Valued Families

I hadn’t intended to blog about cricket this week, as my initial instinct suggested that a pair of visits to SJP in the last week would have been of more relevance. However, with an international break on the horizon after this Saturday’s visit of Brighton, I’ve decided to leave Newcastle United until next week. This isn’t to say that local cricket is a second choice topic, as the stuff I’ve seen so far in the month of August has involved some of the most memorable and heart-warming sporting events I’ve been privileged enough to witness in my life, and I don’t make that claim lightly.

When I last blogged about the local game (http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2016/07/the-privileged-few.html ), Northumberland were handily placed at the top of the Minor Counties Eastern Division with two games to go. Their trip to Norfolk while I was in Ireland was a successful one, with a 47 run victory keeping the momentum going.  This certainly wasn’t the case with Tynemouth in the NEPL, as they slumped to a heavy loss against the Durham Academy, being bowled out for only 144 and then the week after, while I watched YMCA v Leinster at Clontarf, an opening stand of 190 and a score of 236/6 declared wasn’t enough against Chester Le Street, who won by 3 wickets with 5 balls to spare. Following the progress of those games from the Emerald Isle provoked differing responses; the Durham Academy loss was disappointing, plain and simple, but with such a low score, expectations are adjusted accordingly, so defeat is prepared for and accepted long before it becomes a reality. The Chester Le Street reverse was as hurtful as it was stunning.  Prospects of the famous victory that seemed likely in mid-afternoon began to recede at an alarming rate, replaced by fear and then realisation that Chester Le Street, the Chelsea of the NEPL, were going to win. And they did.

The first Saturday in August saw the return of the competitive football season, in the shape of Benfield’s 2-0 victory over Thackley in the FA Cup Extra Preliminary round. On account of my Benfield connections, it is the case that my attendance at NEPL games is now restricted to the final session of the day, though with Newcastle versus Tynemouth, it’s quite amazing that the game lasted until then, as at one point Newcastle were 4/4 and then 10/5, before posting 155 all out, mainly thanks to 49 from Jacques Du Toit. On my arrival, Tynemouth were heading into tea on 103/3; a foregone conclusion, or so it seemed. Consequently I engaged in enjoyable chat with West Auckland fan Duncan Wiles, who had just seen his West Auckland side triumph over Heaton Stannington at Grounsell Park in the FA Cup and was down to lend support to his mate Andrew Smith who’d taken 6/65 in the Newcastle innings.  I also had the chance to catch up with John Melville who, in another existence, I used to teach more than quarter of a century ago; a South Shields lad now happily married in Wallsend, he’s a Benfield and Bradford Bulls fan who loves his cricket. There was plenty to love in this particular game, other than the relentless, irritating distraction of a bunch of young lads kicking a football around at the boundary edge, in front of the pavilion. I truly felt for Doug Hudson in the Canute meets Sisyphus role, whose afternoon was spent in endless imprecations to them, as regards keeping the ball off the outfield.

With victory seemingly in sight, Newcastle redoubled their efforts and reduced Tynemouth to 117-7, including the prize wicket of former Pakistan test batsmen Tofeeq Umer for 52. The result now was clearly in the balance and when Finn Longberg was out to leave Tynemouth on 130/8, Newcastle were obvious favourites. Watching proceedings unfold, I was able as someone with affection for both teams to appreciate all parts of play, regardless of who had the upper hand, as well as enduring almost unbearable tension. That said, when Tynemouth secured a victory by 2 wickets, I spontaneously stood up and applauded, though I’d maintain I was applauding both teams for a titanic struggle that was as enthralling a finish to the game as Tynemouth’s heroic winning draw at South North back in July. I immediately tweeted well done lads to Tynemouth, which was picked up on by several from Newcastle; let me assure you though that if the result had been the other way round, I’d have said the same to whoever were the victors. However, seeing the look of absolute fury and desolation on Captain Du Toit’s face after the post-game handshakes, it became clear that the real significance of this game was more than a local squabble; Tynemouth’s win had probably handed the NEPL title to Chester Le Street, which was an unfortunate, unintentional consequence I’m sure.

Next morning I was up bright and early to catch the first X21 to Tudhoe, where the 2^nd XI 20/20 finals day was taking place, involving the home team, the day before’s combatants and the ubiquitous Chester Le Street. Despite leaving Tynemouth at approximately 9.00, I didn’t arrive in Tudhoe until 11.15. Now bearing in mind it’s a mile long, three streets wide village on the northern fringes of Spennymoor and I had Sat Nav on my phone, it’s an absolute disgrace I got lost, despite actually hearing a game being played.  I finally got there to see the last knockings of Newcastle’s innings against the home side, where they posted 129/8. Tudhoe, who I seem to remember losing to Bomarsund in the semi-final of the 1974 Village Cricket Cup that was won by the Wansbeck based club,  is a pleasant enough little ground, marked by a tiny outfield. There was a decent crowd present; fairly loud, quite partisan and drinking fruit cider before noon on a sunny but blustery, chilly day.  Perhaps that’s why a couple of the locals had opted for Stone Island ganseys, to keep the cold out; indeed one house just outside the ground had a coal fire going, with smoke drifting sideways out the chimney all day.

