The Privileged Few

I'd like to dedicate this week's blog to Gary and Kev, who've just been lucky enough to witness Durham's thrilling 2 wicket win against Lancashire in Southport. This is a victory all the sweeter considering Lancashire wouldn't allow Kev to take his dog Harry with them.

For the cricket devotee, perhaps the two most enduring, erroneous and irritating myths propagated about the world’s most fascinating sport are that firstly it is solely for the elite and secondly it is boring. While the contempt I hold for those who spread such mendacious nonsense is steadfast and inflexible, it is important to remember how easy it is to rebut their lies. Take a look around the club cricket scene in the north east; it remains in rude health in the former mining communities of Durham and Northumberland. Let’s be honest, there’s not many double-barrelled, cosseted playboys in Lamborghinis pulling up outside Burnmoor, Backworth or Bates Cottages, accompanied by a bevy of buxom debutantes swigging Bollinger from the bottle; more’s the pity.

How anyone can fail to be seduced by the pungent bouquet of palpable tension that hangs heavy over the outfield late Saturday afternoon as NEPL games reach their conclusions is beyond my comprehension. Winning draws; losing draws. Batting points; bowling points. The arcane tapestry of statistical beauty that enthrals those of us who appreciate the beguiling mysteries of the game. Boring? My arse.

I take as my text Tynemouth’s successive fixtures away to South North on July 9^th and home to Gateshead Fell the week after. The night before the South North game, the Croons had made it to the NEPL 20/20 finals day at the Emirates after beating Felling in a rearranged quarter final. At the first time of asking on Friday 1^st, Felling had made an ominously decent start and were 70/3 after 11 when the rains came down so hard there were puddles on the outfield within minutes. At least two inches must have fallen in half an hour. Obviously the game was abandoned amid cascading torrents and when we reassembled a week later for the rearranged clash between the clubs from my present and past lives; Tynemouth batted first and made a solid, if unspectacular 126/5. Felling were not overawed; they looked up for it and advanced to 34/0 after 5, at which point they began to lose wickets with metronymic regularity. By the time the innings closed, Felling had been restricted to 90/9 and I’d had about 5 pints of Jennings Cumberland Ale, which I topped up to a nice round gallon with a trio of Bass in The Tynemouth Lodge.  Incidentally, anyone calling cricket fans posh may like to discuss their opinions with the Felling supporter who endlessly lapped the boundary in the company of his excitable Rottweiler, struggling endlessly for freedom on a taut, steel chain.

On the Saturday, a heavy morning shower delayed play. This allied with the anaesthetic qualities of good real ale and the arrival of the football season, in the shape of Benfield’s first pre-season friendly, away to Walker Central, meant my cricket watching was restricted to the final session. Obviously I’d kept in touch with events in Gosforth on line and was aware Tynemouth had been dismissed for 198 by the Manchester City / Chelsea of the NEPL.  To be honest, it didn’t look good when South North went to tea 48/0 soon after I arrived.  At that point, the inevitable downpour from the massing clouds, whose purple hues oscillated between the colours of plums and bruises, seemed a depleted Tynemouth’s only hope of escaping defeat.

However, just as a routine home win seemed a knocking bet, Hymers, Pollard and especially Tahir Khan, who returned figures of 3/33 from 19, began to bowl so well that any result suddenly appeared possible. Instead of praying for a storm, we beseeched the rain gods to refrain, which they did until almost 8 o’clock. At that point South North were 154/8 from 48 overs; within a minute of the first heavy, cold drops from the upper atmosphere driving the players reluctantly from the field, the streets and pavements of leafy NE3 were rivers. The last 5 overs, including Tahir’s potential final hurrah, were lost. Tynemouth took a winning draw, 14 points and almost the biggest scalp in the league. Benfield may have won a pleasant kickabout 4-3 in mid-afternoon sunshine, but the early evening events in Gosforth were what really enthralled me that weekend.

