FPX RIP

I've been involved in the glacial progress of Gob on the Tyne, a project to chronicle an oral history of North East Punk from 1977 to 1980. Previously I've shared my pieces on Speed and a personal reminiscence. This piece consists of the words ofmy friends from years back: Garry Blythe, Gord McGrath, Adrian Ragsdale & Trev Robinson, reminiscing about their own memories of NE Punk. The piece is dedicated to our missing pals David Foster, John Hird & Geoff Johnston, all of whom have found life a struggle. Shine on you crazy diamonds...

The Prigs: Spring 1978-February 1980

John Hird; guitar, vocals

Adrian Ragsdale; bass, vocals (left Sept 79)

Colin Hair; drums (February 79-September 79), bass (September 79-February 80)

Paul Wilkinson; guitar (February 79-February 80)

ALSO

Steve Wilkinson; bass (1978)

CO2: March-September 1979

Trev Robinson; vocals

Scone; drums

Creckas; bass / guitar

???; guitar

Emergency Exit: October 1979-July 1981

Trev Robinson; guitar

Dave Williams; vocals

Russ Kehoe; bass

Paul “Podge” Kehoe; drums

ALSO

Geoff Johnston; guitar (October 79-January 80)

Garry Blythe; vocals (October 79- January 80)

Group 4: September 1980-December 1982

John Hird; guitar

Geoff Johnston; guitar

Gord McGrath; vocals

Gordon McGrath (Gord): vocalist in Group 4. Born May 1965. Now a painter and decorator, living in Christchurch, New Zealand.

I was only just turned 12 when punk happened, so it took me a while to get into it, as I before then I was only listening to the kind of ordinary stuff you’d hear on Top of the Pops. My elder brother Steve had the New Wave album and I immediately loved the sound and the attitude of the bands on that record. Being a rebel was a big part of it for me. Eventually I’d say I decided my favourite bands were The Skids and The Ramones.

One of the first live bands I ever saw were The Prigs, who were a couple of years older than me and I just really wanted to be involved in music after seeing them. I wrote them a song called Psycho Ward, but spelled it wrong; 50 year olds in Felling still remember me as the composer of Pycho Ward. Anyway, The Prigs broke up in 1980 and so we started Group 4 after that. Of course the big joke was that there were only 3 of us: me, John Hird, who had been in The Prigs, and Geoff Johnston, both on guitar. We never really had a bassist or drummer, though we did gigs with Andrew and Rob from ian cusack’s band Pretentious Drivel helping us out. The best gigs we ever did were supporting Pretentious Drivel at Balmbra’s in March 82 and an open air one on Eldon Square Green that summer.

I don’t think any of us really expected to be rich and famous. In fact I don’t think we ever got a mention in any local fanzine, but we did do a demo tape which we sent to John Peel. He said it was ‘derivative,’ which we had to look up in a dictionary. That sort of knocked the wind out of our sails and the band drifted apart at the end of 1982. Geoff was knocking around with this lass Debbie, who became his wife and mother of his kids. He had the real talent in the band and made a wonderful demo tape of his solo stuff, but it never saw the light of day, which is a real shame. John had joined some left wing organization and moved to London with them. I went to America in 1985 and from there to Australia, before settling in New Zealand where I am now, so that was that, but I loved every second being part of the FPX and the North East Punk scene in general.

To this day, I still listen to bands from that time. I’ve never been disillusioned by punk. It changed music for the better, for good.

Adrian Ragsdale (Raga): bass / vocals The Prigs, temporary drummer Group 4. Born July 1963. Now a telecommunications engineer, living in Gateshead.

The earliest musical favourites I had were just what was on Radio 1 or Top of the Pops: Slade, Mud, Sweet, Bowie, though the first record I remember buying was in fact Tell Him by Hello, which I got from Pop Inn Records in Felling Square. Later came Queen, Thin Lizzy, Alex Harvey Band, The Who; the sort of rock acts who were still played on ordinary radio, but by then I’d progressed to listening to albums. I recall sharing the cost of LP’s with my sister. Influences I had were mostly family, though some peers at school brought some things to the table via their older siblings.

I recall becoming aware of the punk movement late in 1976 just after the iconic Filth & the Fury front page. As a paper lad I saw all the headlines, not on the actual day, but the Sunday after. The Sunday Mirror was still on its high horse about it weeks later. As far as punk music was concerned, Go Buddy Go by The Stranglers was the first punk record I bought. I don’t think I was listening to John Peel by then, but I’d probably heard ‘taped’ from the radio punk songs at the Boys’ Brigade, as some of the older lads had started recording Peel on cassette. 

I was not an easy convert and at first resisted punk musically and as a movement, I guess between Christmas 76 and the spring 77, but like smoking your first Number 6 or drinking your first Woodpecker, it was partly the attraction of doing something that was largely frowned upon. I suppose I also saw it as a rite of passage. Musically it was nigh on impossible to even consider getting to see anyone live. I did manage to catch Thin Lizzy several times, but Queen and The Who by then were stadium rock, joining the likes of Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd and all the other bands I’d not heard, as they never produced records that were played on the radio.

The Prigs’ first outing was as a pastiche of punk rock as part of a musical cavalcade at the Boys’ Brigade Christmas Fair in December 77. Ironically Johnny Nerd (John Hird) mimed and sneered along to Frank Sinatra’s My Way, probably because it was his dad’s favourite song, long before The Great Rock & Roll Swindle. Dressed in safety pin adorned BB uniforms and spiked hair, the band consisted of only one of The Prigs when they became a real band. At the very beginning you were only identified as punks at ‘punk’ events, though having straight leg trousers instead of ‘bags/flares’ was noted at school, but dismissed in a mocking fashion for wearing “cacky-catchers”.

In those days punk’s nemeses were supposed to be Ted and Rockers. Avoiding those blokes in Felling who wore drapes and had DA haircuts was as easy as not being near the door of The Jubilee or Blue Bell at opening or closing time. I recall couple of incidents at school, one where a kid who claimed his dad was a Ted (though later proclaimed himself as always being a punk) and another at a school disco. Later I found that was due to me pogoing into his lass and not for being a punk. By 1978-79 most kids who were interested in music at school (as opposed to anti-social behaviour and petty crime, which were real growth industries in NE10 and still are) were listening to or were self-professed outright punks, with most of those who were our real enemies, the Northern Soul crowd, being old enough to take their grievances to The Cordwainers or  The Canny Lad. Again, easy places to avoid…

Musically The Prigs emerged from those members of the BB that had an interest in punk and survived the leap from youth club to pub age in the late 70’s without dropping out; basically it was a show of strength from the Coldwell Street Boys’ Brigade. Instruments were bought or found and Saturday night jamming sessions in the Wilkinsons’ attic on Rochester Terrace, while their parents were out on the pop up the hill at the Columba Club, were a continuation of youth club and Boys’ Brigade friendships. This glorified, weekly jamming session went on for a while, until the older originals sloped off to drink in pubs and chase lasses. By early 1979, the classic line-up was in place as we were all aged 13-17 and too young for pubs on a regular basis, which allowed us to concentrate on adding accompaniments to songs written by John Hird, instead of covering other people’s songs. Assisted by the school caretakers strike during the Winter of Discontent, we used this bonus holiday to become proficient enough to think “this sounds alright”. Originally we’d got together to fill some time, but we suddenly felt we could show people that you don’t have to have be a musical genius or have ££’s worth of equipment to be creative. Musically our main influence had to be The Buzzcocks, whose three verse songs telling a start-to-finish story with twin guitars and harmonies were something we always wanted to emulate. We wanted to be the kids who played pop punk in a haphazard way. Style wise you’d probably say we looked like a cross between The Undertones and The Fall. Farnons was our Seditionaries.

