Stormtrooping

You may be surprised to learn that I’ve seen quite a bit of the European Championships; by my reckoning I’ve watched considerably more than half of the games, especially the ones that didn’t coincide with cricket or my twice-weekly 6 a sides. Some things are sacrosanct. Obviously I was supporting Ireland, with critical approval for the 4/11s of the north’s team who didn’t sing the wrong anthem, as well as Hungary and their reserve side Felvidék. After all 4 sides went out, my support transferred to Iceland (not sure whether that’s the Republic of Iceland or Northern Iceland to be honest), so at least I’ve still got an interest in the tournament.

The scheduling of the tournament was interesting, with a seemingly unnecessary break between the final group stages and the first of the last 16 ties, meaning there was no football at all on Thursday 22^nd and Friday 23^rd June, when it would have seemed eminently more logical to play 2 games on 4 consecutive days. Anyway, the effect of this sporting fermata was to focus the entire country’s attention on the EU Referendum. If you’ve read my last piece, you’ll know where I stood. Suffice to say, I went to bed on Thursday night with an aching sense of foreboding after the Newcastle and sunderland results had been declared, waking to learn that even those in Batley and Spen who had seen the future writ large by the murder of their MP Jo Cox, had voted to leave. It’s too depressing for words. Ideologically, I’m still in the same position I was last week on this issue, but with a mounting sense of alarm at the vacuous inertia on display in the Tory Party and the opportunist bloodletting in the Labour Party that seeks to undermine and destroy that fine Socialist, Jeremy Corbyn.  If it isn’t a constitutional crisis, it’ll do until one comes along. However, enough of that right now; I’ve a feeling it’s a subject to be returned to with monotonous regularity for the years to come.  Let’s talk about cricket instead.

The weather this summer has been contiguous to Othello’s description of Desdemona’s hands; Hot, hot, and moist, with most of the wetness confined to the weekend. Sadly, this means the chance of seeing much cricket this season has been as likely as Iago gaining promotion in the Venetian navy. Indeed, gondolas could be the preferred method of transport to games in the NEPL if the current forecast is to be trusted. Since I last discussed the local scene at the end of May (http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2016/06/slow-play.html), there’s not been a huge amount for me to write about, though what I’ve seen has been as agreeable as ever. Friday 10^th June saw a sparking battling performance by Tynemouth in the 20/20, plundering 253/3 from Willington’s attack, before dismissing the visitors for 139, just in time as the heavens opened. A great night as ever at Preston Avenue, with some rather fetching Jennings Cumberland Ale to accompany proceedings. 

On Saturday 11^th, I took bike and ferry to South Shields, arriving fashionably late at Westoe, to see an hour’s play up to lunch, with Newcastle batting. Things were looking decidedly iffy at 108/5 when the weather intervened. I wouldn’t say it was a heavy downpour at all, but the constant drizzle that began at the break continued unabated throughout the afternoon session, meaning play simply could not restart. I called it a day when my good friend Michael Hudson suggested watching the Wales v Slovakia game in The Steamboat. How could I resist the chance of a few pints in the finest pub in South Tyneside? Just a few mind, as I still had to cycle home from the ferry. The beers that Saturday did their best, but didn’t quite make up for the lack of cricket; unfortunately, on Friday 17^th there was only beer, as a dry week was wrecked by a teatime thunderstorm causing the abandonment of the South North v Newcastle 20/20 game after 1.4 overs. The sheer volume of Friday evening rain suggested to me that Saturday would be a washout, but not a bit of it. A warm and cloudless day allowed me to examine my conscience and make a decision.

At the start of the cricket season, I’d made a vague promise to myself that I’d either emulate my pal Gary’s visits to all Northern League grounds in 2015/2016, or my mate Phil’s similar journeying to half of them by public transport, by getting to, preferably, all of the NEPL grounds in both divisions, or visiting those I’d not yet had the pleasure of experiencing. The best laid plans eh? By the middle of June I’d only ticked off Boldon and South Shields, accompanied by the nagging feeling of guilt you get from ignoring the team(s) you actually follow. In some ways, I’d love to be neutral, but there is within me a need, whatever the sport, to find a reason to follow one of the sides involved in any game I see. As regards local cricket, Newcastle in bohemian Jesmond, South North in affluent Gosforth and Benwell Hill in the multi-cultural west end of the city, all gained an element of my stock of support for varying reasons. Similarly, Felling and Gateshead Fell are well regarded as they’re close to where I was brought up. However, for most of the week anyway, Tynemouth is my home as so that’s where my affections are leaning further and further towards. And yet…

Looking at the games on Saturday 18^th, I saw a plan; cycle up to leafy NE3 first of all and see what’s happening against Stockton. South North is an absolutely immaculate ground; 150 years of history are clearly present in about 60% of it, while the rest is new build. Of course selling the land to build houses on has secured the financial stability of the club, but it makes the romantic in you aware of the fact you’re watching the Chelsea or the Manchester City of the NEPL. They bowled out Stockton about 20 minutes after lunch for 133, from 47 attritional overs. It wasn’t as bad as watching paint dry, but it was in that general area. Time to split; I got on the bike and headed to Jesmond, where Newcastle were looking to get 154 to beat bottom club Gateshead Fell. They got them for the loss of 2 wickets well before tea, courtesy of some flashy, punishing batting that held the right amount of glamour and panache to make me regret not having been here all day. There is something in the Newcastle ethos that requires entertainment and bravado to be at the heart of their play. This attacking philosophy and the charming, decadent grandeur of the ground make Jesmond a wonderful place to watch the game.  At some instinctive, elemental level County Club, as was, feels right. Indeed it feels almost like home.

I was back there on Friday 24^th to see the crucial 20/20 between Newcastle and Tynemouth. Agnostically, I speculated as to whether this game would tell me exactly which of the two clubs I supported. But it didn’t; each run, each wicket, for each team felt alright with me.  I was delighted that Tynemouth qualified for the quarter finals of the 20/20 (I’m really looking forward to Friday’s home tie against Felling) and I was pleased Newcastle won the game on run rate; the home side posted 109/9 from 18 overs and Tynemouth reached 59/4 after 13 when the rains came, which was 20 runs less than they needed at that point. Sadly for Newcastle, me and the best of both possible worlds, South Shields won their 20/20 away to Willington, with a 6 off the last ball, to qualify in second place from the Group of Death. This disappointed me, though I was happy to be able to savour a few pints of the magnificently kept Thwaites Wainright Bitter and to enjoy a chat with Newcastle spinner Oli McGee, who took the time to thank me for doing my bit to publicise local cricket. It was a very humbling thing to hear. This is why, as yet, I can’t decide whether I’m a Newcastle or Tynemouth fan, but there’s nothing wrong with that.