The weekend after was characterised by glorious sunshine. Not only did Tynemouth have the seeming home banker of bottom placed Gateshead Fell, but there was the 20/20 finals day at the Emirates to look forward to on the Sunday. I’d intended to visit Durham’s home ground for the 20/20 game against Notts on June 30^th, as I’d had the dubious pleasure of attending a staff development course in Spennymoor the same day. Unfortunately Tudhoe were without a fixture, so I couldn’t tick that one off. Heading back to Durham City, the bus made good time until becoming snarled in post-graduation traffic on the southern outskirts. Things weren’t moving and by the time my second bus had reached Chester Moor, Twitter told me 11 overs had been bowled already. I departed from my plan and stayed on the bus; within 20 minutes another biblical thunderstorm had seen the game abandoned after 17 overs, so I’d basically saved myself £20 (or 6 pints of Bass in The Lodge, if you prefer) by not going.

After the aborted 20/20 game against Felling, I’d seen Gateshead Fell in action against Benwell Hill on the Saturday. Bearing in mind Tynemouth v South Shields was abandoned with the visitors 40/1 that day; it was a good choice to head to Low Fell on the first Saturday of the month. I was delighted to be in the company of Gary and Phil, though saddened by the non-appearance of Harry and Kev, as the day had been designated the first annual Ponces’ Picnic. Laura had prepared us a quite sumptuous feast, which was in keeping with Kyle Coetzer’s glorious batting. The Scotland international made a stylish 107 out of  the Hill’s 213/9 declared. When Fell subsided to 22/4, it seemed as if the game would be over by tea. However, dour, obdurate batting by Richard Smith and Sam Rosebery saw Gateshead Fell crawl to 88 without further mishap when the freezing wind sapped our collective strength and we headed off to watch the France v Germany Euro semi-final over pints. In the end, Fell managed 121/6 from 49 overs, progressing at the kind of glacial pace both Robert Altman and Chris Tavare would have been proud of.

The one thing I took away from that game, apart from half a dozen smashed cupcakes that still tasted delicious the day after, was the awareness that Gateshead Fell would not throw their wickets away lightly. I was still conscious of this as Tynemouth enjoyed a productive and entertaining innings that saw the Croons rack up 237/9 declared from 57 overs, leaving Gateshead Fell with 63 overs to bat through. With everything looking rosy, I headed off to Whitley Bay against Stockport Town. I had been expecting Stockport County and a tight game; I was twice disappointed. Stockport Town are allegedly at Northern League D2 level, but their comic indecision in defence that saw them 3-0 down courtesy of a trio of howlers after only 15 minutes, suggests the standard of North West Counties Division 1 isn’t the highest. They did come back into the game with a brace of very late headers, but the 4-2 scoreline flattered them. Their number 9 was called Mason Dunkerley-Hemlin, which is an early contender for name of the season.

Full time at Hillheads and my pal Martin obliged us with a lift back to Tynemouth. When I say us, I include Laura, who was visiting a cricket ground for only the second time in her life; the first was South North for the beer festival last year, where the concurrent 20/20 game against Boldon was something less than a minor attraction for her, in comparison to the craft ciders and complimentary Indian buffet. I love introducing people to grassroots sport, not that I needed to with Martin as he’s a long time Tynemouth cricket devotee, but Laura thoroughly enjoyed herself. That said I do suspect she was actually playing Pokemon GO as we did our laps of the boundary. After Martin left, Ginger Dave joined us. His dad played for Gateshead Fell in the distant past, losing his top teeth for them in the process, and Dave watched the same fixture with me last summer, when Fell slumped to 51 all out after Tynemouth made 176.

Last year, the game was over by 3.00; this year it was long after 8 when proceedings drew to a halt.  Despite Tahir Khan’s exemplary spell of 6/20 from 20 overs, Gateshead Fell hung in there. They didn’t try to score; they just tried not to lose. When the curtain finally fell, they were 7 balls from a morale-boosting draw, at which point Martyn Pollard took his second wicket, to leave the visitors all out for 136. The elation at such a hard-earned victory was palpable on both sides of the rope. The NEPL is still up for grabs, with Newcastle, South North, Tynemouth and Chester le Street all in with a shout. I’m enjoying this fascinating contest more with each passing week. I’m also starting to grow increasing interested in the Banks cups and the 2^nd XI 20/20 competitions as they move towards the business end.