Presumably on account of this being the 2^nd XI finals, there was the unwelcome presence of cheesy music after every wicket, boundary and over, which was as intrusive as it was unnecessary.  Tudhoe were never in with a shout of making 129, being restricted to 91/9, as I enjoyed the slightly surreal experience of seeing Keith Brown, someone who I used to drink with 35 years ago, bowling his team to the brink of victory with 2/16 from his 4 overs.  Tudhoe amassed 91/9, thanks in part to captain Phil Hudson’s fielding masterclass, showing how the ankle is perhaps the key secret weapon when seeking to control the flow of runs…

Before the second game, I investigated Tudhoe’s wondrous tea room, for a latte and a cheese scone, seeing several families enjoying full Sunday lunches. The fact they had seemingly no interest in watching the cricket isn’t a bad thing, as their custom provides essential revenue for the club, but I do find it a shame they didn’t watch a bit of the game, especially as the vocal Tudhoe fans had drank up their ciders and headed off to watch the Man United v Leicester game at another pub. The clubhouse had Sky, but thankfully it was tuned into the England v Pakistan test match.

The die was cast in the second semi-final’s opening over when Sean Longstaff went for 18, all extras, which helped give Chester Le Street a leg-up in posting 151/8. Tynemouth never gave up and Phil Morse took my favourite wicket of the day, having the Chester opener stumped off a proper wide, in response to the batsman giving him the charge. The incidental music for that one was a 30 second blast of Sham 69’s Borstal Breakout, which intrigued the brace of middle class couples enjoying pre-prandial G&Ts while they did laps. Sadly their music knowledge was better than their appreciation of cricket, as they proceeded to stand in front of me for the next ten minutes, talking about the buy to let market in South West Durham.  I admitted defeat and moved round the ground to a perch in front of the scoreboard, at which point the restless but intrigued Newcastle team stood in front of me, awaiting Tynemouth’s response.

I’ll admit it, I was nervous and excited watching the ebb and flow of the Tynemouth innings; it seemed a tall ask and so it proved, with the Croons falling agonisingly short on 147/8. The game was effectively up when Marcus Turner, who batted beautifully and sensibly, was out for 88. Nobody else really contributed significantly. It was instructive listening to the chat of the Newcastle side; I would have thought the prime consideration when thinking of final opponents would have been your own chances of victory, meaning ABC (Anyone but Chester). However, there seemed to be a residual element of resentment towards Tynemouth from the first and second team games the day before, with some unnecessary words exchanged at one point. I wasn’t comfortable with this (it’s just not cricket you see) and it ended up making me feel, bizarrely enough, like some tug-of-love toddler in a messy 1970s divorce case, torn between the two feuding parties. In the end, I took the pragmatic approach; instead of hanging on to watch the final, won by Chester Le Street predictably enough, and journey back from Spennymoor by bus on a Sunday night, I grabbed a lift back with Vince, as there was some Sunday league cricket on at Tynemouth. It was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made in my cricket watching life.

Now I’ll hold my hands up and admit I’m as yet to fully get my head around the nuances of midweek and Sunday NEPL cricket, as some clubs field 3^rd XIs, while others style theirs as Academy sides. With Stockton hosting the Northern final of the national 20/20 competition, their 3^rd XI fixture against Tynemouth Academy was switched from the Grangefield Ground to Preston Avenue. It didn’t seem to matter; they’d posted 188 all out and when we arrived, Tynemouth were 74/7, so it seemed a waste of time to even get a pint in, but I’m glad I did. The last hope was club captain Graham Hallam, 7 not out at this point, who then put on 97 with Nicholas McIntyre (15), to bring victory agonisingly close.

At this point, Graham was joined at the wicket by his 12 year old son Patrick, who’d taken 1/45 in the Stockton innings. The young lad heroically blocked the rest of the over, before his dad decided it was probably best to finish things quickly and twice deposited the ball onto Percy Park rugby pitch, to finish on 101 not out and win the game by 2 wickets. The sight of father and son embracing at the end was one of the most touching sights I’ve ever seen in a sporting context and another reason why cricket isn’t just a game, it’s a state of mind, a philosophy for life and often a spiritual experience. I’d invited Laura along to meet me at the cricket club for a couple of pints and, neophyte that she is, she thought the occasion so wonderful and the atmosphere so convivial, she was at the ground the following Saturday before I was!