And so to Saturday 25^th; Tynemouth home to Whitburn on a glorious sunny day. The visitors dismissed for 52 and a 9 wicket win wrapped up by early afternoon. I wasn’t there. Newcastle away to Chester Le Street and the game abandoned after 24 overs. I wasn’t there either. Instead, I’d decided to visit Blaydon, who play in Winlaton, where they were hosting Seaham Harbour. The decision was made partly to see a different ground and partly in the hope of seeing Blaydon’s historian Jack Chapman; he was a colleague of mine in marking GCSE exam papers back in the early 90s, before that he was Gary’s English teacher at Hedworthfield, after that he used Phil’s local history department in the Central Library to research his books that he recently sent to Harry. None of the rest of them could make it, but I didn’t see him anyway, which sort of summed up most of my day.

The schlepp from Tynemouth to Winlaton was one of those frustrating journeys by public transport; missed one metro, the next one was late, same with the buses. As I made my way tortuously south west on a massively delayed 49A, torrential rains came as we crawled through Dunston. By the time we commenced our climb in Swalwell, the drains were overflowing and the roads had turned into canals. The bus displaced a wave of dirty water higher than its roof as we forded Shibdon Bank. By the time I disembarked, in what is laughingly known as the centre of Winlaton, the monsoon had slowed to a dull, insistent drizzle. More out of hope than expectation, I turned the corner into the pretty as a picture Dene Bank ground, to see a blank scoreboard and impatient players fiddling with iPhones or staring bleakly into the slate grey skies above.  I overheard a shout across the ground saying play before 3 would be a miracle. However, I’m never short of a back-up plan.

Drifting about on the internet a few weeks ago, I found myself researching just how low the rugby league pyramid went on a national basis. The answer was Conference Division 3, which is step 7 of the rugby league pyramid. In descending order there’s the Superleague, the Championship, League 1 (home of Newcastle Thunder), National Conference, then Conference Division 1, 2 and 3, which is where Gateshead Storm find themselves. Being a summer sport, they are able to utilise an established rugby union venue for their home games. Rather serendipitously, they groundshare with Winlaton Vulcans and the aptly named Storm just happened to be at home to Dewsbury Moor Maroons on Saturday 25^th. It was less than 5 minutes’ walk from cricket to rugby, so I really couldn’t pass up the chance of a potential sporting double is what sent me to the furthest heights of wet, western Gateshead, when I could have seen Tynemouth win then got home for the Poland v Switzerland penalty shoot-out.

It would be fair to say that Gateshead Storm v Dewsbury Moor Maroons wasn’t a huge draw; the crowd was approximately 30, including half a dozen zealots from West Yorkshire. Mainly those gathered were the families and friends of players, though I did spot a couple of rugby league groundhoppers by the unfeasibly large number of metal badges on their lapels. I’m no rugby league connoisseur, but this wasn’t the highest class of the art you could hope to see. That said, these young men were determined, mustard keen and I applaud them for such dedication. Of course I was also delighted to see some form of team sport that I’d never experienced before. Clearly I was supporting Gateshead, but it became obvious after a close opening quarter that saw both teams get close to the try line after 5 tackles, then fail to kick and collect, and thus surrender possession, that the side from Yorkshire were several tactical and ability steps ahead of the home side. Two converted tries and a drop goal saw Dewsbury turn around 13-0 ahead. The weather had abated and a clear sky brought forth a warming, drying sun. Sadly, the weather didn’t help Storm any, as they conceded another 2 converted tries and an unconverted one to trail 29-0 going into the last five minutes. Suddenly, a flurry of late local pride saw a brace of unconverted tries make the final score 8-29, each one met with whoops of pleasure by the home side and anguished disgruntlement from the visitors. The game wasn’t a great spectacle, but I’m glad I was there and I applauded both teams off the park.

The choice now was to either take the next bus back to town, to get home for Wales v the North, or see what was going on at the cricket. I am so glad I took one last glance down at Blaydon, as the game was now in play. The home side probably wished it wasn’t as they were in a bit of bother at 40-5 when I arrived. Things didn’t get much better as they subsided to 111 all out in charming, undulating surroundings, with a fair few more than had been at the rugby league in attendance. Sadly, the last wicket partnership had eked out a dozen or so runs in gathering gloom to establish vague respectability in three figures, with a downpour soaking the ground in the time it took the players to get off after the last dismissal. In the distance, all I could see were brooding clouds of black and purple. There was a bus due. I caught it. Twitter told me the game was abandoned before I’d reached town. However, I’m delighted to say I’ve seen cricket at Blaydon. Only another 3 grounds in the top division and 8 in the second to go until I’ve completed my set.

So where now? Potentially a busy weekend; Tynemouth v Felling on Friday 1^st July in the 20/20 quarter final, Gateshead Fell v Benwell Hill for the Ponces’ Picnic on Saturday, before a journey out to Bon Sunday for Northumberland v Bedfordshire. In an unstable world, the safety and order of cricket will work to keep us all civilised.

Bad Moon Rising

The political events of the last week have been among the most depressing, heart-rending and indeed bone-chilling I can recall in my lifetime. The sublimely ridiculous Brexit flotilla up the Thames, complete with fascist Farage having the audacity to claim he was an anti-establishment crusader, was supplanted firstly by the hideous, billboard homage to Nazi propaganda that the UKIP fuhrer unveiled the day after, and then the terrible murder of Jo Cox by an ultra-right wing terrorist. The tragic loss of a fine campaigning MP, who was a devoted friend to and advocate for refugees, as well as a mother to 2 young children is a national disaster, not just a personal one for her loved ones. Make no mistake about it, Thomas Mair may be mentally ill (rather like Michael Adebowale who was one of the murderers of Lee Rigby), but that does not excuse or explain his actions.  Nor does it excuse the right wing press who have shamefully ignored his political preferences and activities, preferring instead to paint him as a lone wolf psychopath, instead of the inevitable result of the pervasive atmosphere of race hate in this country. The actions of this neo Nazi activist were undoubtedly inspired by the rhetoric and attitudes of Farage and his ilk, who have turned the EU Referendum from an arcane ideological skirmish in the Tory Party into an Islamophobic, xenophobic crusade against immigrants and Asylum Seekers, like a social media Kristallnacht with Facebook and Twitter acting as on-line equivalents of the Völkischer Beobachter. 