One trophy that has already been awarded is the NEPL 20/20 title, which went to Durham Academy. I had been looking forward to seeing Tynemouth in the finals, but was disappointed with a draw that saw the Croons on first against Stockton at high noon; CLS against the Academy came in mid-afternoon, with the final under lights. I can see why players would want to play at the Emirates, but for clubs keen to make a few quid from refreshments and supporters, it really isn’t a great deal of fun being among a gathering of approximately 65 in a ground that holds 17,000. There’s simply no sense of occasion when you’re swamped by empty seats. Having become used to the interaction with players at club games, the sheer distance separating the two elements of the sport was less than engaging. Yes it’s a lovely place to watch first class cricket, but I’d have been as happy going to Ropery Lane as the Riverside.

The lack of atmosphere was possibly why the occasion didn’t catch fire for me. It was a beautiful day, but the best weather of the year was compromised by a terrible PA system that sputtered out rap and rock inanities after every boundary, over and wicket. So bad was the sound quality, I thought I was developing tinnitus. Meanwhile Tynemouth made 125/8 from their overs, before Stockton beat us off the final ball, posting 126/6 to win by 4 wickets. Durham beat Chester Le Street in the next semi and then won the final. I cleared off after the first game. Not in a sulk mind you. It was great to see Tynemouth in this setting and to catch up with my mate Norman from Anfield Plain, but I do hope the NEPL think about next year’s venue carefully.

Having exited the Riverside, I could have gone straight home but, having missed Northumberland’s rain-wrecked, drawn game with Bedfordshire at Burnopfield the other week; I decided to call into Jesmond to catch a bit of the three day game against Hertfordshire. By the time I arrived, the visitors’ innings was winding down; Jacques Du Toit took the final wicket as Hertfordshire made 326 from 87.5 overs. In reply, Northumberland were steady enough in accumulating 37/0, so things were finely balanced at the close. Monday’s play was a huge achievement for the home team; a 240 run stand for the opening wicket by Jessop and Whaley, not to mention 105 from 57 by Captain Nicotine himself, saw Northumberland finish on 436/6 after 90 overs, before Hertfordshire inched ahead on 121/4 at the close. Tuesday morning was all about Sameet Brar, so lacklustre for Benwell against Gateshead Fell last time I’d seen him, who bowled with pace and accuracy, collecting 4/42 as Hertfordshire were dismissed for 203. Whaley and Jessop put on 86 for the opening wicket, as Northumberland eased home on 95/1 by 2.30. Never has Jesmond looked more beautiful than it did that July Tuesday with Northumberland proudly on top of the Minor Counties East table. Nowhere is more beautiful than Osborne Avenue in bloom.

So, best of luck to Tynemouth firsts against Durham Academy in the NEPL and Chester le Street in both league and cup, not to mention the seconds away to Brandon in the 20/20 quarter final. Best of luck also to Northumberland away to Norfolk in their next 3 day game. Best of luck to Geoff Cook, Jacques du Toit, Olly McGee and Alan McKenna, who all took the time to have a quick word. Fellas, it is really appreciated. The privileged few in local cricket are we who have the honour of watching such fine athletes and gentlemen in action. Best of luck to us all for decent weather until season’s end and best of luck to me, in finding Clontarf Cricket Club for the Leinster Senior Cup final against YMCA on Saturday 30^th July.

Wedding / Bells

Music:

Here’s an apology; I’ve hardly been two any gigs in 2016. In total, 3 and the first two of those were The Wedding Present. After their joyful almost Greatest Hits set at the Academy in late March, unforgivably in support to The Wonderstuff, I took myself off to Leeds to see them at the Brudenell Social Club, doing a set based around 1996’s Saturnalia. As ever in these instances, the crowd split 50:50 into Weddoes absolutists, happy to indulge Mr Gedge’s caprices and casual observers demanding Kennedy and Brassneck. Thankfully, both constituencies were catered for. The opening section of Saturnalia was intriguing and charmingly chaotic, with a part time extra drummer and sometime keyboard player that resulted in a definitely lo-fi vibe. Personally, I love Saturnalia and so hearing Skin Diving live was a real treat. The heartwarming thing was, to my ears, everything worked, though the on-lookers rather than the devotees needed to hear a few more favourites.  They got that with Corduroy, Brassneck and Kennedy. Despite the absence of Dalliance  it was a great night. Now there’s the small matter of the new album Going Going and gigs at The Sage in September and Sunderland in December, to conclude the busiest Weddoes year I’ve ever had.