I recall only 3 gigs by The Prigs with the classic line up (Ragsdale, Hird, Hair and Wilkinson Junior). There were numerous attic sessions with people watching, but the actual gigs were firstly at Eldon Square, at a Battle of the Bands contest in June 1979. We played three songs near the end of the event. We’d only found out about the show when we’d come in to town, as usual, on Saturday, so we went home to get our guitars and borrowed the drum kit of the heavy metal band who were booked on to go last (and who would win). There were about 2000 people on Eldon Square Green, with about 20-30 FPX encouraging us to get up. We were introduced strangely enough as being “all the way from Scandinavia”. The week after the Eldon Square gig, watching the soundmen set up for the event that weekend, one of them asked another if anything good came out the Battle of the Bands. The first one said “you should have been here last week; there was a group of kids in school uniform singing a song, telling their headmaster to fuck off.”

The second one was a month later, which was a benefit gig for the National Union of School Students (NUSS), who were a Socialist Workers’ Party youth wing front organisation. It was in a place called the Attic, near Spectro Arts. We supported a reggae band called Hepatitis and played a full set of all the songs we had, concluding with a version of Borstal Breakout, which was a crowd pleaser but not indicative of what we actually liked listening to; also it was dead easy to play.  The show ended with Scone, the drummer in CO2, picking up the mike and pronouncing Giz a Blow Job which became the title of the bootleg recording we made of everything we did.

Finally, for me at least, was Heworth Miners, Welfare Hall, (as U2 would say was a sort of homecoming), at the end of the usual Friday night teenage disco.  By now the four of us had nearly all agreed on which songs worked, though because he wrote them, John was allowed to insist we played some of his more precious ones, even though the rest of us didn’t like them. Everyone in the audience knew us and we went down a storm, helped by the fact the support act CO2 weren’t quite there yet. I believe we finished this one with Mr Pickering a ditty about our headmaster at school, even though I’d just left and John hadn’t gone there at all, telling him where to go. Given that the audience consisted mostly of pupils from that school, we left the stage to great applause.

Ironically, that was as good as it got for me. I got a job in Sept 1979, had money in my pocket and quit The Prigs.  I dabbled in a few other things but never really committed to anything. There was a subsequent swan-song in Nov 1979, after I’d left The Prigs, when they supported The Proles at the Welfare, as part of a Labour Party Young Socialists benefit gig, after John Hird had joined this organisation called Militant, who were involved in the LPYS. Full of encouragement from the cans of lager I’d consumed and fellow members of FPX, I got up and sang the 3 song encore with the new line-up. I was helped by the fact these were the better songs, so we got a great reception, but it was still over for me.

The Prigs played one last gig with their final line-up, again supporting The Proles at the Welfare in February 1980. It was a bit of a disaster to be honest and the band split up after that. Little Wilka and Hair Bear formed Truth Drugs with Anthony James, while John put Group 4 together. Both bands would climb musically higher on the ladder of proficiency than The Prigs had, though still remained gloriously obscure. With Group4 I don’t recall anything apart from being asked to drum as an interim arrangement, but I’d made my point that being a rock-star was not on my career plan long before they asked me. 

I don’t think we left much of a legacy. We never made it into print, other than something in the NUSS bulletin after the July 79 gig. Though I recall The Prigs being painted on the rocks at the Bankies in Felling and on a few garages. When we first started calling ourselves punks, it was nigh on impossible to see any band, as there was nowhere to play. Hearing records was limited to what you bought, often by word of mouth or because of reviews in Sounds or NME, or what was played by John Peel. The great thing was everyone seemed to know everyone; being punks helped to expand our horizons, through meeting punks from other areas. Personally I don’t think punk was something you can ever be disillusioned with. To me, it’s not a type of music or fashion, it’s something that’s part of your history, your environment and how you use those experiences you learned at that time in the future.  I don’t think punk ever set out to achieve anything, it just was and I’m glad I was part of it.  

Trevor Robinson (Trev): vocalist in CO2, guitarist in Emergency Exit. Born October 1962. Now a screen printer, living in Gateshead.

I suppose you could say I was a glam rock fan before I discovered punk; The Sweet and T Rex were particular favourites, but I also liked Status Quo. Everyone knew about the Sex Pistols, but getting to actually hear them was another matter. My first exposure to them was walking through Felling Square and hearing God Save the Queen blasting out of Pop-Inn Records in summer 77. The energy just knocked me backwards. This was something I wanted to know more about, but it took a while before anything happened other than just listening to bands.

We all used to go to this teenage disco on a Friday evening at Heworth Miners’ Welfare and I managed to win the Best Punk Rock Dancer title, for my interpretation of Sid’s My Way. As a result, I got the job of being the singer with my first band CO2. Not that I could sing like. There was a lad called Creckaz, who couldn’t play guitar and a kid called Scone whose parents owned a chip shop and lived in a big house. This meant he was the only one who could afford a drum kit. He couldn’t play either.

After a few months, we got a gig, supporting The Prigs at the Welfare. It was great being on stage. One of the FPX gang Simpa was a butcher and he got some pig’s blood to throw at us, as well as a trotter which I took a bite out of. The set didn’t go down brilliantly with everyone in the audience and I ended up offering Fossy out round the back, as he had heckled us.  This wasn’t the end of CO2 though. Amazingly this mate of John Hird’s joined on guitar and he could actually play, as well as having written a few songs. We did a gig at the Gosforth Hotel, supporting the Noise Toys, but split up straight after as John’s mate was away to be a student in Sheffield.

Having had a taste of the being in a band, I wanted more. I loved playing gigs; I’d got myself a guitar and was learning to play it.  Basically, we started a band with just about everyone from the FPX who wasn’t already in a group. The Kehoe brothers, Paul (Podge) and Russ were possibly the most deranged drum and bass outfit you could imagine. Another lad we knew Dave Williams (known as Shavey Legs, on account of a foolish teenage experiment with a Bic disposable) became the singer, though he was a bit shy and didn’t jump around like I did. Garry Blythe was supposed to be a singer as well, but he came to 2 practices and fell asleep both times, knackered after work. Geoff Johnston was guitarist for a while, but I think he wanted a more melodic, less shouty sound and so he left to start Group 4 with John and Gord.

So, once the line-up was settled, we started to practice weekly at St. Patrick’s Church Hall in Felling. It was opposite the copper station and we used to just break in, make a horrible noise and leave. We did a few gigs, especially with Total Chaos at The Basement, next to Spectro. However, I started to get a bit sick of the rest of them. I’d moved over to Whitley Bay as my parents were running a pub there, so getting across to Felling after work before the Metro opened was hard work. Especially as when I got there, the other three of them would be off their heads on glue.

