genius. His work from the 1970s is uniformly brilliant and Diamond Dogs would be my album of choice, though everything from Hunky Dory to Lodger is superb. Who else could seamlessly move from Suffragette City to Young Americans, making both hard rock and blue eyed soul equally compelling. I haven’t even mentioned the Berlin trilogy. I’ll leave it there though; my words could never adequately pay tribute to his body of work.

If there was one sin of omission in my cultural life in 2015, it was that I didn’t read enough. Consequently I resolved to do better this year and, with that in mind, picked up a dozen books for a quid in a clearance sale at our local library; some of great quality, others less so. I intend to give a whistle-stop guide to what I’ve consumed. However, before that, there are some proper books I borrowed from friends to discuss. Harry Pearson loaned me I’m Jack, Martin Blacklock’s factional retelling of the Jackie Humble Wearside Ripper hoax. Unsurprisingly this was shortlisted for the Gordon Burns Prize, but unlike that late, talented writer or the stratospheric genius of David Peace, clearly both influences, Blacklock is less than convincing in his need to write this account. Sure he gets inside Humble’s head, at a superficial level, but he doesn’t invest this well-known tale with any compelling insights.

At the other ends of the spectrum, and also shortlisted for the Gordon Burns Prize is Duncan Hamilton’s The Footballer Who Could Fly, a restrained tribute to his late, emotionally buttoned-down dad. My mate Ginger Dave recommended this to Laura, who got me it for Christmas; very much appreciated. The Hamiltons only found a way to communicate via football, often travelling from their Nottingham home back to Tyneside, as the father (a Scottish miner) was a Newcastle fan. Hamilton talks of the players his father loved and the ones he loved in turn, of the growing disenchantment with the game they both suffered. It’s a touching, affectionate and superbly written work. Highly recommended.

Another mate Rod gifted me Philip Roth’s I Married a Communist, the first of his I’d read since Portnoy’s Complaint twenty years ago. While that novel was fun and full of exuberance, I Married a Communist is an infuriating read; by turns fascinating and engaging in its portrayal of the McCarthy era from the perspective of those who suffered at the hands of HUAC, it is also bitter, misogynistic, overlong and structurally flawed at certain points. However, it is a worthwhile read, if only for the description of Richard Nixon’s funeral, which is hilarious in its bile-spitting contempt of the Republican Party.

Clearing out my office from where I used to work back in the summer, I found a half finished copy of The Beggar Maid; Stories of Flo and Rose by Alice Munro.  January 2^nd I finally got to read it; if you know the work of Canada’s greatest short story writer, you’ll know how wonderful her depictions of a philistine upbringing in West Hanratty, a loveless marriage to a rich bore and the difficulties of making a living as a single mother working as an actress and drama teacher, while having endless failed relationships with married men. Munro is in her 80s and has retired from writing; her legacy is assured as the Grande Dame of Canuck fiction.

Wandering through Tynemouth Market today, in search of a copy of The Winter’s Tale (unsuccessfully), I spotted a 1987/1988 Rothman’s Football Yearbook; it’s one I didn’t have, so my extensive collection has a gap plugged. It was a tremendous bargain at only £2. Looking forward to dipping into the stats and editorial to be transported to a time when even Jamie Fender didn’t complain about football, amazingly enough.

Now, as regards the pile of fiction I bought for a quid; the logical approach was to reject all fantasy, chick lit, historical fiction, sci fi, gore and so on, in favour of realistic fiction. That done, I put them in reverse order of length (shortest first) and got stuck in. The first one was A Clockwork Orange, which kind of invalidates what I said were my criteria. I’d never read it or seen the film, though I’ve caught it on stage before and knew the plot. My residual knowledge of Slovak helped me with the Nadsat vocab and I adored it, especially the final chapter. While Burgess rejected the book because of how it was misinterpreted, I found it a compelling argument against macho violence.

I read The Wasp Factory and Walking on Glass when they came out, but my subsequent Ian Banks experiences have been rather scattergun to say the least, though I’ve loved them all: Whit, Crowd Road and now Canal Dreams. Implausibly a Japanese cello virtuoso, who is scared of flying, finds herself on a ship in the Panama Canal on the way to Europe, when a civil war breaks out. All passengers and crew, including her French lover, are killed, so she revenges this atrocity by assassinating all the rebels, including a final enormous fireball that burns the surface of the canal as she scuba dives away. Marvellous fun, in a preposterous way.