Trembling Bells ended their Wide Majestic Aire tour at The Cumberland at the end of June. Talking of missing favourites, there was no Carbeth (either Willows or Swallows), no Just as the Rainbow and no Where is Saint George? However, there were 5 new solid gold tracks and news that, with Lavinia taking up a teaching position in September, a new album is being recorded in the summer. Thank goodness for that as these new tracks will be as familiar as all the other classics I’ve adored these past 6 years. Remember the names; Knocking on the Coffin, My Father Was A Collapsing Star (a mad, surreal waltz), Death Knocked At My Door (dissolves into freeform percussive nonsense in a way not heard since A Certain Ration first rehearsed back in 78), The Prophet Distances Himself from his Prophecy(where the band channel their inner Black Sabbath with a fair pinch of Curved Air) and Christ's Entry Into Govan, which is fucking awesome. I asked Alex what he says to people who still bang on about Fairport Convention; “fuck them” was his eloquent response. As well as a wonderful evening with wonderful creative people, I finally got a copy of Simon’s side project Youth of America and their Navigator 7” and while comparisons are odious, if you love sunny West Coast Pop, this is one for you. It is a slice of warm Californian 80s fuzzpop. Lovely.

Mind there’s not been a lot else I could have seen, other than breaking my heart to see Shellac played Brudenell the night after The Weddoes. British Sea Power play North Shields on 14 August, which is a definite; unlike the Mouth of the Tyne festival. Bryan Ferry? I’m not paying £45 to hear Avalon, Slave to Love and that shite; if it was In Every Dream Home, a Heartache  or Mother of Pearl, it would be a different matter. Mind the night after was Will Young; not the ex-Arsenal centre half either. The Saturday was James Bay (me neither) and Sunday was Lulu, so you’ll understand why I didn’t. Mind, fair play to South Tyneside; Sunday 17 July is a free afternoon show featuring The Proclaimers and Lindisfarne in Bents Park. I’d love to be there, but Tynemouth have qualified for the NEPL 20/20 Finals Day at the Emirates; I know where my duty lies.

While we await the stand out releases and gigs of the late Summer and Autumn from Teenage Fanclub and The Wedding Present, as well as the hugely anticipated Vic Godard and Band of Holy Joy show at The Cumberland there’s not been a lot I’ve got my hands on of late. Indeed, other than Christy Moore’s Lily, the cupboard is bare. As the title suggests, this collection of new stuff is almost entirely a paean to his beloved County Kildare, with songs that venture from Newbridge and Kilcock staying resolutely in the 32 Counties. It’s great; the auld bank clerk’s voice is holding up as well as ever and the understated acoustic backing, though augmented by more than just Declan Sinnott as in his live dates, fits perfectly. Highlights for me would include Mandolin Mountain, The Tuam Beat and the eponymous Lily. Certainly another fine addition to Moore’s unsurpassable canon of Irish folk music traditional and modern.

Books:

And now; another apology… I’m at a loss to explain why I’ve read so little of late, other than perhaps because of my extreme fatigue caused by work. I really must utilise the time off work to get back into some reading, especially this year’s Irvine Welsh, The Blade Artist. Indeed since my last cultural blog there have only been 2 books I’ve looked through, both of which were sent to me by friends.

Neil Laurenson is an exiled Aberdonian, who is a Green Party councillor in Worcester. He has written a couple of things for The Popular Side, but whimsical poetry is his bag. His collection Exclamation Marx is ideal for any John Hegley or Roger McGough fans out there. By turns comic and parodic, it is a gentle and amusing series of pastiches of well-known poems, amusingly and bathetic reimagined in a humdrum setting. I enjoyed it and I wish Neil well, recognising the talent of anyone who can make lines rhyme effortlessly.