Things fell apart in around July 81 and I never did anything musical after that. In fact, a year later I was married with a daughter, so other things became my priority. Mind I still love The Clash and The Upstarts even now.

Garry Blythe (Magic Marker Heed or Sex Dwarf); vocals in Emergency Exit. Born February 1963. Now a bricklayer, living in North West Durham.

Right, let’s get this out the way straight off; I had absolutely no musical talent whatsoever. This is why I got asked to sing in Emergency Exit, because not one of us, apart from Geoff and he left pretty sharpish, could play or sing a note. The final straw for the rest of them was when I fell asleep at a practice on a Saturday morning, but to be fair I’d been up since 3 delivering milk. I got asked to leave and Geoff quit in protest, but he was probably knackered as he worked on the same milk round as me.

Shame really, as from the first time I’d heard punk, which was probably Looking after Number 1at the St. Patrick’s Youth Club disco I’d thought, I’m having some of that… There were these lads a bit older than us, but not much, who’d left school and were pogoing in their ridiculously small old school blazers, wearing those cheap Captain Sensible sunglasses. The whole energy, the rebellion; everything. I mean The Boomtown Rats were never any good, but that 3 minutes hearing that song changed my life forever and probably influenced how my own kids listen to music.

The first two records I’d bought were Sorrow by Bowie, which I’m proud of, and The Wombling Song, which I never used to mention. Especially after I discovered the one band that I have loved for 40 years without interruption; The Clash. They are still my band. They made me believe I could fight back against the bosses, teachers, the Royal Family, the Army, politicians, everyone. I believed I could change the world. When I listen to Stay Free I still do.

However, the saddest night of my life was seeing The Clash at the Mayfair in 1980. I’d not got in to either of the Poly shows in 77 and 78, so I queued up all afternoon and was one of the first few in when the doors opened. By the time they played Jail Guitar Doors, second song in, I was in wonderland. I jumped on stage to be with my heroes, but the bouncers threw me off. Normally that would be it and you’d end up at the back of the crowd and have to fight your way forward, but I gave one of them a mouthful, so four of them picked me up and carted me out through the fire door. Broke my heart that did. Mind a few weeks later I had one of my best ever nights, seeing The Fall at the New Tyne Theatre. We commandeered one of the royal boxes in the balcony and had a whale of a time. That was the night ian fell in love with The Fall.

I loved how punk broke down barriers; people from different backgrounds, home towns, ages even, all came together and there was no threats, no anger. Bear in mind that one of the worst cases of hassle we had for being punks was a pair of teddy boys in a transit van trying to run me and Geoff over walking along the Felling bypass, coming home from a night out. They clipped Geoff and he went about six feet in the air. Poor sod spent a week in the Queen Elizabeth after that.

Sure there were egos and celebrity punks in the scene, but it felt like a proper  democratic movement. We’d go to places like The Gosforth Hotel to see The Noise Toys, The King’s Head in Marlborough Crescent for Treatment Room and the Willus Bnad or The Garage for Total Chaos. You were on nodding terms with everyone else there. I suppose it was the Oi generation that turned me right off. I’d never had much time for Sham 69 or the UK Subs, while Discharge and The Exploited did absolutely nothing for me.

Still, I’ve got some wonderful memories and I’m as anti-establishment as I was when I first fell for punk. I don’t suppose that will ever change. Hope not anyway!

Travelling Hopefully

Saturday 19^th March 2016 saw me guilty of a terrible dereliction of duty. Rather than taking my place on the touchline for Winstons in our Over 40s Division 3 promotion clash against The Philadelphia, then navigating a way down to Teesside for Benfield’s game at Norton & Stockton Ancients, I decided to accept my mate Ginger Dave’s offer of taking the car to the biggest contest of the weekend. A week after watching my beloved Hibernian lose the Scotch League Cup final to a last minute goal against Ross County, we headed back across the border to Jeanette Mugabe’s Banana Republic of Chilly Jockoland, for Annan Athletic against Berwick Rangers in the basement division of the SPFL.

A random choice? Not really; my longstanding love of all things Scottish (music, literature and football in particular) sees me taking in Junior games in June each year, so nipping over to the Solway Firth was no great deal. Besides, everyone’s got a soft spot for Berwick Rangers haven’t they? I think the last time I saw Newcastle up at Shielfield was a pre-season friendly in 2003, when a young prospect called Lewis Guy hit a brace, as a prelude to a glorious NUFC career, or so I thought. It didn’t work out like that; after a reasonable spell at Doncaster Rovers, he fell rapidly through the leagues, being released by Gateshead last summer and moving on to Barrow then Chorley. Now he’s at Annan which, as a Brampton native, is reasonably handy for him I suppose. I’d also seen Berwick away from home once before; at Queen of the South in 1998, where they brought 20 fans and lost pitifully 2-0. I went to that one with 3 pals: Des, Graham and Phil. We drank Dumfries dry afterwards. Many years older and slightly wiser, I wondered if I’d be doing the same a few miles south.

In point of fact, we almost didn’t get there. Ginge hasn’t been driving all that long and he seemed to be under the impression the A69 is a dual carriageway; it isn’t and we nearly ploughed into the front of an oncoming Audi. Luckily, Ginge recovered his wits and pulled over in time, but it meant that my pressing need for a cash machine went clean out my head as we made more sedate progress from then on. Arriving at 1.45, finding out Winstons had prevailed 1-0, we parked up outside the away entrance and headed into downtown Annan for a toby about. I’d only been there once before; June 1986, on the way home to Newcastle after finishing University in County Derry. Me and Phil scrounged a lift to Carlisle from this lad Ricky from Lancashire who was a year our junior, but owned a proto people carrier. Ricky drove and we drank from door to door, stopping in Annan to replenish our carry-out, before a few pints in Carlisle and the last train home. It was the only appropriate way to celebrate our academic achievements.

Annan hasn’t changed much in 30 years; it’s still a no-horse town that probably looks down on Gretna for being too risqué. Ironically Gretna 2008, the phoenix club after the original outfit went to the wall amid bitter recriminations when Brookes Mileson’s business empire got tangled up in a whole turgid miasma of inheritance claims and counter-claims, played their first games in Annan. Not at Galabank, but at a little athletics ground, just a bit further down the road. It’s the nearest thing to a tourist attraction in Annan; perhaps that’s why Gretna were so pleased to get back to their former home, Raydale Park, that once hosted Northern League games of course. Anyway, we wandered up and down the main drag, used a cash machine (Clydesdale Bank notes, natch) and headed back to the stadium.