Martin Millar caused a bit of a stir with Milk, Sulphate and Alby Starvation about 30 years back. I never got around to reading it, so was pleased to get hold of Suzy, Led Zep and Me; it’s an asynchronous bildungsroman. The narrator (a Brixton based author called Martin) is attempting to resurrect a relationship with a former flame, now a single parent on the rebound. His way of doing this is a painstaking retelling of his friendship group going to see Zeppelin in Glasgow back in 1972. Five of them, three boys and two girls in an untidy set of shifting teenage relationships. A cataclysmic climax means the night they saw Page, Plant et al changed their lives forever, meaning their home town would never be the same to them. Meanwhile, in London, his glacially paced chat up lines get him no further forward at the end than the start. Not bad, but the London stuff is a distracting, unnecessary hindrance to the real interest in the story.

Another Scottish novel is Grass by Cathy McPhail, telling the story of a pair of teenage lads trying to stay safe in a gangster-infested small town where drugs are rife. There are deaths and threats, but the dialogue is wooden and the plot skimpy at best. I read it without thinking. A far better book with a young narrator is Pigeon English by Stephen Kelman, which is loosely based on the tragic murder of Damilola Taylor; an understated, beautifully observed book whose tragic denouement is heart-breaking, even if it is predictable.  A writer I will look out for.

Babak Ganjei is one I’ll avoid; his Hilarious Consequences cartoons about a failed musician slacker, who is also a lousy husband and dad, living in Shoreditch and trying to make his name, has zero humour and a thoroughly dislikeable cast of other second generation Nathan Barleys. There was a CD that came with it, containing a load of bands I’ve never heard of. I listened to it and there was some pleasant second generation shoegaze stuff, but only Cheatahs with Froshed made any lasting impact.

You’ll have seen a couple of my blogs involved stuff I’ve written for the Gob on the Tyne project. In return, I’ve been given a whole load of obscure albums and CDs on the iconoclastic Fuckin’ Amateurs label. These are seriously limited release, limited appeal DIY noise projects from the wilds of south east Northumberland. Often, there comes the question, rather like with amateur dramatics or Sunday pub football, at when do we reach the point where the enjoyment is more for the participant than the consumer? I think I’ve come to realise that point is encapsulated by Wrest’s Live at CSV, a one-sided release that combines a surreptitiously recorded Job Club advice session (real, patronising, League of Gentlemen stuff), with found sounds, bit of classical music and DIY percussion. I’ll never listen to this again.

Posset use the Burroughs cut-up technique with a Dictaphone. Their album Banjaxed is a dissonant, messy, self-indulgent swamp of formless pretension. I’ll never listen to it again.  Lobster Priest’s Crucial Trading has a track on either side; Suzie Fuckin Q Death Trip on side is a glorious, swampy Velvets type impro rock thrash out and I loved it. I had to take the b-side Free Radio off after about five minutes as I thought I was developing tinnitus. Funeral Death Party’s pair of improvised noise live albums, MMX and RIP, astonishingly gain applause at the end of each piece. I can’t understand why. If you want any or all of these records, drop me a line…. I’ll pay the postage!

One CD I am keeping hold of is the double live anthology of Rhombus of Doom stuff from the mid-80s to late 90s. Astonishing how good they were; to my ears, there’s as much of an A Certain Ration influence as there is from anything across the pond. Solemn, serious, metronomic rhythms embellished by squalling guitars, squealing sax and shrieked vocals, they deserve far more of a place in the history of NE post punk than they seem to have. This is a very good and very valued release.

Finally, I received The Land and The Garden by Vic Marrs from Santa. It’s another glorious, pastoral, album of gentle, almost fey instrumentals on the every wonderful Clay Pipe Music imprint. Beautifully designed, beautifully played and beautifully executed as an artefact, it is a world away from Wrest, Lobster Priest and Posset. Thank goodness.

Right, I’m off to finish reading a biography of Kim Hushes that Harry loaned me, Heller’s follow-up to Catch 22 and a Howard Linskey police procedural, as well as a couple of novels by blokes I’ve never heard of.