Having seen Benfield defeat FA Vase holders Morpeth Town 3-2 in a superb game, I pedalled down the coast to see the conclusion of the Stockton game. The Teessiders must hate Tynemouth; having been restricted to 203/9, the visitors were forced to labour in the field, to the extent that the first ball I saw was the one Nick Armstrong completed his century with. At 181/1, victory was in the bag; sure enough, within 15 minutes, Tynemouth had won by 8 wickets. Despite the lack of action, I was personally content to see another victory that keeps the Croons on the fringes of the title race, behind CLS, Newcastle and South North, but the games are running out.

The games have run out and the season is over for Northumberland, but what an inspirational time they’ve had of it. Last season’s one day competition provided a fascinating run to the national final at Wormsley against Cornwall. While that weather-blighted game was lost, the chance of playing at the same venue in the 3 day equivalent against the Western Division champions was a real prospect going into the final scheduled game at home to Cambridgeshire at Jesmond. Taking advantage of the remaining aspects of my summer holiday, I managed to take in two full and one half day of this one.

Cambridgeshire batted first and amassed 228 all out, with their acquisition of a second batting point of no consequence, as only Lincolnshire could deny Northumberland the title. Four bowling points were very welcome, but having seen Cambridgeshire wobbling alarmingly at 75/5 and lunch and then 108/6, I’d say the final total was about 50 too many, possibly as a result of some weak and inaccurate bowling at a time when pressure should really have been exerted on the lower-order batsmen. Of course, Northumberland were left weakened by the absence of Sameet Brar, who’d bowled so well in the last 3 day game I’d seen, who was at a family wedding.

If the bowling could have been better, then there is little else to add about the initial batting performance as the home team were tottering on the brink at 16/3. Thankfully there’s always that fella Du Toit to rely on; he made 61 and looked untroubled near the close, before his departure sparked another flurry of wickets and Northumberland ended day one on 108/6. A series of unfortunate events kept me away for the first session on Monday and necessitated my departure at tea. Suffice to say, Northumberland were dismissed for 196 and Cambridgeshire were 65/2 when arrived. Literally the first ball I saw was Oli McGee taking a wicket, precipitating a minor collapse that saw the visitors 79/5 and then 108/6 for tea. I confidently expected to see them all out for 150 maximum and Northumberland batting before stumps. I was wrong; very wrong.

The Cambridgeshire tailed wagged ferociously and they accumulated 248, leaving a victory target of 281 that seemed a fond hope at lunch with Northumberland 77/4, having recovered from 55/4. I’ve already alluded to the importance of families in the local game; the tear-jerking Hallams, the cigar smoke and profanity swathed Hudsons and at this game, the wonderful company of the McGee family. On a baking day on Osborne Avenue, I enjoyed an almost ephiphanous afternoon with Oli, Ben and Dan’s parents that certainly must rank as the best time I’ve ever had watching the county.

 

At lunch, the received wisdom all around the ground was that if Jacques Du Toit got in and stayed in, Northumberland had a chance. The importance of JDT simply cannot be overstated; to say he is the best batsman in the NEPL is a given, but it is also his presence and aura that inspires. Physically, at the crease, he seems a giant; often unstoppable, unplayable, vicious, cavalier and elegant, he is worth paying money to watch. There is no finer sight than a hapless opposition fielder scampering off down Manor House Road in the direction of the Dene, attempting to overtake another of the South African’s awesome blows. Perhaps only the look of wonder on the face of the bowler as Jacques launches into another merciless strike over the other wall and into the graveyard could compare.

And, on this occasion, Captain Nicotine did not disappoint; to complement his 61 in the first innings, he scored a fluent, vibrant 85 that had all the hallmarks of a match winning innings. However, when he was sixth out at 155, there were still 126 runs needed. One of the ways in which Northumberland have improved so dramatically and encouragingly over the past couple of seasons is in the way other batsmen have responded to JDT’s heroics and upped their own game; Sean Tindale and Mickey Allan put on 86 runs without offering a sniff to Cambridgeshire and were seemingly ready to win the game when Allan was out for 45 with 40 runs still needed and three wickets to go. The tea interval had halted momentum and now things were getting tense.

Allan’s replacement Asher Hart supported Tindale admirably and again it seemed victory was all but assured, until Hart was bowled with the score on 266. Fifteen needed, two wickets left and the incoming batsman; Oli McGee. Tension? You have no idea. Philippa, the mam, left with young Dan, who had to be at Percy Main CC for a game. Ben was 2 days away from his A Level results and wrestling with pressure of his own, though thankfully there was a happy outcome for him on the Thursday. Oli had little or no pressure on him then; well, let’s just say he played his part with a stylish 2 not out that will no doubt have The Cricketer battering on his door for another interview. Sean Tindale saw Northumberland home and made 54 not out, as the entire ground rose to applaud a superb victory for Northumberland by 2 wickets.