However, the familial and national tragedy of poor Jo Cox’s murder could yet be extended to the realms of an entire continent’s tragedy of far reaching, reactionary consequences, if the British electorate doesn’t reflect on the probable aftermath of Vote Leave winning the day. I do still believe Vote Remain will win, but by the slimmest of margins. As a subscriber to the democratic process, like all who wish to remain in the EU, I will unquestioning accept the verdict of the British people. I have grave misgivings that those in the Vote Leave camp will be so uniformly gracious. If they lose, I see an increase in civil disorder prompted by the pisspot Oswald Mosley and funded by the bouffanted buffoon. If they win, society may well fall apart. Whatever the result, I see trouble on the way…

Without being alarmist, and I sincerely hope I’m wrong, I can honestly say I am fearful that a Brexit verdict will mean England metamorphosing into a reimagined, contemporary version of Nazi Germany, whereby execution style murders by rampant gangs of feral right wing thugs, such as those of Jo Cox, or Stephen Lawrence, will become commonplace events that are both tolerated legally and openly celebrated in certain quarters. We must Vote Remain if we are to save civilised society and not degenerate into a vicious Fascist dictatorship that will combine the hysteria and bloodlust of the McCarthy and Salem witch trials.

I remember the last referendum on membership of the European Union, or the Common Market as we called it back then. It was June 1975. I was 10 going on 11 in my last term at Falla Park Juniors and already a burgeoning political animal (my first conscious political act was me and Paul “Sten” Stonehouse chanting Heath is a **** outside Windy Nook polling station during the February 74 election). I was, then and now, a Socialist and a Labour Party supporter. Back then, I would state that I was 100% in favour of leaving, as were the entire left of the Labour Party who called out the Common Market for being a gentlemen’s club of the capitalist elite. On the day of the referendum, as our school was used as a polling station, I spent an entire coach trip to Brimham Rocks in North Yorkshire and back, fervently discussing this issue with fellow top class members and those teachers who were prepared to listen. I was in a minority that day and in the vote itself; I sincerely hope this will not be the case when I wake to the result on Friday 24^th June.

To state the blindingly obvious, 41 years is a long time and things have changed immeasurably in the intervening period.  Leaving the EU is a complex process; a fraught leap into the heart of an unimaginable darkness of vulgar Nationalism and economic disaster. Perhaps the single biggest error in the intervening period, when open borders and free movement have become the marvellously normal state of affairs, is that Britain didn’t adopt the Euro, which would have seen the diminution of one of the last tokens of pro Imperialist rhetoric.

You see, I am passionately convinced of the need to Vote Remain and fear exactly what could happen, not just in Europe, not only in Britain as a whole, but in England specifically if the Vote Leave campaign have their way. Let’s not delude ourselves; the European Union, as it currently operates, is an inefficient, bureaucratic, spendthrift capitalist cartel, bedevilled by arcane regulations and operated in the main by anonymous, autocratic financiers with personal, professional and territorial interests at the heart of all their decisions. That said, it provides stability, order and codified human rights in an era whereby such things ought not to be taken for granted. While Brexit fans point towards some idealistic notion of racial purity and patriotic independence, I am unconvinced by such illusory banalities. I would much rather be inside the tent pissing out than outside the tent pissing in, when it comes to future reforms or reshaping of our continent’s future.

So why exactly am I voting remain? I’ve identified three main reasons; one idealistic, one practical and one politically possible. Primarily I’m voting to remain in Europe, because I class myself as European.   Throughout my entire life I have felt no affection for, loyalty towards or belief in the questionable anachronism that is the United Kingdom. I despise the Little Englander mentality, the obsequious fawning over the Royal Family and the intolerant, socially conservative attitudes that are only a scintilla removed from legitimised racism that seem to characterise the middle English world view. I have much more of a sense of being a citizen of Europe than a British subject. This is why I believe in open borders; anyone should be able to live anywhere they want.  I am an unequivocal supporter of the abolition of any immigration control or legislation.  I do believe in national identity, but not in chauvinistic nationalism; I believe Ireland should be a 32 county republic and Scotland an independent nation, but in the context of being constituent parts of a European super state where every citizen is directly involved in the election of politicians to serve us on a pan-continental level.  We need one constitution, one set of laws and one economic model. When that happens, national identity and tired, outmoded notions of patriotism will be utterly irrelevant, except as a form of cultural nostalgia. Currently, this may be a utopian vision, but it’s got to be better in the long run than a dystopian future involving of a whole load of right-wing nation states living in a kind of a tense, brooding, semi-permanent ceasefire, where territorial disputes and border squabbles are always on the horizon, which I believe to be the likely default diplomatic position in many parts of the continent if Brexit comes to pass.

Secondly, on a purely practical level, as a trade unionist, I am aware that most of the beneficial, socially progressive legislation related to workers’ rights and working conditions that apply in our continent today have been introduced because of EU directives. Therefore, as a Socialist, I must consider what state of affairs would best protect the material conditions of all workers at the present time and for the foreseeable future. Undoubtedly, the only credible answer is to Vote Remain.

The final, and sadly most compelling, reason to remain is to allow continued membership of the EU to act as a brake on the unfettered, potentially excesses of any post Brexit ultra-right wing government. This is the point where I despair of and despise the vile tactics and mendacious logic of the so-called #Lexit Leninist loonies.  For a start they seek to constantly remind us Jeremy Corbyn used to be an advocate of leaving the EU; as I said at the start of this piece, so was I once upon a time. Situations change, time moves on and opinions alter. In response to this, the brainwashed social inadequate lickspittles who slavishly disport themselves in front of the Kim il Taaffe Militant dynasty, including a dangerously mentally ill potential terrorist in Vitoria-Gasteiz, point out Corbyn isn’t particularly enthusiastic about the EU. Presumably they’ve forgotten the concept of critical support. Yes the EU is far from ideal. Yes the EU needs reforming. However leaving the EU will not accelerate any process of reform or amelioration; it will lead to a fractured, disorganised continent.

Left Exit advocates claim they want out of the EU because the whole organisation is institutionally corrupt; this claim may be largely true, but their espousal of such a view is a despicable canard. They actually want out, regardless of the immediate and medium term consequences for ordinary workers, because they believe, or have been told to believe, that Brexit will result in the destabilisation of capitalist society; a situation that could supposedly provide the Trotskyist Manson Family with an opportunity to engage with “the advanced sections of the working class” (in other words, people who agree with them) to recruit them to Pete and Nancy’s elite fundraising vanguard.  In actual fact, Left Exit supporters have less dignity and honesty to their campaign than our real class enemies, such as Johnson and Farage, whose cause they directly and explicitly support by their actions.

Rather than the Left Exit argument leading to increased levels of consciousness, it has simply been subsumed by the antics and tactics of the ruling elite. In all honesty, the Tory Party internal spat about the EU has been hijacked more times than the mail coach in a Gary Cooper western. Initially Cameron saw the referendum as a way of shutting up the Eurosceptic wing of his party, but that craven opportunist and wannabe populist demagogue Boris Johnson had a tactical auto da fe, converting to the Vote Out cause at the eleventh hour, presumably as it presented him with an easy passage to Number 10 by facing off with Cameron. This meant that the unthinkable became thinkable; five years ago the idea of Britain leaving the EU would have been ludicrous. Unfortunately, the agenda for the debate is no longer the preserve of the ruling class, as extra parliamentary zealots have stolen the political elite’s thunder.  Obviously if one lies down with dogs, then one gets fleas, as has been shown by the supplanting of Johnson, Gove, Grayling, Duncan Smith and all the other nauseating, patronising semi-mainstream Tories who imagined their involvement in the Brexit campaign was a good grounding for serving in Johnson’s future cabinet. Instead, the vile, repulsive Farage has become even more of a figurehead for Brexit than he is for his own vanity vehicle UKIP.  You thought that was as bad as it could get? Wrong.