Turf Wars

Monday 11^th January 2016; a bit foggy early on, with a touch of ground frost, but it got out to be a clear, cool, bright and beautiful winter day, without a cloud in the sky. We’ve not had many of these kind of days lately; December was the warmest on record, so zero and below temperatures simply haven’t happened so far this winter. Unfortunately, the wettest November and December since records began have taken the gloss off the unseasonably balmy temperatures. I know this whinge is very small beer when compared to images of devastation in Cumbria, York and elsewhere in the north, but the catastrophic effect the elements have had on non-league football really does merit further consideration.

My team Benfield remain unbeaten in over 7 weeks, mainly because we haven’t kicked a ball since November 28^th. This period of inactivity includes the game at Morpeth on December 19^th getting the heave-ho when the teams were warming up, because of one questionable soggy patch on the far touchline, but most of the time incessant rain has put paid to games well in advance. Maddeningly these have included home games against Whitley Bay and the Boxing Day money-spinner when North Shields were due to visit; rescheduled midweek ties never have quite the same buzz about them, or comparable volume of paying customers. Last year, we didn’t have a single home postponement; this time round, we’ve had 4 already and it hasn’t even got cold yet. Consequently, fingers must be crossed for this weekend, when we hope to host local rivals West Allotment Celtic in the Coach Lane Clasico.

However, amidst all this wailing and gnashing of teeth, the actual fact is I’ve managed to see a game every single Saturday since the start of July 2015, as I did last season. Not only that, with only 3 games featuring Northern League teams surviving on Saturday January 9^th, I was still able to watch 4 games on 3 different pitches, seeing 19 goals in the process; Wallsend Winstons 1 Richmond Vets 3 (10.30 Blakelaw 4G, North East Over 40s Division 3),  Bedlington Terriers 3 Percy Main Amateurs 3 (12.15 Blakelaw 4G, friendly), the second half of Forest Hall 4 Gosforth Bohemians Reserves 5 (2.00 Coach Lane 4G, Tyneside Amateur League) and the second half of Team Northumbria 1 Marske United 2 (3.00 Coach Lane, FA Vase). This veritable sporting feast didn’t cost me a penny either, other than the £5 subs for playing like a dog for Winstons first off.

As I’ve hinted, 4G was the key for 3 of those games. The other, on Team Northumbria’s home ground, was on a pitch that is the best in the Northern League in every possible way; flat, well-grassed, immaculately kept and draining perfectly; who says there’s a crisis of funding in Higher Education? All those £9k per annum fees have gone to some use at any rate.

Seriously though, surely 4G is the way to go now. While we’ve all played on mudheaps (some of us still do in the Over 40s) and had a great time getting hacky black from head to toe, taking our lead from the likes of the Baseball ground in the mid-70s, this rarely is the case these days. Basically, referees, officials and some players don’t want games played in farcical conditions and, if they are halfway decent and have youth on their side, I agree with them. At my age, stumbling over on a ploughed field, ankle deep in stagnant water, is great; if you’re 17 and have a bit about you, it’s awful. This is why, at the time of writing, 2 FA Vase third round ties featuring Northern League teams (South Shields v Morpeth Town and Newton Aycliffe v Atherton Collieries, the conquerors of Benfield) have yet to take place, when fourth round ties were originally schedulked for Saturday just gone.

There is an easy solution to the problems of ever wetter winters; install 2 full sized, floodlit 4G pitches at every High School in the country and 2 small sized, floodlit 4G pitches at every Primary. If you notice, I’m calling it 4G and not all weather because no surface, synthetic or not, is truly all weather. Consett’s state of the art pitch has seen games called off because of ice on the surrounding areas and snow on the pitch (it is Consett remember; mild winters don’t exist), while snow flurries put paid to games in early December at Coach Lane for Forest Hall and Walker College for West Jesmond in the Tyneside Amateur. Perhaps the craziest reason for postponements this season so far has been wind, which caused a Team North game to be called off at 2.53pm; the opposition were Northallerton, which just adds insult to injury.

I’m not saying 4G is a panacea for all the ills of the game or better than grass (diving at Blakelaw was akin to jumping onto a pallet of upturned scrubbing brushes), but it is a practical, reliable alternative when inclement conditions prevail. Also, if floodlights were part of the package, youth and Sunday leagues could avail themselves of the facility, meaning that games could take place from Friday evening to Sunday evening, with the rest of the week available for training. There is a market out there for teams wanting midweek facilities outdoors and regular practises would keep wavering kids and shadow squad players involved.