Sadly Lincolnshire’s victory over Staffordshire earlier in the day made the win academic, as they had clinched the title by virtue of their superior run rate. It would be churlish to affect disappointment on a season unbeaten in the 3 day game, with 5 victories and 1 rain-ravaged draw. This praiseworthy achievement represents progress and momentum, which should be built on. No longer do players appear for Northumberland out of a sense of duty; it is now an honour. How I wish the County Board could harness the potential by promoting the games more widely and even produce some merchandise; a Northumberland CCC sun hat would be a treasure to own, especially when the hottest day of the summer is also the best day of the summer.

 

Enthused by the sheer joy of that victory, I began to plot a series of cricketing adventures to grounds I’d not been to before, aware that time was running out, with the season ending on Sunday 11^th September. First up was to be the Banks Cup final between Whitburn and Sacriston 3^rd XIs on Friday 19^th August. Just as I was about to unlock the bike, it began to train; incessantly. Game rescheduled for Friday 26^th August. Saturday 20^th August, with Benfield away to Padiham in the FA Cup and my presence denied because of Over 40s commitments, I intended to take in Hetton Lyons v Tynemouth; the rain came just after noon and didn’t stop. Game abandoned. I took in Whitley Bay 3 South Shields 3 instead; what a great game it was too.

At least Sunday 21^st August began in glorious sunshine. The NEPL website told me of Sunday games at Sunderland, Bournmoor and Washington. With the Mackems hosting Boro at 1.30, a trip to Wearside was strangely alluring, not least because Ashbrooke is an absolutely beautiful ground. The number 9 bus from North Shields to Park Lane remained sparsely populated throughout its journey, with no-one on board seemingly headed for SoS. However, once we passed Fulwell windmill the pavements were thronged with those heading for the game. From The Grange to The Wheatsheaf, across the bridge and as far as The Lambton Worm, thousands upon thousands of red and white shirted home fans marched purposefully to the ground. They may not have been my demographic, but they’re no different from football fans anywhere; loyal, embittered, disappointed, exploited, balancing optimism with experience as they prepare for another season of frustration.

I knew just how they felt when I arrived at Ashbrooke; a ground that must hold 10,000 and makes Gateshead Fell’s spacious outfield look like a pocket handkerchief was deserted. Eppleton had conceded, but nobody had thought to tell me, or even put it on the web. However, the NEPL site had been updated to include details of Brandon’s concession to Washington, saving me a trip to Harraton. Plan B saw me take the 78A from Park Lane to Stanley via Chester Le Street, alighting yards before the County Durham border at the interface between Shiney Row and Burnmoor / Bournmoor (signs at either end of the village spell it differently), who were supposed to be hosting Mainsforth. Another deserted ground and another concession. Improbably, a bus to Heworth was due and I knew from Twitter that Felling were hosting Hetton Lyons.

Almost an hour later, I found myself walking up High Heworth Lane just in time to see the final ball of the Felling innings as they were dismissed for 133. At that point, I’d been out the house for 5 hours, spent most of that time on the bus, been in 3 cricket grounds and seen 10 seconds of play. Indeed, I was also 7 weeks late for Sharon Campbell’s 50^th birthday party at the same venue, which was hosting a rather large Christening do; none of those there seemed at all interested in the game, preferring instead to focus on creating that unique ambience of seething, drunken menace I always associated with public celebrations in the NE10 area during my far distant youth. Mind the Felling Twitter person was AWOL, posting pictures of pints from The Duke of Wellington and Monkey Bar.

About a dozen of us watched Hetton amble to victory by 8 wickets, playing mainly tip and run, with the odd lusty blow from Felling’s obliging and alternately early teenage or late middle age attack. When the snack bar shut with 18 runs needed, the white flag was run up and I headed back to the Metro, passing Heworth cemetery where my maternal grandparents are buried and The Swan, which my Uncle Harry managed for many years. They’re as close to Felling Cricket club in death as they ever were in life, which is a shame as they missed out on so much. That said, my maternal grandmother was a sour faced old boot who never had a good word to say for anyone.

Twitter told me Newcastle v Benwell Hill was still in play, so I alighted at Jesmond and arrived to see Newcastle 103/9 needing another 99 runs to win. The posh young lads in the home dressing room took defeat with amused equanimity, while the last wicket pair put on an unbeaten 55 and I left in the warmth of an August Sunday evening a slightly better person than I’d began the day, happy to have spent yet more time in the midst of the family and fraternity of north east cricket.