A week previously, I’d been in with 43,000 swaying, passionate fans at Hampden; this day I was with 1% of that number, including 16 Berwick followers in the uncovered away end, in a well-appointed, neat little ground with a bouncy 4G surface. The home entrance was by the club Portakabin; a quick skeg round, a programme for a couple of quid, a tenner in and a coffee so hot it melted the plastic lid on the Styrofoam cup. The entrance leads one into the covered home end, but without any extra charge, seats were available in the stand that went from 18 yard box to 18 yard box on one side. We took a pew in the back row (of four) on the halfway line, next to the Gretna announcer, who was Spotifying an Old Grey Whistle Test style playlist; Thin Lizzy and Be Bop Deluxe before kick-off and Jackie Humble’s favourite,  Thank You For Being A Friend by Andrew Gold at half time.

The teams were read out and not only was Lewis Guy playing, but also former Blue Star front man Peter Weatherston, who must have been in Scotland so long (he was one of ex-Ashington boss John Connolly’s Anglo revolution at Queen of the South at the turn of the millennium) that even Settlerwatch think he’s naturalised. I’d not heard of any other of the players, but Annan’s number 7 Omar got a loud round of applause, as did the number 5 Peter Watson from the elderly couple in front of us; his parents.

Berwick started off the livelier with Jedward (or bearing the location, Jedburghward) lookalike Blair Henderson up top being a handful; he put the ball in the net, but was rightly flagged offside. Peter Weatherson then hit the foot of the post with a free kick and that was about it in the first half. A bright opening on a bright afternoon gave way to a torpid, soporific encounter that looked like a pre-season friendly, not a bloodthirsty attempt at making it into the SPFL League 2 play-offs, which it wasn’t really.

This season, I’ve seen about 70 games, including 55 in the Northern League; the only 0-0 I’ve endured was Benfield at home to Durham. This one seemed a racing certainty for a repeat, until the ineffectual Guy was replaced by the magnificently named Smart Osolador. Buoyed-up by an increasingly influential Omar, who rightly was named Man of the Match, Matt Flynn, a handy attacking midfielder, surged forward and arced a curling effort from outside the box in off the post, to give the home side a win. It wasn’t pandemonium, but it was warm applause on a decidedly staid afternoon. Very little anger. Hardly any profanity. One teenage lad marched by a steward from the stand to the home end for the heinous crime of putting his feet on the seat in front. It was that sort of place.

A good afternoon and a very relaxing day out. Next time, we’re thinking of a trip to Stranraer’s Stair Park. Full time news came through of Benfield’s score; 0-0 of course. Looks like I made the right choice. Mind Queen of the South beat Dumbarton 6-0 just up the road at Palmerston Park. Unsurprisingly, there was little match traffic and we got away sharpish, back in the house for 7.00, with plenty of time to start panicking about the Mackem game on the Sunday….

The last time I’d been to a Newcastle v Sunderland game was back in January 2009; not so much that game, but subsequent encounters had been so poisonous, so rancorous, so downright ugly that I’m glad I missed them, even the legendary 5-1. What brought me back for this one was partly the free ticket in the Platinum Club (cheers Doc J; hope you enjoyed the skiing), but mainly the appointment of Benitez. Of course he may be too little too late, but at least we have a chance with him in the dugout. 

Hindsight is wonderful; I had expected McClaren to turn us into a hard to beat, dour side. Instead, he turned out to be the crash test dummy of Premier League managers, making Carver seem like Guardiola. Admittedly under McClaren at first, we looked ok; indeed as recently as West Ham and West Brom we’ve played well, but from Chelsea onwards it has been a fiasco. He should have gone then, but typically of the club there was no communication with fans and total inaction at an executive level. It took the Bournemouth debacle to get something done. I didn’t see the Leicester game last week as I was on Tyneside Amateur League duties, but by all accounts we were no longer the shambles we had been. I honestly didn’t think we’d get beat against the mackems, though there’s nothing uglier than an Allardyce side scrapping for its life.

Ginge was again the chauffeur; parking up at The Free Trade, we wandered up into the town, allowing me to take up my usual spot selling fanzines outside the Irish Club. Around 1.00, after it became clear many of those heading for the ground had been drinking since breakfast and were in no mood to read, I packed up after distributing about 10. The last time I’d been in The Platinum Club was for the Real Sociedad friendly in 2014; it was a little busier today. The cushioned seat in the middle tier just into the Leazes half gave me a superb view of proceedings, and frankly I didn’t like what I saw in the first half.

We were fragile. We were nervous. Townsend apart, we offered nothing up front. Sissoko was lousy on the left (is it me or does he have terrible problems with controlling the ball?), Mitrovic was a jammed blunderbuss and Gini almost anonymous. To be fair, they started off very well and ended the half well on top. Credit it where’s it’s due; for an Allardyce side they played some neat stuff. Borini probed, Kirchoff ran the midfield and Defoe does what he does; he scored from out of nowhere and is probably the reason why they’ll stay up.

At half time, I feared for us, but Benitiez is no Pardew, McClaren or Carver; he earned his corn by a few subtle tactical changes. De Jong came on and showed his class, while Anita changed the game when he replaced Janmaat; to many of our fans, those two are wastes of space, but Rafa knows them as artful Ajax graduates with much to offer. Cisse was back, but surprisingly (and bravely) for Townsend not Mitrovic, which was justified by the richly deserved equaliser. Crucially, Sissoko to left back for the booked and harried Colback was a masterstroke that utterly nullified Borini’s threat; this after a shameful dive in an attempt to get Colback red carded, as the mackems ceded ground, ceded the initiative and resorted to errant play-acting and monotonous, unpunished timewasting.  That said, if Rob Elliott hadn’t made a classic one handed stop from Van Aanholt we’d have lost and been as good as relegated.  However we drew, and if we’d scored 10 minutes earlier or Mitrovic had stayed on the pitch (his removal by the medics reminded me of James Brown doing Please Please Please), we’d have won.

Sadly, the result was probably best celebrated in Norwich rather than the North East, but I still think we’re alive. There’s some hope, but we have run out of “free” games; we need something from each one and at least 4 wins. That said if we could guarantee Rafa would stay, I’d handle relegation, providing he had the final say on who stayed and who left. That, however, is for the future.

Finally, can we stop singing about Adam Johnson? It’s an absolutely shit thing to do. 

The Moravian Correspondent

Issue 7 of The Northern Correspondent is out; it's a tremendous read for £5. I'm not just saying it because this tribute to Pavel Srnicek is included, but I'm glad it has appeared in print -:

It’s debatable when the post-Christmas depression really starts to cut in. For me, never has this inevitable dampening of the spirit been more pronounced than Tuesday December 29^th 2015, when news came of the death of former Newcastle United goalkeeper Pavel Srníček. While I love football, I despise with a passion the simplistic narrative that defines the region and population as an aggregation of sport obsessed hedonists. However Pav was a super fit, teetotaller and non-smoker aged only 47; a universally admired and fondly recalled hero among the whole populace, thus his loss was all the more profound. While he was born and died in his home town of Ostrava, a former mining stronghold in the Moravian region of the Czech Republic, there is no denying Pavel Srníček was an adopted Geordie.