Jon Tait is a Communist, a non-league football nut (recently having stood down as Northern Alliance Press Officer), an avid fell-walker and a writer of extraordinary fecundity. Having already been featured here for his fictional account of being a Northumbrian Scotland supporter at 5 World Cups, First Plane Home, as well as his history of the Alliance, Goal Mouths, his latest book Playing With Fire is an account of the 2015/2016 season following Spanish Third Division side Union Sur Yaiza. The thing is, Union Sur Yaiza play on Lanzarote and, having only seen them the previous July when on holiday, Tait relies on Twitter, You Tube and more arcane parts of the internet to discover another season of mild underachievement for his lads. It also gives him plenty of time to reminisce and veer wildly off on tangents about football, love and the world around us. A charming, eclectic read.

Joined at the Hibs

Don't you just love it when football seasons overlap? The 2016 European Championships hadn't got to the quarter final stage before the 2017 Europa League kicked off. Fairly soon Hibernian will be entering that competition as Scotch Cup winners. The remarkable game and scenes at full time resulted in me being commissioned to write my final two fanzine pieces of 2015/2016; firstly Hopeless Football Romantic took my piece Easter Rising in issue #5 and Stand #18 published O Tempora! O Mores! Here they are together....... GGTTH......

During the frantic final weeks of the 2015/2016 domestic season, amidst the mass social media frenzy relating to Leicester’s title, suspect packages at Old Trafford, the deserved demotion of Newcastle United, brawling Scousers at the Europa League final and the breathless £60m promotion stand-off between Middlesbrough and Brighton, one story that may have slipped under your footballing radar is the outcome of the play-off for a place in Scottish League 2 (aka the bottom division).  Following years of moribund inaction at the foot of the Scottish professional game, whereby repeated incompetence suffered no harsher penalty than scornful obloquy of opposition fans, the great and the good at the SPFL decided on a shake-up that incorporated a nod to the English pyramid system, whereby the champions of the venerable Highland League (formed 1893) face the winners of the new-fangled Lowland League (formed 2013) in a two-legged tie, with the winners of that contest facing the rock bottom league team on a similar basis; last man standing gets the honour of trips to Annan, Berwick, Cowdenbeath, Elgin, Forfar and so on.

The first year of this minor series of test matches was 2014/2015, whereby Brora Rangers, a village in Sutherland with a population of 1,140 and a ground capacity of 2,000, were relieved to lose to the might of Montrose on away goals. This, of course, was not what the play-offs were introduced for; the main purpose was seemingly to rid the Scottish League of their embarrassing, homeless, perennial tail enders East Stirlingshire, who can unjustifiably claim to be the third biggest club in Falkirk.  The summer of 2016 saw this longed-for eventuality come to pass, with the former pride of Bainsford and Larbet dropping out of the professional game to be replaced by a returning Edinburgh City team. Two cheers for the meritocracy; please remember that Edinburgh City’s record during their previous tenure as members of the elite structure saw them finish at the foot of the bottom division in each of their 8 seasons in such glamorous surroundings, though this was between 1931 and 1939.

However, hopes are high for the side who once aspired to be the Lothian equivalent of Glasgow’s Corinthian Queens Park.  Originally playing their games at the famed Powderhall Greyhound and Athletics Stadium in Broughton, the club moved to the Commonwealth Games Stadium, formerly the home of Meadowbank Thistle until they decamped to Livingston, in 1996. Those of you’ve who’ve travelled by train to Old Reekie will know that a couple of minutes before arriving in Waverley, Meadowbank Stadium is on your right, though a rather grander, more historic venue is fleetingly visible just before this; the beautiful emerald green structure of Easter Road, the Leith San Siro, home of James Connolly’s men, Hibernian FC.

The irony of Edinburgh City’s promotion via the lottery of the play-offs was not lost on supporters of the Hibees, who lost 3-2 (5-4 on aggregate) to a last minute goal away to Falkirk, on Friday 13 May, condemning Hibs to a third straight year in the second tier Championship. Looking at this state of dispassionately, it would be churlish to begrudge the Bairns their crack at a place in the SPL, as Falkirk had finished second to Hibs’ third in the table, with all four league games between the two sides being drawn. We are not talking Brighton and Sheffield Wednesday levels of disparity here. Sadly though, for the club that could justifiably call themselves the fourth biggest in Scotland, after Celtic, Rangers, Aberdeen and local rivals Hearts, though recently demoted Dundee United may have cause to disagree, this defeat in the play-off semi-final, having already negotiated a safe passage past Raith Rovers in the quarter-final, means the Cabbage have endured their third successive post-season heartbreak.  Last year, their first at a lower level since 1999, Hibs finished second to a renascent Rangers side who beat them in the play-off semi-final, before losing to Motherwell over two legs.  That was bad, but the year before was immeasurably worse.