The Times They May Be Changin'

Just out now is the lavishly designed issue 13 of "The Football Pink;" I strong urge to buy a copy of this magnificent publication from @TheFootballPink as seeing it will do the superb magazine justice. I'm delighted to have the following piece in it, written before the start of the season (hence a couple of inaccurate predictions), as well as being equally delighted that Newcastle United got their season up and running with a 4-1 win over Reading last night. I'm heading to the Cheltenham game as well, so will blog about NUFC again next week, but that's the future. Here's this week's piece -:

I’ve never been a gambler. My old fella, who was so tight he could peel oranges in his pocket with boxing gloves on and wouldn’t spend Christmas if he could help it, drummed it in to me from an early age that a fool and his money are soon parted. His puritanical distaste for betting shops came as a result of bitter personal experience, involving the loss of the princely sum of 7’6d on a nag at Haydock Park sometime in the mid-1950s. In many ways, it’s good a good thing the propensity for the odd flutter wasn’t hard wired into my DNA as, notwithstanding the fact I find the urge to discover which horse is the fastest hideously uninteresting, I’ve never been able to accurately predict the outcome of any major football competition or the fortunes of any club therein.

Take for instance Newcastle United; last summer, following the arrival of Steve McClaren and a few seemingly reliable, steady signings, I would have told anyone, if asked, that I had a gut instinct NUFC would be involved in the highest number of sterile nil-nils imaginable as our destiny seemed to be a berth among the mediocre and modest, becalmed in about 12^th place. My reasoning was based on McClaren being a cautious, safety-first manager, keen on low-risk football that emphasised a “what we have, we hold” philosophy. Got that one wrong didn’t I? Newcastle United’s season resembled nothing so much as a clown’s car hurtling over a cliff face at breakneck speed.

However, such an outcome wasn’t immediately obvious. Indeed, when trying to pinpoint the start of the decline, the performances in the early part of the season actually produced few calls for regime change. As ever it was the immediate and unnegotiable cessation of spending long before the end of the August transfer window, without the club having made any realistic attempts to plug the obvious gaps in the squad that spurred a sense of unease among the support. Anyone who knew anything about football could see Newcastle had a decent first XI, if top heavy in the delusional prima donna department, but little strength in depth and a totally lopsided squad, which included a surfeit of midfielders, a dearth of defenders and a farce of a forward line. We knew injuries would cripple us; and they did. In addition, NUFC had a meek, busted flush of a manager, prepared to hold his own counsel as he presumably struggled to believe he’d somehow landed a job in the top flight after failing in most of his jobs over the last half decade or more.

From a year later’s perspective, the single, biggest flagship mistake and the herald of impending disaster was the crass folly of not strengthening the centre half position. Alarm bells ought to have started ringing when Coloccini, ageing, infirm and under motivated, was presented with a new deal; apparently it was to reward him for something or other, but a fat lot of good that decision did us. After half a season of underwhelming cameos, his last game was a 5-1 battering at Chelsea in January, before a “minor thigh strain” kept him out for four months. Just the kind of selfless dedication a club in relegation danger expects from their captain. Sadly, there was nobody to adequately replace him, as our only real defensive signing Chancel Mbemba, who had a steady season, got injured, though big love to the lads who’d arrived from Forest the summer before, Darlow and Lascelles, the latter stepping up to the plate and showing he not only cared but he has some presence as a stopper. There is no coincidence in the fact that the window of adequacy Benitez opened in the last few games came with Mbemba and Lascelles in defence.

As for the other signings, Wijnaldum came in like a lion and went out like a louse, offering precisely nothing in away games, while Mitrovic lived up to his reputation as the Serbian Billy Whitehurst, combining an atrocious lack of composure in the box with a pathological need to act the hard lad; somebody really ought to have told him eyeballing refs, while collecting red cards and suspensions provides infinitely less for the team than goals scored. Both Thauvin and Toney did nowt and went out on loan, while January arrivals Saivet and Doumbia played about 15 minutes between them. Andros Townsend was an unqualified success, but he’s already gone to Crystal Palace and Pards of all teams, seeking to get back in the England squad. Christ they need him. Finally, there’s the enigmatic Jonjo Shelvey; a world beater on his debut against West Ham, but almost invisible thereafter, before being rightly dropped from the team. Scarcely credibly, Newcastle United were Europe’s biggest spenders in the January transfer window. Predictably, they will begin 2016/2017 with none of those signings anywhere near the first team.

Shelvey’s nemesis wasn’t the cowardly, timorous and utterly inept McClaren, who was finally shown the door after a laughably bad 3-1 home loss to Bournemouth in early March that faithfully recreated the Ossie Ardiles era for those too young to have wept through it a quarter of a century previously. Shelvey was declared surplus to requirements by Rafa Benitez; a man with a managerial CV that puts every other former incumbent of the SJP hot seat to shame, Bobby Robson included. Quite frankly it astonishes me still that Rafa Benitez not only arrived to attempt a Red Adair style rescue operation on a season that had crashed and burned like a flaming chip pan drizzled in tap water, but subsequentl  accepted the role of Newcastle United manager for another 3 years. Without wishing to play the clichéd media construct of the deluded Geordie, I maintain that, despite relegation, I’ve never felt more optimistic about the long term prospects on Barrack Road for years.