I’m also not saying 4G is the solution for all grassroots (should that be astroturf roots?) clubs, mainly because it costs a hell of a lot to install. Consett are delighted with their set up at Belle View and whoever takes over Durham City’s former home New Ferens Park, now scandalously standing empty after an unseemly and intractable power struggle between the owners and Citizens’ chair Olivier Bernard, will inherit an immaculate surface in a slightly scruffy ground. However, other new grounds, such as Ashington’s, Penrith’s and Bishop Auckland’s, were constructed with a traditional surface and have suffered terrible drainage problems as a result. I’d imagine that the nouveau riche Mariners will investigate a top of the range synthetic surface for next season, but I don’t see a whole raft of others undertaking fund raising drives or feasibility studies as a precursor to embracing a 4G future.

In a sense, at Northern League level, that’s praiseworthy; we have 44 clubs, each with a unique history and set of traditions. They all have their spiritual home grounds (apart from perhaps Washington, who took over Nissan’s vacant ground and West Allotment who sublet Blue Flames from the Northumberland FA), which they would be loathe or even unable to lay 4G on. However, that isn’t really the case at the Northern Alliance or Tyneside Amateur League level, in the vast majority of cases. In my beloved Tyneside Amateur League, 6 clubs have what could, however loosely, be described as a home ground. Gosforth Bohemians Reserves are part of the organisation that owns Benson Park, while Stobswood Welfare hire a ground of the same name. The other 10 hire facilities, some including Newcastle Medicals change home grounds regularly, while 2 clubs play permanently on 4G surfaces at home; North Shields Athletic Reserves at John Spence High School and West Jesmond, who previously used to hire the gluepot of Paddy Freeman’s, at Walker School. Surely those who have their own grounds could be granted the money by the FA to install 4G surfaces and floodlights, if they wish to (residents of leafy NE3 may not wish to see Benson Park illuminated), while those who are effectively tenants would surely be prepared to hire higher spec facilities?

In the Alliance top division Percy Main, Wallington and Seaton Delaval have beautiful, old world grounds, while Whitley Bay A play at Hillheads, Carlisle City at Gillford Park and Blyth Town are building a facility at South Newsham. None of these would probably wish for 4G surfaces, for aesthetic or practical reasons. Of the rest, 5 have their own grounds, none of which are remotely glamorous, and 5 hire pitches.  In the division below, Newcastle University and Wallsend Boys Club no doubt have the financial clout to upgrade their facilities should they wish, Gosforth Bohs wouldn’t be allowed to nor I suspect, would Cullercoats, while the other clubs either rent or have basic facilities. In the Alliance bottom division, Gateshead Development play on the 4G behind the International Stadium and all bar 2 others are tenants. Forest Hall and Swalwell are the exceptions; the latter’s pitch is probably the worst surface used by any Saturday afternoon team in our region.

Consequently, as the vast majority of teams in Alliance Divisions 1 and 2, as well as the Tyneside Amateur League, are comprised of young players (age 22 maximum in most instances), who would still look to move upward if any club came looking, it would be in their interests to play on the best surface possible. Remember, in the main these are teams rather than clubs in many instances, with changing names and home pitches; giving them the best possible surface to play on should be a no brainer. Of course there are “social” teams at this level, but they surely wouldn’t object to playing away games (even home ones?) on 4G. However, I do recognise that in the Alliance Premier and Northern League, clubs are as much about fans as they are about players; it is essential that these wonderful grounds are maintained. Perhaps, one day, the FA will give every club a pitch as good as Team Northumbria’s, if the desire to stick with a natural rather than synthetic surface prevails.

So, how do we pay for it? The simple answer is cancelling Trident and chasing the tax-avoiding multi-nationals for what they owe. If that’s not imminently feasible, then get the FA to place a 5% levy on all transfer fees and deduct 1% of all salaries and bonuses in the Premier League. Surely any sane person would see the moral imperative in that. However, I won’t hold my breath, either for decent weather or, more poignantly, universal decent facilities.