Currently the authentic voice of the ordinary Vote Leave supporter is no longer the fruity, braying fake bonhomie of the mega rich, nor is it the mean, tobacco-tinged, nouveau riche, nasal tones of the pettiest of the petit bourgeois garagiste tendency, it is the sound of pissed, economically and socially marginalised boneheads in Stone Island jumpers and Sports Direct joggers  and their crushed, tattooed, jittery spouses, belting out No Surrender to the IRA in a Wetherspoons or at a lager-soaked, front garden barbecue on a poverty stricken estate. These are the very people who “didn’t do politics” just a few short years ago; now, their ignorance and barely literate bigotry legitimised, incubated and encouraged by the Brexit campaign, they are setting an ever more reactionary agenda.

The European Union has become almost irrelevant to the debate surrounding the referendum; this is a xenophobic crusade of cretinism, whose aim is the complete eradication of Islam from the United Kingdom. The phrases “immigrant,” “foreigner” and “Asylum Seeker” are seen as synonyms for “terrorist;” like the Jews in 1930s Germany, the focus of all society’s ills has shifted to a particular target demographic and that is an outrage.  Bad housing, bad schools, bad health care, high unemployment, reduction in state benefits; the fault for all these ills is not global capitalism, but “foreigners” who ought to “get back to where they come from” and leave “England for the English.” Without a doubt, unchecked and unapologetic racism is now packaged as patriotism by the popular press; Farage whips up masses with ever more splenetic tirades against “anti-British values,” while the likes of Gove simper and wring their hands as they are no longer able to set the tone of the campaign.  A hideous, fascistic genie is out of the two-litre cider bottle and there’s no way mainstream Vote Out politicians can get the screw top back on.

And this is where it gets really frightening; this is where I desperately hope I’m wrong, but have you ever thought just exactly what will happen to British society if Brexit comes about? If you haven’t, perhaps you’d best stop reading now. If you have, I’d be pleased to compare notes with you. This is the way I see things panning out…

Immediately after the referendum Cameron will resign and Osborne will put forward his vaunted emergency austerity budget with indecent haste; it will be defeated because Labour won’t support it and neither will half the Tories. This creates a power vacuum which is a fair way up the scale of constitutional crises.  Instead of a leadership contest, Johnson gets the gig on a nod and a wink, causing the Tories to split, possibly Labour as well. By the end of the summer there’s a General Election, probably triggered by the mass resignations of Anti EU Tory backwoodsmen, not to mention to unilateral departure from the UK of Scotland, who are desperate remain in the EU.

This Caledonian UDI isn’t contested at ministerial level, as the New Tories  will only get a majority with Scotland out the equation. Sure it’ll mean the Billy Boys take up arms against the Holyrood elite, but with armed troops patrolling from Berwick to Carlisle, what happens in Perthshire stays in Perthshire.  No doubt the election results would see a narrow but decisive victory for a Nationalist Alliance pact led by Johnson (PM) and Farage (Home Secretary), producing a coalition of Little Englanders, not to mention half a dozen former Men of Violence waving Red Hand flags in the Glens of Antrim, bulked out by a few dozen fascist fucktards in Kent, Essex and possibly some of the northern Mill Towns; all spewing racist bile in the guise of “Britain’s fresh start.”  

Within weeks a Nationality Bill would be introduced, removing the right to British Citizenship from everyone who wasn’t born in Britain and from those born here who refuse to make an oath of allegiance to Britain and the Monarchy, which will require an acceptance of the Church of England as the only state-approved religion. Public celebrations of other religions, specifically Islam, will be regarded as acts of terrorism and adherents of said religion branded as traitors.  All mosques will be closed. Previously issued passports will become invalid; the right to free healthcare and education, any form of benefits and the opportunity to apply for social housing will end. Immigration will be halted immediately. All border guards at Channel Ports will be armed.  A limited form of residency will be granted to those immigrants who sign the oath of allegiance; those refusing to sign the oath of allegiance will be deported, along with their families and dependents, regardless of their prior national status, place of birth, employment situation or personal skills. Those non-white Anglo Saxons left will be forced to live in urban ghettoes or rural accommodation camps, work for minimum wages, wear some kind of emblem on their clothing to identify their status, observe dusk to dawn curfews and carry identity cards that must be produced on demand.

Who will police our grave new world? Well, obviously the current law enforcement agencies will be engaged in more radical crime prevention duties, following the introduction of shoot on sight policies regarding fugitives and other wanted criminals, as well as the reintroduction of capital punishment. This means Johnson and Farage will require their own Sturmabteilung to maintain order. Considering that Farage and Johnson have managed to garner support by persuading the thick and disenfranchised that all the problems in Britain are the fault of immigrants and Asylum Seekers, not evil rapacious bankers and billionaire shysters like Sir Phillip Green, it will very easy to placate and buy off the lumpen elements of the white working class with cheap social housing, refurbished schools and hospitals denuded of brown and black faces. Put simply, those shaven headed thugs in the Stone Island jumpers and Sports Direct trackies, who pledge allegiance to the EDL or Britain First and no doubt toasted the death of Jo Cox with a slab of Carling, will be Boris and Nigel’s Brown Shirts.

And the post Brexit vision of New England won’t stop with the eradication of immigrants and liquidation of Asylum Seekers; gays, lefties, the disabled will all be in the cross hairs of England’s fascist future, if Vote Leave wins. The future, as I see it, will be truly dystopian if Thursday’s vote is to quit the EU.

For goodness sake, for the future of our families and our society, stand up against racism, intolerance and Islamophobia. Save our continent from the politics of hatred and prejudice; VOTE REMAIN.

Sober Reflections

A discussion was held regarding whether the League should continue with a respect based scheme with similar or perhaps even different objectives to those of Secret Shopper. While the committee considered the initiative had been successful in a number of areas, with players’ language being a notable exception, and offers had been made to administer such a scheme, it was decided that a review of its feasibility should be undertaken by a sub-committee to consider cost, criteria, availability of assessors etc before any final decision could be made on its continuation.

-          Taken from the minutes of the Northern League Management Committee meeting on May 26^th 2016, as presented to the league’s AGM on June 4^th 2016.