Of course, what Benitez didn’t arrive soon enough to achieve was keep the team up. In retrospect, McClaren ought never to have been appointed in the first place. The first logical sacking point was after a pitiful 5-1 trouncing at Selhurst Park in late November. Lee Charnley, no doubt fearful of Ashley’s response to dispensing with the services of a man they’d spent months courting, prevaricated and the team deservedly beat both Liverpool and Spurs in the next two games, handing a stay of execution to McClaren. The axe loomed in mid-February with the aforementioned Chelsea debacle, especially as that game was followed by a blank fortnight (NUFC don’t do the FA Cup), giving a new manager time to assess the situation and bed in some tactical modifications. This being Newcastle, nothing happened and the team returned, bronzed by Andalusian early spring sunshine, to lose scruffily at Stoke and ineptly against Bournemouth. Things had to change and they did, though the Premiership Lifeboat sailed without them.

That Rafa Benitez failed to keep Newcastle up is no stain on his record at all; it is testament to the repeated folly of an almost decade-long wrongheaded and foolhardy recruitment policy that sought only to buy cheap, young continental talented prospects, hoping to sell them for top dollar after a couple of years’ service. While that may be the case with Moussa Sissoko, whose 2016 European Championships campaign was one long show reel for potential suitors, the litany of hideous failures: Gouffran, Marveaux, Riviere, Cabella, Riviere and so on, should tell you all you need to know about why Newcastle United are growing accustomed to life in the second tier. Bad signings and bad management resulted in the aforementioned hopelessly unbalanced squad, which lacked the personnel, motivation and tenacity to acquire enough points to stay up. Under McClaren, Newcastle acquired 0.9 points per game, while under Benitez that increased to 1.3, with the caveat that the last 6 games of the season saw the side go unbeaten and harvest 12 points. While it is impossible to predict what could have happened if Benitez had arrived sooner, especially considering he was at the Bernabeu until mid-January, even a couple more games (Stoke and Bournemouth for instance) with him at the helm may well have been enough to rescue the sinking ship. Then again, the away losses to Norwich, where three points were on a plate only for an injury time collapse to yield a defeat, and Southampton, where the calamitous Steven Taylor gave a defensive masterclass not previously seen outside the Tyneside Sunday League Division 5, showed that this club was destined for demotion.

Despite Rafa’s best efforts, this was to be our fate. Much as it pains me to say it, congratulations go to Sunderland; successive home wins over Chelsea and Everton in the last week of the season sealed Newcastle’s fate. Sometimes you just have to hold your hands up and say well played, especially Jermaine Defoe whose goals were a crucial factor. Interestingly, the overwhelming majority of Newcastle fans accepted relegation with equanimity and good grace, long before Benitez agreed to return, precisely because it was deserved. Of course there were a few hotheads on social media and local radio, demanding Lee Charnley retire to the boardroom with a loaded revolver, who were intent on creating some kind of media shitstorm on the final day of the season, a dead rubber at home to Spurs.

Leading up to that game, I’d envisaged St James Park would have seen 8,000 empty seats, 3,000 away fans rubbing our noses in it, 40k long-suffering club loyalists suffering in silence and about 500 drunken, angry middle-aged men in chunky Italian knitwear, replete with impotent rage, making fools of themselves by gesticulating endlessly at the Directors’ Box. In the end, the reality was far different; the team, seemingly released from the shackles of inertia and fear that had gripped them for so long, tore into a woeful Spurs side and ripped them apart 5-1, accompanied by an unceasing and deafening show of support for Rafa Benitez, whose name was sung all game. Admittedly there were the predictable handful of malcontents seething their way back down Pink Lane at full time, who seemed to find a victory more infuriating than a loss, as it “showed what they could have done if they’d wanted to,” but they were a tiny minority. I left the ground at full time with a feeling this could be a real turning point in our club’s history.

Now I don’t believe any of the Toon Army mythology; fans of every club are equally passionate and negative by turn. What I do feel is that the positivity expressed that day helped to persuade Benitez there was a project he could buy into on Tyneside. I’m delighted he has stayed and I’m equally delighted he has full, overall control of all football matters. As I speak, the pace of signings seems to continue unabated; 5 out the door and 5 in, as well as a few youngsters to bolster the Under 21 side, which for too long has been woefully neglected. Both Dwight Gayle and Matt Ritchie are proven at Championship level. I don’t know anything about Matz Sels or Jesus Gamez, but it suggests the big-earners are for the off. I’d expect Sissoko, Wijnaldum, Krul and possibly Tiote to leave as well. What I am pleased about when discussing new arrivals, is how quickly they’ve been signed and how keen they are to join us. Without seeking to be presumptuous, I can see us hopefully making the play-offs.