The iconic photograph of Srníček’s time on Tyneside shows him on the pitch at St. James’ Park in May 1993, celebrating promotion after a 7-1 thrashing of Leicester City. He’s applauding the sell-out crowd, attired in a grey t-shirt, emblazoned with PAVEL IS A GEORDIE in emphatic capitals, showing just how far he’d come since he arrived on Tyneside two years earlier when the Magpies were in the doldrums. Within a year Kevin Keegan returned as Newcastle manager to assemble a supremely talented team that won an immediate promotion, followed by 3 beguiling attempts at Premier League glory, each failure more agonising than the previous. After Keegan there was the dull fare of Kenny Dalglish and the sporting equivalent of the Emperor’s New Clothes under Ruud Gullit, with Pav quietly exiting the club after 7 years in summer 98.

This does not tell the full story of Srníček’s popularity with the SJP crowd. Certainly at first, he was erratic to say the least; nervous, unable to speak the language and appearing in an awful team, but Srníček understood. He saw the importance of the club to the region and the responsibility being a player entailed. He buckled down, grafted hard, became recognised as a consummate professional and highly popular figure in the changing room and on the terraces. In life, as in death, nobody ever had a bad word to say about Pav.

Following 8 years away from Tyneside, Pav was to make one further appearance for Newcastle, having returned to the club amidst an injury crisis in late 2006. Two days before Christmas, with the team easing to a 3-1 win over Spurs, Pav was called from the bench in the 87^th minute, receiving a tumultuous reception from the 52,000 crowd as, aged almost 39, he rolled back the years and saw the game through. He stayed with the club until the end of the season, and then retired. The tributes from that time were as warm and fulsome as the grief-streaked words following his tragic and untimely death. While Pav left the north east public in no doubt their love was requited, I had learned first-hand how his fellow Ostravans all seemingly held Newcastle to their hearts as well.

In 1999, I moved to Bratislava, capital of Slovakia, on a two year contract to teach English. Like Pav back in 91, I was a goalkeeper with no knowledge of the language of my new home; however that didn’t matter in my job, nor when I signed for the ex-pat team Bratislava Academicals. During my 2 years by the Danube, I sought not to view my job as a way of filling in the time between weekends away in Prague, Budapest or Vienna, but as a means to rediscover stability and a sense of purpose. Travel didn’t broaden my mind, watching and playing football, or talking about it in the pub did. Returning as a quasi-tourist for each of the next 5 summers, I saw what I hadn’t in terms of culture and architecture, travelling by train from a Bratislava base to those places I ought to have visited first time around, with football the torch that guided me through Slovak, and Czech, life, which is how I found myself in Ostrava.

Arriving in Bratislava on Friday 1^st August 2003, I find the next day I’ve the choice of attending the wedding of a dull former colleague from Wokingham to his equally tedious Slovak fiancé, or of getting away somewhere different for the night. A quick check of the Gambrinus League programme shows me Baník Ostrava are home to Slovan Liberec. Flicking through the phonebook sized railway timetable, I see there’s a direct train at 10.10, arriving at 1.37; plenty of time for the 5pm kick off. Direct trains cost more, but there’s far less chance of missing a connection or getting lost. This isn’t exactly a tourist route, so the train is near deserted.

When I arrived in Slovakia, I knew nothing detailed of the country’s history, though I soon got up to speed. Slovaks regarded Gypsies as subhuman, hated the Hungarians for 800 years of oppression and occupation, disliked the Czechs as they were atheist and liberal in outlook, rather than insular and Catholic. The Czechs seemed, or the ones I met, to be left-leaning, tolerant and pragmatic; their country consisted of two major provinces, namely Bohemia (capital Prague) and Moravia (capital Brno), with a tiny fraction of Silesia (main town Ostrava) in the latter. Unlike Slovakia, where the ultra-nationalist government had sought to make speaking Hungarian in public an arrestable offence in 1995, Czechs spoke the same language, but almost all were highly proficient in German and many had a working knowledge of English. Shame there were no polyglots to be found near the station, when my train arrived that boiling August afternoon.

In the Czech Republic, Saturday is as much of a family day as Sunday used to be here. Shops close at noon and much of the population head for the countryside in the summer and ski resorts in the winter. My hope of finding a cheap hotel near the station and grabbing a bite to eat and a shower looked a fond one as I tramped the baking pavements of deserted streets, on my way to Bazaly Stadion. When I got there, nearly 3 hours before kick-off, the place was still deserted. There was nothing for it but to go for a pint, in this case to Baníček Futbal Pub, about 50 metres from the main entrance to the ground.

Now I wasn’t brilliant with the lingo, but I knew how to order a beer; jedno pivo, prosím.  I don’t recall if it was Budvar, Gambrinus, Pilsner Urquell or what, but I needed it. I got another decided I needed to eat; ďalšie pivo a jedalny listok, prosím. I was fooling nobody. There were about a dozen other customers; including a clutch of youngish lads in shorts and t-shirts, not replica shirts, playing pool. Deutsch? Asked the barman. Nie, ja som z Anglicka; nový Hrad I replied, hoping the minor differences between my pidgin Slovak and his native tongue wouldn’t prove mutually unintelligible. Geordie? he ventured. I confirmed his suspicions, at which point he smiled broadly and indicated a framed NUFC keeper jersey on the wall behind me. I’ve no idea if it was one of Pav’s, but it was the 1995/1996 design in sunburst yellow, with a Tyne Bridge motif. Turning another 90 degrees, I saw that one wall was dedicated to a mural of the famous photo of Pav on the pitch at St James. If Pav instinctively felt at home in Newcastle, then I was experiencing something similar in Ostrava.

The pool players were summoned. One lad showed me his matching tattoos of the NUFC badge and a Magpie atop each shoulder. Another was called “Beardsley,” when I asked why; they told me because he is ugly. If Pavel was an adopted Geordie, they were his relatives from the old country. The pub filled up, we drank more beer and at kick off, we entered the stadium. The crowd was sparse, the game was a turgid 1-1 draw, but those young fellas, predominantly students in their early 20s, drank and sang with me all game. Baník’s late equaliser was celebrated with a rousing chorus of We’re Geordies! We’re mental! We’re off our fucking heads!  as a precursor to more half litres of beer back in Futbal Pub. Soon I realised I needed to find a place to stay. Hotel Max was selected because it had no Prosties, which sounded like a decent recommendation to me. A couple of nightcaps in the bar, and I parted from my Czech mates.

I woke late the next day, having missed breakfast. I took a long shower and then a circuitous route to hlavne namestie for the train. I killed an hour in the station buffet with strong coffee and a plate of fried cheese and chips, before leaving, ignored, on a deserted train back east of the Morava.

Since that day, my sense of identification for Ostrava and the Czech Republic remains undimmed, unlike my contempt for the parlous state of Newcastle United. Sat contemplating the cruel injustice and bleak finality of Srníček’s early death, at his memorial service in St. Andrew’s Church (Pav was raised in a country that predominantly chose atheism as its national faith long before Stalin’s tanks arrived) in mid-January, I wondered as to the course of the lives of those lads I’d drank with that stifling August afternoon in Ostrava. One day I hope to return to that pub, that stadium and perhaps the same terrible station buffet. And I’ll come, not in mourning, but to celebrate the life of the man who linked the two cities forever.