Notwithstanding unfolding events at the European Championships, over the past few seasons, the very worst incident of misconduct I’ve personally witnessed at a football game was an away striker reacting to his team mate being given offside by calling the assistant a “cheating fat cunt,” about 6 times. The irate little baldy man followed this up by then threatening the opposition secretary, a 70 year old volunteer, that he would “fucking sort you out afterwards.” Indeed the elderly club official was subsequently confronted by the still incandescent striker, who needed to be physically restrained by his team mates, in the car park at full time. This seething, thuggish aggression continued in the bar afterwards, where the away team refused to complete the paperwork relating to the game (which they’d lost 3-2) and left the place, after issuing a torrent of threats, cloaked in abusive language, to the opposition in general, none of whom reacted in the slightest to such vile, provocative behaviour.

Not nice eh? Completely unacceptable but understandable if this was a top of the table title decider with a guaranteed promotion for the winner?  In actual fact this was an Over 40s league cup game, where I (sub not used, as ever) was the stand-in linesman and the man berating me someone who has recently parted company with a Northern League Division 2 side, where he held a position of responsibility if not power.  He really ought to have known better. The serious point to this is that such shocking conduct used to be common in north east non-league circles when I first started watching the game 20 years ago. Even when I got involved with Percy Main Amateurs in 2009, it was part and parcel of the Northern Alliance. It seemed only Mike Amos, the recently retired Chairman of the Northern League, was bothered about profanity on the pitch, which had seen the abortive Stamp out Swearing campaign of about a decade ago.

I like Mike tremendously, and I back just about everything he’s ever done, though I question his friendship with such shady characters as Brookes Mileson and George Reynolds, but that’s by the by. Ever since I first met him back in about 1995, I’ve always enjoyed Mike’s company and respected his views, so when the Secret Shopper campaign was announced, I volunteered to be part of it. Being perfectly honest, the main motivation I had for this was pecuniary; I liked the idea of a white access all areas pass, which I could use to attend any Northern League game for free.  The season just ended saw me at 83 Northern League games; 50 of these did not involve Benfield. It’s not a bad incentive for filling out the occasional report.

Rewinding slightly to when I first got involved, in the scheme’s debut season of 2012/2013, I reported solely on a variety of midweek games (as Saturdays were dedicated to Percy Main). Following my move to Benfield as programme editor, I asked to be appointed only to Division 2 games, as I did not want to be accused of any conflict of interest; a request that was granted and a state of affairs that was replicated for the subsequent 3 seasons in which the scheme was in existence. Have I always been fair and objective? Yes. Have I always marked honestly? Yes. Did I know any of the other shoppers? No. Did I feel the scheme was perfect? No. Aside from all questions of probity and favouritism, it seemed to me that all it needed to work properly and transparently was adequate moderation, which could have, with the correct training and advice, led to the preferable state of affairs whereby each club marked themselves on the team sheet, similar to how they grade a referee’s performance, for each of the categories we were asked to assess both teams on. Self-policing is always the best idea. It’s something I advanced in a programme piece a couple of seasons ago -:

Coming into the Northern League didn’t initially seem to be as much of a culture shock as I had feared.  One clear difference is in the tolerance of referees to transgressions of the law; many of the bookings for dissent I’ve seen at a wide range of games would have been ignored in the Alliance. However, this is part and parcel of a higher level of football, rather like the Northern League’s (in) famous Secret Shopper initiative. Now in its third season, and widely praised by some (including the FA who gave it an award last season) and mercilessly ridiculed by others, who’ve generally received negative reports, the system involves a panel of unaligned spectators who visit all teams throughout the season, marking each club on a 0 (terrible) to 5 (faultless) scale in the categories of: player behaviour, technical area language, technical area discipline and supporter behaviour.

Let me state unequivocally that I am 100% behind any campaign that will effectively minimise indiscipline on and off the pitch, as well as potentially increasing the amount of spectators that come through the turnstiles, but I must admit to having grave unease with the way the current system operates as I feel there are avoidable variations in practice and anomalies that need to be addressed and hopefully eliminated, if the Secret Shopper scheme is to retain any credibility moving forwards.

I believe I’ve identified 2 major areas of concern. Firstly those compiling the reports may assume that their role is to comment on every single aspect of the “match day experience,” rather than confining their attention to the 4 clearly defined criteria on which they’re supposed to comment. In addition, there is nothing to counteract any suspicion of a palpable divergence of both standards and consistency among the panel compiling these reports. Thankfully I am not just here to find fault with the system, but to offer concrete advice on how to plug these gaps and help to maintain or restore confidence in the Secret Shopper initiative.

Firstly, there is a very simple way to ensure those marking games do not stray from their required brief; tell them in no uncertain terms what they should be looking and listening for, then remind them that while they may have an opinion on many other matters from the quality of the pies to the availability of pin badges, such thoughts are beyond the scope of their remit and should not appear on their final written report. If they make such comments, they must be disregarded; perhaps to the extent of viewing such a report as the equivalent of a spoilt ballot paper. Secondly, something urgently needs to be done to introduce some kind of moderation system that standardises the marks on an agreed set of principles that can be referenced as required. While this may compromise the Secret part of the Secret Shopper initiative and strip it of its sibilant nomenclature, the only way to assure quality control is by a standardisation exercise.

As far as I can see it, the best way to do this would be to get every Shopper to watch the same game and then to give their marks. One way to do this would be to make attendance at a game, for instance the Craven Cup curtain-raiser at the start of each season, compulsory and then to perform the moderation exercise immediately afterwards, with a defined set of standards put in place to give Shoppers an unequivocal mark sheet to work from. Alternatively, if anonymity is required, then I’m sure enough clubs film games and would be happy to record a chosen game, sending DVDs to all those who need a copy. A League official could also mark the game and provide a written commentary on points of interest and a clear explanation of how the marks were arrived at. Whether the game in question was faultless or appalling is immaterial; it is simply there to provide an agreed standard. In time, a compilation DVD of clips of games of differing standards could be compiled to build on this rigorous system of moderation.

If the scheme is to continue with any degree of confidence and credibility in the future then I believe such standardisation and robust post report moderation must be introduced. Otherwise nagging doubts about bias and questions of competency can rear their head; especially when one considers that there is absolutely no appeals procedure against what has been submitted.  For me, the best idea for subsequent seasons would not be independent observers, but internal quality control, whereby each club submits a mark in each of the four categories for both their own club and the opposition, on the completed team sheet when it is submitted to the league. This is, I feel, the best way to ensure compliance not only with the requirement to improve the conduct of players, supporters and management, but also with the spirit of this initiative.