Politically, we are living in terrifying times; for once, football is a relatively calm counterbalance to the unending constitutional crisis of summer 2016. As far as Newcastle United are concerned, I am happy to live in interesting times. You see it is my firm contention that the Championship is the place to be for 2016/2017. Never mind the media hype and hysteria over Mourinho versus Guardiola, or frothing speculation about Conte’s prospects at Chelsea, the division below is the place to be. Can Villa regroup? Will Norwich still play football the right way? What will become of Derby County and Nottingham Forest? Has Alan Stubbs, fresh from triumph at Hibs, chosen wisely when moving to Rotherham? Indeed, with Barnsley, Huddersfield, Leeds and Sheff Wed also in the Championship, is it being sponsored by the Yorkshire Tourist board? With Friday night and Saturday tea time football, I’m actively looking forward to what’s in store, especially Burton Albion; the home of Bass, the world’s greatest beer, playing in the world’s most intriguing division. I’ll drink to that!!

Allotment Guilt

There's a new issue of "The Popular Side" out now; price £2 inc P&P via PayPal to iancusack@blueyonder.co.uk  - however the first fanzine of the season I appeared in was North Ferriby United's "View From the Allotment End," for whom I penned this piece -:

Me and the ex-wife had a reasonably amicable divorce I suppose; she’d grown understandably sick and tired of my twins obsessions with non-league football and obscure post punk indie music, so she gave me my marching orders. As is often the case in these things, she got to keep the family home, which I was okay about as it gave stability for the bairn who was only 8 or so at the time. Hence, at the age of 39, I found myself descending the property ladder to a lower rung. My more modest current abode, purchased in 2003, immediately appealed as it was without a garage (I don’t drive you see) and the front garden had been turned into an arid, low maintenance, concrete and pebble oasis of brutality. I hate flowers.

Also, the new abode was (and is) within walking distance of Sam Smith’s Park, home of my beloved Newcastle Benfield FC, who happened to be embarking on their debut season in the Northern League in 2003/2004, just as I moved in.  That said, since 2004, the non-league pyramid has evolved to the extent that both Team Northumbria and Heaton Stannington are actually my closest Northern League sides. We’ll probably not even mention the proximity of Northern Alliance sides Newcastle University and Chemfica, who play less than 200 yards from my back door; mind the grass is so long and the hedge so impenetrably dense in my garden that you can’t see daylight, never mind Cochrane Park Sports’ Ground.

If I’ve established something in this piece, other than my love of Newcastle Benfield, it is my lack of horticultural skills.  Amusing then that when I met my partner Laura, I discovered that gardening was her passion and that she was the proud owner of an allotment. In that first flush of passionate adoration, I volunteered my services as an agricultural labourer; only on Sundays like. Saturday is for football; end of story. To be honest, I started to enjoy a bit of fresh air that wasn’t accompanied by 22 psychopathic radgies trying to kick lumps out of each other, in front of 100 or so extreme Tourette’s sufferers. I was never a talented or particularly enthusiastic gardener, but I dug trenches, pulled weeds, painted the shed and all manner of tasks that required no semblance of compassion or creativity. We had a lovely few years with the allotment, until Laura moved to a new place with a garden. Incidentally, we still don’t live together; I mean 10 years is too soon to rush into things. Agreed?

Meanwhile, Benfield had cause to think about allotments from 2005 onwards; West Allotment Celtic to be precise. Gaining promotion to the Northern League a season after us, our former Northern Alliance colleagues established themselves firmly as our local rivals. No disrespect to Team North or Heaton Stan, but the club from the top of the hill at Whitley Park (still known by all as Blue Flames, because of its former use as the British Gas sports and recreation complex) are the ones we love to beat in the rightly named Coach Lane Clasico, named after the mile of road that separates us.

Despite playing in the same kit as the similarly named outfit from Glasgow, WAC (as we know them) were originally known as West Allotment Primitive Methodists, playing at the legendary, shambolic Farm Ground (long before my time), until they moved to Backworth Welfare; a pitch so far from the dressing rooms that when they drew Newcastle Reserves in the Northumberland Senior Cup back in 1994, the Magpies’ second string took a coach from the changers to the park.  When WAC decided their ambitions lay in the Northern League, they left Backworth and established a groundshare at the Northumberland FA’s headquarters at Whitley Park. As a result, they play on a pristine bowling green of a pitch, maintained by full-time groundskeepers, not that the hard-working volunteers at other clubs are jealous of this; not a bit. We’re actually more amused by their committee of old school tie, blue blazer, Freemason 60-somethings, who are perpetually outraged about something or other.  Generally us hammering them…

That said, Benfield’s first trip to WAC in the Northern League was on August Bank Holiday 2005, when we lost 4-0, manager Keith Sheardown resigned and things looked bleak.  Things were decidedly happier on an unseasonably warm December day a few months later, when we trounced them 6-2. The season after, we kept clean sheets in a 0-0, 1-0 then 2-0 series, including a league cup win, with a Brian Dodsworth hat trick helping us to a 3-0 win in 07/08.  The year after we won the league and cup double, doing the double over them in our first away and last home games.  It got even better the year after; 9-0 on aggregate, including 7-0 at our place. Sadly, all good things must come to an end; after doing them 3 times in a row in 2010/2011, WAC did the decent thing and got relegated.