Hate Destroys; Love Heals

It hasn't been a great festive period for Newcastle United, nor indeed for Bradford City; two away losses and a home postponement on Boxing Day. This latter call-off prevented the sales of "City Gent" issue #203, in which can be found this article I penned about mine & Ben's visit to Valley Parade back in November -:

I didn’t have what you would call a normal undergraduate experience. This is mainly explained by the fact I moved from Gateshead to Derry on the day Peter Beardsley signed for Newcastle in September 1983. Don’t get me wrong; I had 3 wonderful, if slightly intense years, in the north of Ireland, but I did wonder what it would be like to experience the kind of student life my peers enjoyed. Consequently, I plumped for Leeds for my post-graduate degree. One thing I’d missed over in Ireland was football; not just the Magpies, but that chance of picking a second team in your adoptive city to cheer on. Football in the north of Ireland is a whole, different story. Mates of mine had experienced the joys of developing affection for the likes of Brighton, Bristol Rovers, Cambridge and Notts Forest, according to which academic institution they pitched at. I didn’t have that experience with Leeds United, you’ll be glad to know.

My first visit to Elland Road had been on the opening day of the 1983/1984 season. Newcastle won 1-0, with a John Anderson goal, but it stayed in my mind mainly on account of the fear instilled by Leeds fans as we sheepishly crept back to our bus on a blazing hot afternoon, the air rent by more sirens than I’d heard on a bad day in Derry. Curses, threats, missiles; a real Tetley Bittermen’s welcome. However, the usual fresher freebies persuaded me to give Leeds United a second chance. I wish I hadn’t bothered; a 2-0 win over Man City at the end of September 1987 was again not an enjoyable afternoon. I mean, I was brought up on the Gallowgate so I’d known about football yobboes, but this was something else. A nasty, seething, pit of hate that seemed to take little pleasure in victory. That and the dozen varieties of fascist filth on sale outside the ground ensured I’d never go back. Don’t get me wrong; I love Leeds as a city and I had one of the best years of my life there, but Elland Road is certainly not the place for us.

The proximity of home, the lack of a washing machine in my Headingley hovel and the cheapness of National Express student fares meant I relied on trips home every couple of weeks for my football fix. However, I was nothing if not adventurous, and when a 2-1 victory over Shrewsbury in the glamour of the Full Members Cup (I don’t think ZDS were sponsoring it as yet) gave Newcastle a trip to Valley Parade, I knew I had to be there. Consequently, passing up the chance to see The Bhundu Boys at the Astoria in Harehills with the rest of the household, I made a solo trip over to Bradford on Wednesday 4^th December, intending to follow the crowds to find the ground. There wasn’t much of a walk-up trade, so I spotted the floodlights and headed for those. My knowledge of the geography of Valley Parade was not really gained that night as I accidentally stumbled my way on to The Kop. I’d like to pretend I bought a City Gent that night, but that pleasure came later; I’d not heard of fanzines back then.

The attendance that night was 6,866. The score was 2-1 to Bradford and the only thing I remember distinctly was Newcastle’s Kenny Wharton being sent off for deliberate hand-ball, after leaping to catch a throw-in, for no readily apparent reason, on the Midland Road side. Full time, I headed back down to the station and to the east of Pudsey, alone, ignored and safe. You know, despite the result, I’d thoroughly enjoyed it. A low-key game in a relaxed atmosphere, but there was sardonic humour and a sense of community that I liked. I’d also always marvelled at Bradford’s shirts. I decided I’d definitely be back. I remember a crazy 5-3 win over Oldham in February, when I persuaded half a dozen student mates to come along for booze and then a curry, as well as a 4-1 clattering of West Brom in March. Good times.

Sadly, my stay in West Yorkshire was only for a single year, so I moved back to Tyneside in summer 88, but still kept an eye on Bradford’s results. In the 1990s, I met, married and divorced a lady from Barnsley, who is the mother of my son. The Tykes are her family team and I saw an appreciable number of their games during that time, but I still made the odd foray back to Valley Parade; 0-1 v Bournemouth (92), 0-0 v Scunthorpe in the Cup (93) and 4-3 v Burton the year later. I even saw Newcastle there in a pre-season friendly in 97, but I missed out on the two Premier League encounters as my life had taken me to Bratislava, capital of Slovakia, for a couple of years. It seemed as if Bradford City were no longer part of my orbit, though I would always look out for them.