Of course, with the benefit of hindsight, the piece above may be considered moribund if not entirely irrelevant. If the Northern League Management Committee is as keen to remove the stamp of Mike Amos on their competition as they appear to be, for instance abolishing his daily blog with almost indecent haste, then I feel sure the Secret Shopper subcommittee will announce the demise of the initiative fairly quickly and with the minimum of fuss. Were this decision to be taken, then I do not doubt few if any clubs would shed a tear, nor indeed will the on-line apologists for profanity, who show a desperate lack of insight into the reasons behind the campaign. As far as I can see, asking players to try and maintain correct standards of behaviour is a laudable sentiment.  Undoubtedly the scheme tamed most of the oath-edged talk from within the dug outs, which is great for two reasons. Firstly, the less abuse match officials get the better, as it means they can concentrate on their thankless tasks. Secondly, if it makes people more receptive to attending games with children or grandchildren, then so much the better.

Those of you who read last week’s blog will know I wasn’t at the Northern League AGM, preferring instead to delve into the heart of an enormous darkness that is Scotch Junior football at Beith 1 Auchinleck Talbot 1.  I had a great day out, tinged slightly with sadness that I couldn’t say goodbye to Mike, but greatly relieved that one particular proposal had been voted against during the meeting.

Regulations regarding the consumption of alcohol at football grounds in Scotland are very clear. It’s illegal. It has been so since the 1980 Scottish FA Cup ended in a riot after Celtic beat Rangers in extra time. The scenes at this year’s final (a common factor 36 years later being Rangers lost the latest one as well) indicate that the ban won’t be lifted any time soon. In England, the situation is less clear cut and bedevilled by legislation and regulations that are confusing and contradictory. In the professional game, down to Conference level, drinking in view of the pitch is a complete non-starter, though you can generally buy beer in grounds. The law is less clear below this level and ensnared by obfuscatory local regulations, but I’ve never seen anyone drink on the terraces at Croft Park, Blyth for instance. Once you get down to Northern Alliance and then Tyneside Amateur level, such regulations don’t apply, though the Wearside League, which is almost exclusively populated by clubs from the Durham FA, published this statement on their website at the back end of April -:

Following clarification from The Football Association, the Durham County FA have issued this ruling:

1. Any alcohol consumed at a facility which has a licenced area to sell alcohol must be consumed within the confines of that licenced area.

2. No alcohol is to be consumed near the playing area.

3. Any clubs/teams reported for the consumption of alcohol near the playing area will be charged with misconduct.

Perhaps the person who wrote that explanation knew what they were saying, but it is clearly open to interpretation in a number of ways. I’m not sure how many members of the Wearside League have a licensed clubhouse on site, but point 1 makes it clear that you can only drink in the bar or, presumably, in any outdoor smoking area where people are allowed to take their drinks. Points 2 and 3 are, I believe, designed to stop radgies on a Sunday morning bevvying on the touchlines. What these points do not do is specify the minimum distance from the pitch where drinking is acceptable or what clubs are supposed to do with people turning up with carry-outs. If a team doesn’t charge an entry fee to allow people to watch a game in a public park, how can that club possibly be liable for casual, plastered observers with a bag of cans?

This leaves the Northern League. At the 33 Benfield games I watched last season, I drank alcohol at 4 of them. The only home game I had pints at was against West Allotment Celtic, when I’d accompanied Mike Amos on his Last Legs stage; I drank only in our clubhouse, on a bitterly cold February Wednesday. Away from home, I drowned my sorrows after we went out the Vase 2-0 at Atherton Railway, but only after full time. The fine selection of bottled Real Ales in the Shildon clubhouse made up for a 4-0 thumping we endured. However, I did have cause to toast our victory away to Ashington, where a 3-1 win was accompanied by half a dozen bottles of magnificent German imported beers. I enjoyed those latter pints during the game as well. Sat quaffing in the stand, I had availed myself of the plastic pint glasses proffered at 2.58 by the bar staff.  Now I don’t know if it is was the drink, or the fact this was our first game after a 2 month winter hiatus, but Saturday January 23^rd was one of the best days of the season. In saying that, I will admit I doubt I’d have been offended if I’d been told I couldn’t take my drink outside.

As a spectator, I’m ambivalent about the idea of drinking on the terraces, but as a club official, I would be vehemently opposed to it. Regardless of the economic benefits, the possibility for disorder and the need to police those parts of the ground where drinkers congregate is as onerous and thankless a burden to place on the shoulders of any volunteer as one could imagine. Let’s be clear about this, at the overwhelming majority of games I saw last season, the idea of having a drink in the ground during the game would only have appealed if it was a medicinal hip flask of brandy delivered by a Samaritan St Bernard. Squashy plastic pots of flat, bland lager don’t appeal to me at the best of times; supping them on a concrete step on a Tuesday night in November with 25 others as temperatures fall below freezing to the accompaniment of a Force 10 off the North Sea and horizontal rain is my idea of hell.  On those occasions when I’d have fancied a pint, I was aware I was never more than 45 minutes from a cessation of the game I’d come to watch. Personally I go to grounds to watch football and pubs to drink beer; rarely do the two combine.

At the Northern League AGM, a vote was taken on a proposal to allow drinking pitch side in designated areas.  The motion was debated and the vote was conclusive; the proposal was defeated. That’s how a democracy works; one club, one vote in this instance. Strangely though, the chronically hard of thinking in the non-league fraternity have failed to grasp this simple point, opting instead to endlessly and fallaciously debate the legal and moral minutiae of the defeated motion. Those empty hot heads who feel so passionately about the benefits of drinking pitch side have approximately 50 weeks before the next AGM and 9 months before motions have to be submitted; surely they can use that time to come up with a proposal that is acceptable to all, providing they are able to state their case in a persuasive and perspicacious manner in order to garner sufficient support.

Before anyone starts a campaign to legitimise public drunkenness, I would counsel caution; the Secret Shopper initiative, which is where we came in, has done so much to improve the ambience at Northern League games. It should not be allowed to die without legacy. The isolated incidents we have seen in the Northern League season just ended that have involved unpleasantness and disorder have almost entirely involved half-cut yobboes acting as if Dean Street is an extension of Green Street. Now I’m not expecting squads of well-drilled Russian fitness fanatics in MMA gloves to show up at a Northern League game soon, but if they did, it would be amusing to see the reaction of those delusional, chunky, wannabe Zoolander toughies in their £500 Italian designer knitwear and Norman Walsh trabs who are very brave boys on Twitter but couldn’t put a tab out in real life.

Confrontation, hostility and aggression may be the three graces of a modern Friday night out, but they aren’t what the Northern League is about. Let’s have a drink beforehand, watch the game and celebrate the unique beauty of our community with a post-match pint or several. Drinking on the terraces will possibly ruin the ambience of the Northern League. Resisting it could allow those clubs who are already at loggerheads with their local community to mend fences. Apart from all that, we would do well to remember that not every competition is as orderly as our own is currently.  Here is my Chair’s report to the AGM of the Tyneside Amateur League -:

I’d like to start by offering my humble and sincere thanks to all of you here in this room tonight. To those of you who have been involved with clubs in whatever capacity, managerial, playing, administrative or all three in some instances, you have my warmest congratulations on all you’ve done for the Tyneside Amateur League in 2015/2016. If I could I’d award you medals for getting us through the campaign just finished. I’d also like to extend my thanks to my colleagues on the top table; to Neville, to Paul, to Kevin and to Allan, for all of their hard work in helping us reach the end of another protracted season, made all the more onerous by the incessant bad weather.