In 2014, having appointed Terry Butcher to replace the floundering Pat Fenlon, Hibs stood in 6^th place in the Scottish Premier League on New Year’s Day, having seen the old year out with a 3-0 trouncing of Kilmarnock; however, this was to be their second last victory of the season, as a desperate run of 1 win in their final 18 games saw the Hibees nosedive into second bottom place and a place in the first ever Scottish play-offs. They were only kept off the bottom by the15 points deduction endured by financially hamstrung Hearts.  Sadly, this belated chance of salvation was beyond the men of Leith; despite winning 2-0 away to Hamilton Academicals in the first leg, Hibs managed to wrest defeat from the jaws of victory. Hanging on for a grim 1-0 loss at Easter Road, Jason Scotland’s 93^rd minute goal took the tie to extra time and the inevitable loss on penalties. This fiasco was another Hibs treble; their third successive loss in the final competitive game of the Scottish domestic season. Hearts humiliated them 5-1 in the Scottish Cup final in 2012. Celtic arrogantly cuffed them 3-0 at the same stage the year after. The Accies loss was the only logical conclusion for a club that had been racing downhill without brakes, since squandering the hope engendered by the pool of talented young players who’d helped bring the 2007 Scottish League Cup to Easter Road after a phenomenal 5-1 battering of Kilmarnock at Hampden.

Like Newcastle United, terrible boardroom decisions, skinflint transfer policies and woeful appointments in the manager’s office (Mixu Paateleinen, John Hughes, Colin bloody Calderwood, Pat Fenlon and finally Butcher, who was bulleted the day after relegation) following the shameful departure of the irreproachable John Collins, saw the finest Scottish ground outside Glasgow playing host to Alloa Athletic and Dumbarton. It was enough to make one weep, possibly with joy following the free transfers granted to 18 clowns, charlatans and rank incompetents who had been stealing a living on the club payroll until demotion day. However, the darkest hour is always the one before dawn and, within a week of relegation, Evertonian legend Alan Stubbs had been installed as the new boss at the foot of Leith Walk.

If Stubbs is to be judged on his ability to lead Hibernian back to the top flight, he has not achieved his stated aim. However, the lugubrious, thoughtful Scouser remains incredibly popular with the notoriously unforgiving and impatient Hibs support. As a club steeped in a proud culture of passing football, in the shape of Willie Ormond’s 1950s Famous Five and later Eddie Turnbull’s 1970s Tornados, the atrocious lack of any game plan and the utter absence of flair players in the dark days following the departure of Collins caused great unrest in the stands. However, the arrival of Stubbs and the assembly of a smashing footballing side, including the boundless energy of Jason Cummings and predatory instincts of James Keatings up front, along with the creative artistry in the middle of the park of John McGinn and Liam Henderson, backed up by the defensive reliability of the legendary Lewis Stevenson and cult hero keeper Conrad Logan, has resulted in players and management being cut some slack by a reasonably satisfied crowd.

The season just ended saw a three-pronged assault on honours. The Championship we’ve heard about. The Scottish League Cup saw a wholly undeserved 2-1 loss in the final to a last minute goal against Ross County, where 30,000 Hibbies roared the team on. What made it especially galling was the fact that other Premier Division sides Aberdeen, Dundee United and St Johnstone had fallen to Stubbs’ side before they themselves stumbled with the prize in sight. However, on the 100^th anniversary of the Easter Rising, the team that was formed by Irish immigrants and were followed by the famous Edinburgh Socialist Revolutionary James Connolly, rose again and secured a place in the Scottish Cup final against the antithesis of the Leith club’s left-wing, inclusive traditions;  the phoenix club based around Glasgow Rangers. It may have been 100 years since Connolly’s execution, but it had been a lot longer than that since Hibs won the cup; 1902 to be precise, with 10 subsequent final defeats to sombrely reflect on.