Odpočívej v pokoji, Pavel můj přítel…

The Green Smile

On Sunday, I will be in Hampden Park at the Scottish League Cup final, cheering on my beloved Hibees. Here's a piece I've written for the Cup Final edition of Mass Hibsteria, edited by my good friend Graham Ewing, who also got me the brief for this weekend. This is for you mate -:

Let’s go back in time; well over 40 years, to the Christmas and New Year period of 1972 and 1973. I was 8 years of age and in the first real grip of my lifelong obsession with football. My actual first football memory was watching my dad leap off the sofa to applaud Charlie George’s winning goal in the 1971 FA Cup final, but I didn’t actually understand what the FA Cup was, or who the long haired bloke lying on the grass, being cuddled by a load of other blokes in yellow shirts was. However by the year after, I had much more of an understanding of how football was actually more than just 50 lads kicking a penny floater around the school yard at break time; perhaps the game that brought the significance of football home to me was Hereford United 2 Newcastle United 1. Aged 7, I became acutely aware of NUFC’s propensity for abject humiliation on the national stage. Still, at least this game has disappeared into the ether and no-one is likely to resurrect footage of that particular debacle any time soon…

Consequently, with Newcastle United having helpfully stepped aside, the 1972 FA Cup final was a contest between holders Arsenal and the hated Leeds United, who were in search of a potential double. At the time, electrical goods were rare and expensive commodities; I can distinctly remember bringing a couple of friends home from school in the autumn of 1971 to show them our new fridge, with my mam producing the amazing treat of an ice pop each from the tiny freezer component that contractually was required to only ever include a bag of frozen peas. Bird’s Eye, of course. While we were able to keep milk and meat fresh in high summer, we still only had a black and white television, showing only 2 channels; it was a real style icon on legs, with a walnut cabinet and lockable screen door, though my friend from down the street Paul “Sten” Stonehouse’s family had a DER colour one and that’s where I watched the final.

Sten wasn’t actually a football fan; on Saturday afternoons he’d take advantage of his 3 channel luxury by flicking over from World of Sport to watch Brian Cant’s Playaway, which was a kind of prog rock concept album version of kids’ TV; longer, weirder and much more self-indulgent than the prosaic and patronising weekday Play School. However Sten’s older brother Perry (incidentally I’ve never met anyone else in my life named after the Singing Barber, Mr. Como) was a proper football fan and, so he claimed, a leading light in the Leazes End Agro Boys, which was doubtful as he was about 12 at the time. However, he did go to St. James’ Park with his mates, woollen scarf round his neck, silk ones round his wrist, in a Wrangler jacket and pin stripe Oxford bags, which made me idolise him as I’d yet to see a real live game. To this day, I envy his fashion sense.

Back in those days, BBC used to also show little snippets of action from the Scottish Cup final at half time and full time. At that age, I struggled to concentrate on a full game and the first half stalemate at Wembley wasn’t particularly conducive to keeping my childish mind focussed on the match. However, the half time highlights from Hampden did. Try as I might, I simply couldn’t find any footage of the 1972 Scottish Cup final on line, so I’ve no idea if this is actually fact, or whether my memory is playing tricks from 41 years ago. You see, May 6^th 1972 marked the day I fell in love with Hibernian FC; one glimpse of that breathtakingly beautiful emerald green shirt with white sleeves and I was smitten; any interest I had in the English final, eventually won by Leeds 1-0 with an Allan Clarke diving header, was gone; I wanted to see more footage of the game at Hampden. For no reason whatsoever (historical and familial ties ought to have made me a supporter of FC Paranoid of Parkhead), I became a Hibs fan, on the day we lost 6-1 in the cup final to Celtic. It makes 2013’s loss seem mild in comparison. Please don’t disabuse my fond, romantic notion by telling me Hibs didn’t play in green that day…

From the start of the 1972/1973 season, I was functionally literate because of the classical education I was in receipt of at Falla Park Juniors, courtesy of class 4 teacher Miss Gartlan, who’d a ‘tache Salvador Dali would have been jealous of. As a result, I did the kind of homework she suggested, by avidly reading each night, even if it was merely every inch of my dad’s Evening Chronicle sports section, rather than the Bancroft Children’s Classics editions of Jane Eyre and Silas Marner she palmed off on me. On a Sunday, my widowed Nan on my mam’s side used to visit us for Sunday lunch. The plates were cleared away by 2pm, which was when Tyne Tees used to show Shoot!, their weekly regional football highlights package, that lagged far behind The Big Match in terms of glamour. While Dad and I watched the football, Nan would read her paper of choice; The Sunday Post. I’ve no idea why she used to opt for Dundee’s version of Völkischer Beobachter, but I’m glad she did as it meant I could read Scottish match reports, once she’d settled down for her snooze in mid-afternoon.

By now, I was 8 years old and a fully-fledged football obsessive, regularly pestering my dad to take me to see a live game, which he finally agreed to do on 25^th November 1972, when Leicester City were the visitors to St. James’ Park. Imagine my desolation when the game was postponed on the Thursday, because the Filbert Street outfit had been struck down by a flu epidemic. Dad’s promise to take me to another game soon just didn’t suffice; I was heartbroken. I was even more bereft when the next Newcastle home game came around; Southampton were the visitors on 9^th December, but Dad and Mam were going out to some posh Christmas do that night, so he claimed he couldn’t spare the time to take me, making me feel absolutely worthless, as I hunkered over an old transistor, listening to updates on Radio Newcastle. The fact it was freezing outside and ended in a 0-0 draw in no way placated me…

Nan came to babysit me and my 2 year old sister that night, while Mam and Dad went off for chicken in a basket and 50/50 dancing, whatever that was. This was a very rare occurrence and I exploited it wickedly. At that time, my bed time was still around 9pm, about the time Cannon was starting on BBC. Obviously Nan wasn’t to know this and, having checked the telly listings, I knew the following programme was Match of the Day at 10.15; I managed to persuade her, easily enough as I’m a born liar, that I was allowed to stay up to watch this every week because it wasn’t a school night.

The great thing about MotD back then was that they always used to end the programme with very brief highlights taken from Sportscene. Obviously in 1972 there was no way of knowing the results unless you’d either memorised them at tea time, or bought a Saturday evening football special, The Pink, as the Tyneside version was called, but Dad hadn’t bothered to get one, probably as he was going out and a 0-0 draw wouldn’t be the most riveting read. Therefore, it was an utter shock when MotD ended with footage from Hampden of the League Cup final. We won 2-1, gaining revenge on Celtic for May’s humiliation. Obviously I wasn’t old enough to understand the historical significance of this result, but it made me a happy Hibby as I crawled in to bed at the incredibly late hour of 11pm, about half an hour before a bladdered mam and dad waltzed in, having taken a taxi (a taxi mind you…) home from their glamorous social event.