I’d also like to issue two apologies; firstly for a decision we made last year to run with 16 clubs in one division. At the time it seemed a perfect number; those of you who have studied Mathematics will appreciate how easily 16 factorises, which is useful when making draws in cup competitions for instance. However, what we know now is that, notwithstanding the willingness of clubs to use 4G pitches and to reverse fixtures whenever possible (gestures for which we owe you all an enormous debt of gratitude), 16 teams are too many for one division. Trying to squeeze in 30 league games is just too many, what with the dire forecasts for subsequent winter rainfall. You have my assurance we won’t be advocating such a move again; far better to have two divisions of 8 and a sectional cup if there’s a mild winter. I’m sure there’s a Selcray Bowl knocking around somewhere…

On a more serious note, I’d like to offer my personal apologies for not being strong enough in my leadership of the league to ward off some highly damaging and completely unacceptable incidents that have marred our reputation this year. If I had the necessary leadership qualities, then clubs would not have blatantly ignored instructions to attend meetings to explain the conduct of their players or administrative inadequacies. Those clubs would, when they did attend, have shown enough decorum and respect to accept the points we were making, rather than adopted a confrontational attitude, belittling any criticism. Sitting in a meeting on a Monday night, being contemptuously sneered at for suggesting the repeated use of obscenities to a referee is not the sort of conduct we expect in the Tyneside Amateur League, is not what I’d envisaged my role of Chair would entail.

We, all of us, are volunteers and there are times when I have wondered just why I would want to be associated by repute with clubs who find it perfectly reasonable to threaten and intimidate match officials and opposing players, using vile profanities, in a way that would see them arrested if such behaviour was replicated in everyday life.  I refuse to accept that the vast majority of sensible, sporting, mature, responsible players, club officials and supporters, should have to endure this sort of behaviour. I find it deplorable that players should refuse to take part in fixtures against certain other teams, for reasons of personal safety concerns. This is simply not acceptable. It must now stop.

You may have seen that leagues higher up the pyramid than us have seen the departure of high profile management committee members that has, according to received wisdom, made the leagues vulnerable. You may also have noted that Neville has stated his intention to step down next summer; suffice to say he is irreplaceable and that fulsome tributes will be paid at the appropriate time. However, his scheduled departure will leave our management committee seriously understrength. Please examine your consciences; could you give something back to help run this league? Are you prepared to stand up, in whatever capacity, to help maintain the good name of the Tyneside Amateur League?  Because I say this now, providing I’ve been re-elected, I will not hesitate to resign if there is any suggestion of racism, intimidation or violence towards opposition players or match officials next season. It is not a decision I would take lightly, but one I am convinced would be both right and proper, so pleased be warned.

Paul has alluded to the fact I expected my role to be more symbolic and ceremonial than things have turned out (though I prefer to say he couldn’t think of anyone else to do the Chair’s job). That said, I’m glad it has. You see, I have developed a deep and abiding affection for the Tyneside Amateur League, which was amply demonstrated by the two magnificent occasions at Benfield for our Cup Finals. I was lucky enough to be accompanied by my partner Laura and several friends to both games; all of them spoke warmly of the atmosphere and sporting behaviour on display (red cards for keepers apart I suppose…). Feedback like that, and the knowledge that our clubs continue to progress upwards and makes successes of themselves in the Northern Alliance are what makes me proud to be involved with this league. Please, everyone, let’s make sure we’ve got plenty more reasons to celebrate your successes moving forward.

Sunshine on Beith

You know, I hadn’t even countenanced the possibility that my annual trip to the Scotch Juniors could have been on the first weekend in June. As far as concerned, I would be accompanying the neophytic Mr Pearson on June 11^th. However, as age catches up with the world’s only diffident Yorkshireman, one must be prepared for sudden scheduling changes. Having already been thwarted in my plans to attend the Blaydon v Tynemouth NEPL 20/20 game on Friday by the need to attend the Wallsend Winstons Over 40s FC AGM (now renamed Wallsend Boys Club Over 40s) in The Dorset, I was able to show my resilience when the Fresh Prince of Great Ayton phoned on the Thursday to tell me he wouldn’t be in Ghent during the first weekend of June after all, but the second. We were left with one shot at it, so I got up close and personal with the fixtures and the rail splitter website. The Highland McPonce was now a reality.

A quick skeg told me that there were far more games on in the East than the West; 9 unvisited grounds versus 2 unvisited and 1 visited to be exact. The latter was Irvine Meadow XI, where last May I enjoyed the company of Ayrshire’s most extreme Tourette’s sufferer, who memorably described a home player who’d missed a penalty in the shoot out against Arthurlie as ya fuckin’ Noddy. I’ve always found the Scotch are the world’s best swearers and that those in the West region do it most flamboyantly of all. I should also mention that Harry insisted we travel via Hexham and Carlisle and that I have somehow acquired a free pass for the West Region Juniors.

Frankly, the East region can sometimes feel a little genteel and I was particularly keen to unearth the authentic Scotch amateur football experience for Harry, whereby toothless men in shell suits would be yelling at each other for the whole game. The choice was Cumbernauld United versus Greenock in the Euroscot Engineering Central League Cup quarter final or Beith against Auchinleck Talbot in the Ayrshire Weekly Press Cup quarter final.  To quickly recap; there are 64 teams in the West, made up of 40 in the Central region and 24 in Ayrshire. Every club plays in one of the 5 divisions; Super League Premier, Super League First, Ayrshire, Central First or Central Second. As well as that, there are the various cup competitions; the Scottish Junior Cup being the holy grail, followed by the West of Scotland Cup, Ayrshire League Cup and Central League Cup and two sectional league cups for Ayrshire and Central. On top of that, there’s the Evening Times Cup, where the 5 divisional winners play for a season-ending knock-out trophy.

Bearing all this in mind, it appeared that despite the attractions of Cumberland (Greenock won 2-0 and then progressed to the final by thumping St. Anthony’s 6-2 in the semi, to set up a contest with Pollok at Cambuslang on Wednesday 15^th), it had to be Beith versus Auchinleck for us. The Sunday prior to our visit, Beith had defeated Pollok 4-3 on penalties after a 1-1 draw to win the Scottish Junior Cup at Kilmarnock’s ground. Meanwhile Auchinleck had bested Ayrshire rivals Hurlford the Saturday before in the West of Scotland Cup, having already claimed the Super League Premier.  As Jim Morrison said, the West is the best, though perhaps a more recognisable icon in Ayrshire would be Mick McGahey, endlessly berating chain-smoking middle managers in bri-nylon shirts about demarcation disputes related to the erosion of differentials.