On a glorious day, it was finally a case of sunshine on Leith, as an Anthony Stokes double bookended a pair of Gers goals, leaving the two sides locked at 2-2 deep into injury time.  Keeper Wes Foderingham denied Stokes a hat trick, but from Liam Henderson’s subsequent corner, skipper David Gray bulleted home an unstoppable header in front of 20,000 delirious Hibs fans. The final whistle was greeted by a mass pitch invasion, initially good natured but soon degenerating into disorder, though nowhere near as bad as a typically unsmiling, intolerant, hypocritical Ibrox board have claimed (while drawing a veil over their own fans’ non-stop sectarian chanting), as 114 years of frustration were finally swept away by a glorious triumph.

So where next for Hibernian? Well, Alan Stubbs and his team are assured of immortality down Easter Road way; without exception Hibbees are delighted with the cup win that sweeps away the disappointments in the League Cup and Championship. That said, promotion must be achieved next season. It won’t be easy, with a wounded Falkirk looking to go one better after Kilmarnock trounced them in the play-offs. Alarmingly, Alan Stubbs has gone; the Everton job may have been too soon for him, but it was disappointing he took the job at the relatively modest Yorkshire outpost of Rotherham. Instead, Neil Lennon will be in the hot seat. I believe the former Celtic man to be one most likely to take Hibs up as champions in style and bring more Glory to the Hibees.

For the first time in years, I actually watched the English FA Cup final. Desperate wasn’t it? The whole thing I mean; not just Pardew’s dancing. I saw the game in the pub with the rest of my veterans’ football team, Wallsend Winstons, celebrating the unique treble of retaining the Echo Cup, promotion to North East Over 40s League Division 2 and the heroics of clean sheet Cusack in a season closing 0-0 draw against Houghton WMC. While Man United and Palace toiled away uninspiringly, the consensus of the gathering, who’d been there most of the afternoon, was that the Scottish Cup final had been a far better game; in fact our game that morning had been a slightly more exciting encounter. I couldn’t comment as I hadn’t seen a single second of the events at Hampden, preferring instead to fulfil my duties as Chair of the Tyneside Amateur League by taking in North Shields Athletic’s 2-1 win over Wardley. Somebody had to…

Since I first clapped eyes on their strip, during Match of the Day’s regular closing snippet of Scottish highlights, I’ve been a fan of Hibernian FC.  The date I fell in love with the Cabbage was May 6^th 1972, I was a couple of months shy of 8 years old, we’d just got a colour telly and the glorious emerald green of the shirts was both dazzling and beautiful. Hibs lost 6-1 that day, the sixth of 10 straight Scottish Cup final defeats; a run that was ended by David Gray’s bullet header deep into injury that handed the Hibees their first cup triumph in 114 years and only their third overall. I try to get up to Easter Road a couple of times a season and I know the main topic of conversation in the future will always be a variety of how did you celebrate at full time when Hibs won the cup for the first time since 1902? Truthfully I can say I leaped out of my seat and punched the air in triumph, which made the other passengers on the lower seating deck of the 62 going down Shields Road in Byker look at me quizzically.

My avoidance of the game was tactical; having seen us contrive to allow Ross County to win the Scottish League Cup final in March, scoring with their only 2 shots on target, then following this up with a last second loss to Falkirk in the promotion play-off on Friday 13^th of all days, I made it clear that I would neither be attending, nor watching, the 2016 SFA Cup final. I’ve got enough anguish and heartbreak in my supporting life following Newcastle United.

However, it wasn’t just superstition; it was to do with the opponents.  Frankly, I find it uncomfortable and intimidating to be around large groups of Rangers fans. While I have zero connection with Leith or Edinburgh, other than Hibs, I have learned to disdain Heart of Midlothian as a football club. It is undeniable they are more of an establishment side, in terms of history and outlook, than Hibs, but I don’t hate them and I don’t hate their fans. Frankly I’ve got plenty of mates from Tyneside who claim the team from Tynecastle as their Scottish outfit.  Personally, I hate the Old Firm; again I’ve got many friends who support Celtic or Rangers who eschew the poisonous bile associated with many followers of bigoted duopoly. Unfortunately, compared to what I know of Hibs and Hearts, the Glasgow conflict goes beyond acceptable levels of sporting rivalry in the overwhelming majority of cases.  The unhealthiest and most intimidating aspect of this cycle of vicious enmity is that it extends far beyond football and disseminates its venom in every aspect of Scottish life. If I’m allowed to be stereotypical, Celtic fans are paranoid and patronising, while Rangers followers are intense and aggressive.