Frankly, to say my parents were “disappointed” in my deceit the night before was an understatement, once Nan told them how late I’d stayed up, but the emotional frost melted in time for Santa to come and the promise of a trip to see Newcastle was part of my Christmas box. For reasons I’m unsure of, I didn’t get to see 2-1 wins against Manchester City on December 23^rd or 4-1 versus Sheffield United the week after. Instead, my first trip to St. James’ Park was for the rearranged Leicester City game on Monday 1^st January 1973, a very auspicious date I’m sure you’ll agree, which was also the last time New Year’s Day wasn’t a Public Holiday in England, though it was a regional one in the North East.  In fact Newcastle United 2 Leicester City 2, a game of which I have no memory whatsoever other than the fact we (me, dad, my cousin John and his dad my Uncle John) were in the Gallowgate Strawberry Corner, was the only fixture played in the English top division that day. As a result, there was neither a Pink to keep as a memento, nor Match of the Day to watch the highlights on that night. However, there was the report in the next day’s Evening Chronicle, alongside an in-depth feature on a certain game that had taken place in Tynecastle, which made me almost faint with joy; not at the opponents, just at the score. You see, as sunderland were in a lower division to Newcastle from 1970 until 1976, my formative football years were spent without the concept of a local rival. Thankfully, I’ve made up for this in terms of contemptuous enmity since, but that’s another matter. Amazingly though, I’ve no memory of a friendly between Newcastle and Hibs that took place at St. James Park on 9^th October 1976, where Newcastle won 2-1; no memory of this at all…

So, you’ll be expecting me to tell you, now I’ve established the context of my support for Hibs, of how I finally consummated my passion with a trip to Easter Road, in the company of dozens of other Newcastle based Hibs fans. Sadly, that wasn’t the case; for a start, most people in these parts who express a preference for an Edinburgh team tend to take Hearts, mainly on account of the name Tynecastle, which is about as logical as me falling in love with the shirt. Consequently, my love affair for the Hibees was a long-distance one for the next quarter of a century; NUFC, music, geography (university in Ireland and postgrad in Leeds, employment in London and Slovakia), family and finance all got in the way. Shamefully, I didn’t make it to Easter Road until February 1^st 1997, for an atrocious, abject 1-1 draw with Raith Rovers, in the company of my mate Mick from Ashington, who was a Hibs supporter. The important thing for me that day was my immediate sense that this was home. This was my club, by adoption not birth admittedly, and I sang and cheered through the first half until I sobered up, then yawned and grumbled my way through the second; just like everyone around me on the East Terrace.

My next two Hibs games were happier affairs; accompanying Mick to the 4-2 play-off victory over Airdrie at Broadwood was a glorious occasion and a solo trip to the 2-1 victory over Celtic in the opening game of the next season a brilliant and unexpected pleasure, which ended up as a false dawn as we were relegated. At this time, Mick moved from Ashington to Scotland; firstly to Cowdenbeath and then to Paisley, where he remains to this day. Instead of cementing his passion for Hibs with regular visits, he opted to follow the Blue Brazil when in Fife and he’s now both a connoisseur and a passionate devotee of the junior game, with a soft spot for St Mirren. At his insistence, I’ve seen many junior games and find it a fascinating side of Scottish society, but I remain a fan of Hibs.  

In 2002/2003, I saw 2 fixtures at Easter Road; a 1-1 draw on 15^th February in my only ever Edinburgh Derby (we should have won) and on 24^th May, when I brought my son, then aged 7, to the last game of the season, in the hope of passing on the Hibernian supporting baton in NE7. We lost 3-2 to Partick and he’s not been back, but I’m sure he will return. Eventually…

By profession I’m a college lecturer, with English Literature my specialist subject. Involving Hibernian in the curriculum is fairly easy, especially with the works of Irvine Welsh to exploit. As I was teaching Trainspotting as part of a unit dedicated to literary representations of capital cities, it seemed logical to organise a field trip, which is what I did in December 2005. Having taken the students on organised Trainspotting tour of Leith, with a guide and everything, we finished off with a visit to Easter Road, where Derek Riordan’s last minute goal gloriously defeated Motherwell 2-1, in what could have been my second last day on earth. The next afternoon, driving back from my parents’ house, I was rear ended by a Tesco 18 wheeler on the A1 going north; “you should have died you know,” were the words the paramedic who stitched my scalp back together at the side of the road said to me. The reason we didn’t was an instinctive comment to my son as we were about to pull away; “sit behind your mam please.” If I’d not said that, I wouldn’t be here to write this; more importantly, neither would he… Still, within 6 weeks we were all right as rain and, despite the car being a write-off, I still managed to retrieve the 3 copies of Saturday 17^th December’s Pink, which was the last ever edition, that told of Michael Owen’s hat trick in a 4-2 win for Newcastle at West Ham, but mentioned nothing of the events at Easter Road.

Astonishingly, and embarrassingly, the next time I saw Hibs was in the 2013 Cup final,  ourtesy of the very wonderful Graham Ewing. I must say, I felt somewhat guilty that that I would be going, while proper Hibs fans like Bruce in Oxfordshire or Declan from Galway were forced to miss out, but I couldn’t turn down this opportunity, could I? The support for Hibernian at Hampden was as life-affirming and touching as I have ever seen in a football ground; the massed ranks of Hibees stood gloriously, defiantly belting out a ceaseless chorus of pro Hibs anthems during the last 10 minutes, at 3-0 down, was the very epitome of what it means to follow a team; I am beyond grateful I was present at such an event. While there was an admittedly pissed and idiotic Ned element among the Hibs support, thankfully they were few in number and seemed to piss off at half time. The only other people I saw leaving were four Celtic fans who’d secured tickets in our end and were invited to leave this part after celebrating the second goal. Pricks.

The day began on an empty train from Newcastle to Waverley, then a packed one to Queen Street. Not having been to Hampden before, except to the museum with Mick, I wanted to get there early and soak up the atmosphere. The gates weren’t even open, so I took a stroll around the Tesco Family Fun Day, which was every bit as grim as the name suggests, in Lesser Hampden, mainly so I could use the toilets. These were a unisex Portakabin, also equipped with 5 showers; is it too cheap a gag to ask why they’ve got those in Glasgow? When I finally got to have a tinkle, a plastered, middle-aged Celtic fan in the next cubicle was dropping his load, noisily and fetidly, while slurring the words to Kevin Barry; they’re such a classy outfit, aren’t they?

At 2.00, the turnstiles opened and I went in the ground for a coffee and a Hampden pie, steak not Scotch though. My seat gave me a splendid view of the pitch and I was very impressed with Hampden. Even more impressive was the mass singing of Sunshine on Leith before kick-off; the mass dabbling of moist eyes immediately afterwards showed just what this final meant, especially after the previous year’s humiliation. As for the game itself; well if Doyle had taken that early chance, and he really should have, things could have been different. As it was, Williams was desperate on the first goal (how on earth did he miss that cross?) and we were up against it. The second goal was the killer and despite the fact we played neat, controlled football on the ground, in contrast to the ugly, route one anti-football game plan that Celtic relentlessly relied on, we were unthreatening. I do feel the third goal was unfair on us and that Hibs did enough to deserve a consolation goal, but it wasn’t to be.