Squeezing through the dozens of hen dos and 40^th birthday parties milling around Central Station, having picked up 20 pre-booked vouchers from the ticket machine that enabled us to do the route quite cheaply, I caught the 9.25 to Carlisle, picking up Harry on the way. The journey on an almost deserted train to Glasgow was effortless and punctual, giving us so little time in the Mugabeville that neither the Alf Ramsey *  nor Ronnie Barker ** quotations  were given an outing, as we hopped onto a suburban rattler to Paisley Gilmour Street, where our chauffeur Mickey Hydes awaited us. Fairly predictably I suppose, Harry and I were to be accompanied / chaperoned on our day out by 2 Ashington ex-pats who live in Paisley, follow the Juniors and write match reports for The Sunday Post and The Sunday Mail.  That’s Mickey and his pal Chris Sanderson; in addition, another son of Ashington, Glenn Wallace, perhaps the most dedicated / foolhardy NUFC obsessive in the world, was visiting. I’m not making this up you know…

Chris, formerly employed in the utilisation of speed cameras in the Ayrshire region, knew the back roads and took us on a scenic two-car convoy to Beith. To clear up any confusion, Beith have nothing to do with East Region teams Hill of Beath or the currently moribund Crossgates Primrose from Cowdenbeath (whose ground is called Humbug Park; perhaps second only to Larkhall Thistle’s Gasworks Park in the evocative name stakes). Sure we got lost a couple of times, but there were lovely sights to see, such as Arthurlie’s home of Dunterlie Park in Barrhead, and it was a nice day wasn’t it?

North Ayrshire is the fifth most deprived area in Scotland but, never having been a mining town, Beith appears to have avoided the crushing poverty and dismal bleakness of other settlements in the region. It looked a pretty little place, more like the small hamlets and villages en route from Dumfries to Stranraer than Kilwinning or Irvine for instance. Many shops and houses were bedecked in black and white flags and banners, exhorting the local team to win the cup or praising them for doing just that.

We parked up and made our way to Bellsdale Park, where despite the humid conditions, most fans had opted for the traditional Scotch match day attire of a woollen scarf; black and white for the home side, yellow and black for the visitors (who actually played in their dark blue away kit). My East Region pal David Stoker is a connoisseur not only of Juniors football, but pies in football grounds. He’d sung the praises of the chicken and haggis number on sale at Beith. I didn’t partake as Laura had helpfully produced a mini-picnic (the cookies and sandwiches were lovely darling; thank you); however, just about the first thing we heard in the ground was a conversation about said comestible.

Bloke 1: how’s the pie Tam?

Bloke 2: It’s no fuckin’ Ambrosia…

The magnificent combination of profanity and erudition contained in the reply was enough to tell us we were in the right place. Not that the game had a huge amount to recommend it. Many Juniors teams find the endless round of end of season cups to be an irritant. Some teams can finish their programme weeks before and struggle to raise sides. Others are flat out on their feet after an intense last month of two or three games a week. This game had something of an anti-climactic after the Lord Mayor’s Show feel about it. Understandable of course and it was still lovely to be amongst 500 or 600 intensely committed fans, whose devotion to incoherent tirades at the referee for minor points of the laws of the game must be commended.

While we fell to chatting about music, firstly Teenage Fanclub (sparked by curiosity as to whether Beith’s Bobby Love was related to the genius who is Gerry Love) and then Aztec Camera (a group you’d be unable to talk to a younger lady friend about as she’d be Oblivious to them), the game continued on a lovely afternoon, utterly devoid of midges.  Somehow Mick managed to concentrate on proceedings long enough to concoct the following report -:

Beith 1 Auchinleck Talbot 1 (5-4 pens)

Beith came from behind to win on penalties to book their place in the Ayrshire Cup semi-final with a home tie against Irvine Victoria on Wednesday night.  This keeps the season alive for the Beith men following their Scottish Junior Cup victory last weekend.

Nicky Doherty fired home Beith’s final penalty with keeper Stephen Grindley beating away Martin McGoldrick’s final spot kick for Talbot. In a game of few clear cut chances Keir Milliken gave Talbot an eleventh minute lead by hooking home Graham Wilson’s left flank cross. David McGowan created the opportunity for Kenny McLean to equalise midway through the second half when he scraped home a chance from close range. Chances were blown at each end before the spot kick decider.

Once he’d composed his magnum opus, he dropped us back in Paisley and we caught earlier trains than anticipated, with only minimal irritation from the plethora of all-day drinkers who were poured on at Carlisle. Harry and I talked about anything and everything but the game, not because we didn’t enjoy it, but because it was almost irrelevant to the day.  In a sense it didn’t matter who won, it was important to be there, to be among friends and acquaintances at a game that you can enjoy in the same way you enjoy local cricket; for the spectacle and the company. 

Heading to the Central from Hexham, I checked the NEPL results; easy wins for Tynemouth (where I would have been) and South North, but a cracker at County Club, where Captain Nicotine’s 167 not out and 5/38 helped Newcastle beat Benwell Hill, who fell short by a dozen runs chasing 309. Now that sounds like entertainment!!

As a postscript to the above, it’s a good job Harry and I went up last weekend as June 11^th offers only the Evening Times Cup final at Pollok or the East of Scotland Cup final at Bathgate; two grounds I’ve been to twice before.  Beith finished their league programme with a 1-1 draw against Pollok on Monday, before beating Irvine Vics 3-1 in the Ayrshire Cup semi on the Wednesday. They’ll play Irvine Meadow in the final, after they beat Girvan 4-2 away.  The final is on Tuesday 14^th at Kilwinning; a team who are 3-2 up against Shettleston following the away tie in their two legged promotion and relegation play-off. Auchinleck dusted themselves down following the Beith loss, to defeat local rivals Cumnock 2-1 away, to progress to the Evening Times Cup final against Renfrew.

In the East, they have no equivalents of the sectional league cups or the Evening Times Cup. Instead Penicuik claimed the Fife and Lothians Cup on Wednesday 8^th with a 3-1 win over Bonnyrigg Rose at Musselburgh (where Benfield are playing on July 23^rd; shame I’m on holiday), while Lochee United, who also defeated Sauchie Juniors 10-0 on aggregate in the promotion and relegation play-off, won the Tayside Cup, beating Jeanfield Swifts 4-2 on penalties after a 1-1 draw. Finally, the East of Scotland Cup final will see Boness United take on Dundonald Bluebell.

That’s it for 2015/2016; see you in 2016/2017, on or around July 2^nd.

(* Anonymous SFA blazer; welcome to Glasgow Sir Alf

     Ramsey; you must be effing joking)

(** Norman Stanley Fletcher; I used to think I was working class, then I went to Glasgow and realised I was actually middle class)