However, my son’s education has taken him to Leeds Met to do History and I’ve seized on that to revisit old haunts. In his first year, that meant visits for gigs by The Pop Group at Brudenell Social club and the Jesus and Mary Chain at the Academy, but this year, in the absence of suitable noisy post-punk bands on weekend nights, we opted for a dad and lad day out; a game, a drink and a curry in Bradford. A quick check of the fixtures made the Crewe game on 14^th November the best bet. Firstly, Crewe were bottom so a win looked likely and secondly my team Benfield of Northern League Division 1 (a combination of Mike Ashley and Sky TV has driven me away from Newcastle United), for whom I edit the programme, were away from home. Tickets sorted, the weekend looked promising, even if the weather was lousy.

And then; Paris, Friday 13^th November. The addictive horror of unfolding news, just as I was about to hit the hay. Mute shock. Helpless indignation. Fear. Anger. Sorrow. Every emotion and a bad night’s sleep. What did Saturday have in store? You see, my friend David Pendleton, former editor of City Gent, had told me of an EDL protest in Bradford already scheduled for the Saturday. There was no option; we still had to go. Normality has to win over panic and hysteria, otherwise evil triumphs. Sombrely, I sipped coffee and digested the news on-line as the train took me south. At Leeds I met Ben (my son) and we took a quick trip to the hilarious, surreal exhibition of Spanish cartoonist Joan Cornella’s work. Going back to the station, the rain started coming down hard. You couldn’t see out the train windows en route to Bradford.

We arrived in a downpour, to be met by 100 coppers; one of whom asked us if we were here for the rally or the counter demonstration. He looked baffled when we said the football. A lone Crewe supporter made the crack that the police had overestimated the size of Category C away fans. Laughter eased the crackling tension, until we hit the street. A cordon of vans and riot police, keeping the Fascists back; across the road perhaps 100 counter demonstrators, furiously chanting their opposition; I recognised several of them as activists from my union, UCU, employed at Bradford College. It wasn’t a day to stop and chat.

In pouring rain, we struck upwards towards Valley Parade, via North Parade. We found ourselves, in the company of Dr Pendleton, in a craft and real ale paradise. As a bearded, middle-aged CAMRA bore, The Swallow and The Record Café were my idea of heaven. Suitably refreshed with a sociable and steady half gallon, we made our way to the ground, arriving at our seats in the top deck of the main stand at the Kop end, just as the wreath laying ceremony that preceded a minute’s silence for the victims in Paris was about to begin. Immaculately observed, it gave way to a full throated roar of support, approval and affirmation at kick off. The £149 season ticket offer has filled most of Valley Parade, the swathes of empty seats in the Crewe section apart, and those there were ready to give full on support.

The sterile indifference of many Premier League crowds, no doubt disaffected with the whole charade, depress the occasional visitor. Valley Parade is the antidote to this cynical anomie; regular applause and a lack of whinging. It was a privilege to be part of. The crowd are different as well; Ben’s sole trip to Elland Road, again on a fresher freebie, echoed my experiences of 1987. He says it’s half full of angry bald men in Stone Island, gesticulating wildly.

Valley Parade is not like that. Some people think the magnificent views over the city from the Kop and Main Stand are what make it a special ground. True, but they are only half the tale. I’m not a sociologist, but I’d venture that Bradford City’s crowd, while not being an exact model of the area’s demographics, contains almost every section of society, both young and old. In that sense, Bradford City remind me of Hibs, not just in the shape of the ground, but in the pride the fans have for their home turf and their team. However, by covering so many sections of society, Bradford are possibly closer to a Bundesliga club than any other team in England, now Arsenal is so damn expensive. For instance, two young, African Muslim women were sat near us and they were on their feet for both goals; well, definitely the second one. I missed the first getting rid of that sociable half gallon. I think I saw it on the Football League Show when I got in…

And so full time. A well-deserved, comfortable, easy 2-0 win, followed by another plodge through puddles, two glorious pints in The New Beehive, a simply stunning Chicken Balti in Sheeshmahal next door and a float downstream to the station. Sometime between the end of the failed EDL protest and our arrival, a funfair had set up and the Christmas lights were on. In a torrential downpour, indulgent parents shivered while happy toddlers took rides on a Merry Go Round. It was an uplifting sight as we took our train; Ben departed at Leeds and I changed at York, squeezing an expensive pint of Porter in The York Tap on the station.

A good day? No, more important than that; a great day when good, in the shape of football and common sense, prevailed. I love Bradford as a city and I almost love Bradford City. We will be back. Soon I hope. Remember, hate destroys; love heals.