Come full time, a few defiant chants, a massive round of applause to the players and then I was away for the train before the cup was presented. I got the 17.07 from Mount Florida, the 17.34 from Queen Street and my first pint, of several, in The Guildford at 18.50, in the company of several NUFC fans I recognised who’d been at the game, supporting Hibs. How come I’d never known this before? It made me resolve to get back to Easter Road as soon as possible. When the 2013/2014 schedule was published, one fixture naturally stood out above all others; Hibernian versus Kilmarnock at Easter Road on Sunday 29^th December.  As a result, my Hibs and NUFC supporting mate Declan and I both vowed to be at this game. For me, it simply meant waiting until www.thetrainline.com told me cheap tickets were available for that day, as well as buying on-line, print-at-home match tickets; for Declan, it meant negotiating with Ryan Air to get the cheapest Dublin to Edinburgh day return, which he managed with some aplomb.

The storms of Friday 27th had abated by noon on Saturday, meaning Declan’s flight was scheduled to be on time, so his attendance seemed certain. Unfortunately this was thrown in doubt, as he had to face his own particular Room 101 horror when mice were detected in his attic. Yes; mice. Enough to put him on the verge of a complete emotional collapse. The fact they live in Dalkey probably means these little blighters couldn’t be hoodwinked into traps by processed Cheddar; it would have to be finest Camembert at the very least to bring about their greedy self-destruction. In all seriousness, what it actually took to get him on board was a stern, emotionless reading of the Riot Act by me, which was enough to persuade Declan he needed to make that flight and see his first game at Easter Road.  This was my seventh trip and, without doubt, the biggest win and best performance I’ve seen from Hibs. Perhaps the latter opinion was aided by a superb pre match session with Graham and Cameron who is known on Twitter as @hibernitoon – probably because both he and Graham are Newcastle fans as well. We met in a bar on West Register Street, and so became The Guildford Four. It has to be said that, for real ale aficionados, The Guildford is one of the best bars in Edinburgh, though I have to say despite the allure of a fine pint of Arran Blonde, it is a bit of a genteel experience.

Consequently, we drained our glasses and hopped a taxi down to The Iona Bar on Easter Road. This was the more authentic pre match Hibee experience, topped off with a couple of vodka and cokes before we’d even got to the game. Leaving Graham to finish his drink, Cameron escorted us to the ground and we parted; him to the East Stand and we tourists to the West. While Declan had freely admitted the sacking of Pat Fenlon had dismayed him, and we both had expressed doubts about the arrival of Terry Butcher as manager of James Connolly’s team, we were pleasantly surprised; actually we were delighted, by the ease with which Hibs swept Kilmarnock aside. If only we were able to know the depths of despair Butcher would lead us to. Visitors Killie had only Kris Boyd to speak of as any kind of threat and he barely touched the ball in the second half. In the first period, Hibs stormed at the visitors from the off and were justly rewarded with Paul Hanlon’s header after 12 minutes, though Samson in the Killie goal had to be more than alert to keep the scores down.

It was both a surprise and a worry that Hanlon’s goal was not added to, but a quiet opening to the second period was supplanted by a Hibee second coming, which saw late goals by Paul Cairney and an absolutely delightful curling effort in the last minute by Lewis Stevenson that secured an impressive victory. Declan and I were beside ourselves with joy, but resolved to spend our next visit in the more voluble East Stand than the somewhat reserved West. Sadly, the curse of early leavers appears to afflict Easter Road as badly as it does St. James’ Park; not the tourists though. We stayed until the last player had left the pitch, applauding and cheering. Then went to the pub.

Back in The Iona I had several more V&Cs (Declan was on the Bailey’s by now), before another taxi back to The Guildford for a final couple and then on the train for a snooze. I’ve taken trains to and from Scotland on match days from Newcastle for years; always noting the huge numbers of Old Firm devotees alighting at the Central. Today, there seemed to be one other bloke who’d been to Easter Road on my train. Perhaps that’s why there was a crowd of 9,600 for this one, but over 20,000 for the home game following; a 2-1 victory over Hearts. Goodness, I would have liked to have been at that one. As it was, the next occasion of my visit to Easter Road was the second leg of the relegation play-off with Hamilton Accies…

On May 25th 2014, Hibernian concluded the Scottish season in traditional fashion, by being ritually humiliated in the final game of the domestic senior campaign, losing the second leg of the SPL promotion / relegation play-off 2-0 to Hamilton Academicals. This made the score 2-2 on aggregate and Hibs went on to complete this sporting self-immolation by losing 4-3 on penalties. Of course, with Hibs having opened the 2013/2014 home campaign with an iconic 7-0 loss to Malmo in the Europa League qualifiers, dire embarrassing routs at Easter Road are nothing new under the sun. In 2012, this ritual end of season pummelling was courtesy of a 5-1 defeat to Hearts in the Cup final. In 2013, a 3-0 loss to Celtic involved another fruitless trip to Hampden. Presumably, in Terry Butcher’s world, losing 2-0 at home to Hamilton Academicals in the SPL promotion and relegation play-off is a tangible form of progress and a solid base on which to build, as the net number of goals involved in the defeat is diminishing by one each year. Thankfully, he was relieved of his duties and at least Hibs died bravely when losing in the play-offs to the Huns in May 2015.

Let’s be brutally honest about this; the 2014 relegation, which had only been avoided in the first place because of the points deduction endured by Hearts, was the only appropriate eventuality for any team that loses 2-0 at home to a side from the division below, days after seemingly doing the hard work by beating said lower league side away from home by the same score. Following the win over Hearts on January 2nd, the team won 1 and drew 4 of the remaining 18 league games, including a season-ending run of 13 without a victory; that was unacceptable and it was simply incomprehensible to me how a centre half, who captained his country, gained 90 international caps and appeared at 3 successive World Cups was utterly unable to organise a team to defend a 2 goal lead over a lower division side, whose attack was led by Jason Scotland.

The eventual defeat on penalties was almost incidental; long before Kevin Thomson and Jason Cummings had their spot kicks saved, the script had been written. Unlike the glorious evening at Broadwood in 1997 that marked Darren Jackson’s last game as a Hibee, when Hibs came back from the dead to see off Airdrie, only to predictably go down without a whimper the following season, there was to be no get out of jail card.  I lost count of the number of conversations I heard on the way out that included variations on the phrase “this has been coming for 3 years now.” This isn’t being wise after the event; it’s an understanding of the fatal culture of incompetence and mismanagement that had been prevalent in boardroom and dug-out at Easter Road for too long.

Almost 2 years later and I’ve not had the opportunity to get back to Easter Road; I still play veterans football Saturday morning, I edit the programme for my local amateur (junior equivalent) side Newcastle Benfield, as well as visiting SJP infrequently and editing the NUFC fanzine The Popular Side. However, I’m still mad keen on Hibs and sense, without being complacent, that Alan Stubbs has assembled a team and found a pattern of play that the club deserves.

I love going to Easter Road; it is one of the finest football stadia in the world. Setting foot inside it, either stone cold sober after the gloriously life-affirming, invigorating walk down from Waverley, or half cut after several in The Guildford and a taxi down to the Iona for a few extra scoops, makes my heart sing. However, until I next get there, watching the final against ross County at Hampden will do me.

GGTTH