To keep their preeminent role in the public eye, Celtic and Rangers need each other to exist to breed and nurture their particular brands of hatred and suspicion. While Hibernian were formed as a club for the vulnerable Irish poor in the capital, those roots are only a small aspect of the club’s history; the requirement that players were Catholics was dropped in 1895 for instance. The current club badge combines images of Edinburgh (the castle), Leith (a ship) and Ireland (a harp, reintroduced to the badge as recently as 2000) as a nod to the Hibernian’s various influences. Rivalry in Edinburgh may once have been sectarian, but it is no longer; nor has it been for nearly a century. It is mainly geographical, in about 95% of cases. Hibs come from the north and east of Edinburgh mainly, with Hearts from the rest of Lothian.  One of my best mates Graham edits the fanzine Mass Hibsteria and he was brought up a Presbyterian.

Despite it being 100 years since Hibs fan James Connolly led the Easter Rising in Dublin, of far more importance were the 114 long years since the last cup win. That statistic, and that statistic only, was the cause of the pitch invasion at full time at Hampden that began in joy and ended in brutal disorder. I don’t think it mattered who Hibs played in the final; victorious exuberance sparked the whole thing. Yes I know St Johnstone won the SFA Cup in 2014 and Inverness Caledonian Thistle last year, both for the first time and both without invading the pitch. What can I say? I sincerely wish Hibs fans hadn’t raced onto the turf.

Let’s make a few things clear; firstly I didn’t see the game in the flesh, so my reflections are based on television images and still photographs. Secondly, if the Hibs fans hadn’t entered the pitch, none of the subsequent uproar, on the day itself and in the weeks following, would have occurred. Thirdly, the west of Scotland print media have a transparent need to fill their pages with as much Old Firm related content as possible. Sectarianism sells. The why oh why hand wringing and incessant references to “taking Scottish football back into the Dark Ages” would have been just as opportunist and just as immoderate if Hearts had beaten Celtic and the Jambos reacted the way a section of the Hibs followers did.

Spurred on by pages of chin-stroking analysis in the qualities and hectoring 72-point headlines in the tabloids, Rangers fans, prepped by half a decade of paranoid rowing against the on-line tide following the collapse of the former Ibrox hierarchy, have taken on the role of injured innocents with the kind of panache one would normally have associated with their cross city rivals when Hugh Dallas was still refereeing.  They’ve found sympathetic ears in all corners of the media and been encouraged to ramp up their pronounced sense of injustice after the Teddy Bears’ Managing Director Stewart Robertson affected his best Pontius Pilate pose.

In response to having it pointed out to him that those Gers who didn’t enter the field of play to engage in a frank exchange of opinions with those Hibbees not busy taking selfies, rolling up strips of turf or breaking the goal posts, were all engaged in a lusty rendition of The Billy Boys, Robertson, with a characteristically disingenuous smirk, claimed it was better to sing than invade the pitch. Well, if they’d been singing something that wasn’t actually illegal under Scottish Law and didn’t include the line up to our knees if Fenian blood, he may have had a point. Sadly, regardless of the urbanity of the undoubtedly gifted Mark Warburton in the Ibrox hot seat, Robertson’s reaction and the series of po-faced, self-aggrandising press releases from the upper echelons of Edmiston Drive indicates that the club remains institutionally reactionary and much of the support avowedly sectarian in outlook if not in belief.  The real story should be what steps Rangers are going to take to calm the powderkeg atmosphere in the games against Celtic next season.

Of course I accept that to a degree, my statements show I am biased in my analysis of events; Hibs are my second team and I feel an instinctive need to be protective towards them. However, I recognise what happened at Hampden was regrettable, for many reasons including how it took the focus away from the best rendition of Sunshine on Leith you are ever likely to hear. Glory Glory to the Hibees…