As a result, our nearest opponents were Whitley Bay, with whom we enjoy friendly relations, so we essentially lacked a derby for 3 seasons until WAC came back up in 2014. The first game was at their place on a wet November night in a gale; we turned round 2-0 up, but lost 3-2 as the ferocious wind made conditions farcical.  At least we got our own back in the return; a Paul Brayson treble saw us ease to a 3-0 win.  You see, it wasn’t just the points we wanted, it was revenge. In that season’s Northumberland Senior Cup, we were drawn at home against them; a Vase replay put the game back a week and we filled our bench with an unused sub, signed after the original date. Despite winning 4-1, WAC’s committee came crowing into the clubhouse for a half time cuppa, pointing out that we’d be thrown out regardless of the result. So it came to pass; things like that stick in your craw, but that’s not the full extent of their small-mindedness.

In 2015/2016, nether us nor WAC did that well; we finished 5^th bottom, 8 points above the drop zone, while they were a place lower and 4 points worse off.  The very lowest point of the season came in a 2-1 home reverse on a freezing February Wednesday, with their winner being a fluke in injury time. It was enough to make you weep. However, back in August anything seemed possible; we were 2-0 down to them at Whitley Park after 15 minutes, before roaring back to win 6-2. Their PA bloke operates from a Portakabin grandly named the West Allotment Command Centre.  As our goals rained in, he kept to the true spirit of non-league football, by announcing over the tannoy that “the parent of the small child who is encroaching onto the cricket pitch must take responsibility for her.” That was my mate Gary and his 6 year old daughter; suffice to say, having been to all 44 Northern League grounds last year, he rated WAC as the least friendly. I agree with him, but then I’m Benfield and biased.

The New Traditions

Many people dislike Ryan Air, for their crass commercialism and an approach to customer comfort akin to a winged lorry heading to an abattoir, but I’ll not have a bad word said against them, especially when they fly me to Erin’s Green Isle for £36.50 return. I’d booked my flights for the annual state visit months ago, deciding to really push the boat out and stay for 11 days, including two weekends, rather than the usual week because of the giveaway price I got the travel for. The closer it came to departure date, the more I longed to get away. Post referendum Britain was a horrible, hateful place for a while, and it will no doubt get like that again, so I just wanted to leave all the bigotry, intolerance, constitutional crises and political backstabbing behind to cleanse my spirit among the finest people and in the finest country on earth.

As usual I had an outline itinerary containing definites and possibilities. Cabinteely versus Waterford United was a must see; another tick off the list, as I inch my way to the League of Ireland set. Unfortunately, plans to accompany the Shels lads, with whom we’d enjoyed such a fine time in Waterford last year, down to Limerick were destroyed by the rescheduling of the game from Saturday to Friday at the last minute, meaning the Tolka travellers were left without a bus. All this because Limerick had a League Cup semi on Monday away to Derry. Instead, the last piece of low-hanging fruit from Louth, in the shape of Drogheda United against Cabinteely had to be plucked. This leaves me needing Cobh, Cork and Stab City to complete the set; consequently the 2017 fixtures are already anxiously awaited, by me at least.

In addition, I knew there would be my usual ration of GAA, though I hadn’t a firm plan in place until the last minute, as things were dependent on the outcome of the Connacht Final between Galway and Roscommon. Typically, the first game at Salthill was drawn on July 10th, so a replay on July 17th was required, at which point Galway blitzed Roscommon in Castlebar, securing their place in the quarter finals. For Roscommon, there was the relative ignominy of a “back door” reprieve, with a qualifier against Clare on a neutral ground; Pearse Park, Salthill, Galway. It was almost as if the GAA were taking delight in rubbing Roscommon’s noses in it, but at least I now knew that’s where I’d be heading with John on Saturday July 23rd. Other GAA events were up in the air at that stage, but clearly wouldn’t include a trip to Thurles for the hurling quarter finals as Cork had exited in the second round.

So, I kissed Laura and the cats (Paw Paw and Tromszo, not the Kilkenny hurlers) farewell and arrived at Newcastle Airport for the 22.30 flight on Thursday July 21^st. Usually I find myself knee deep in package tour proles, predominantly mackems in stained replica shirts, whenever I fly, but not this time. We were the last flight out, with the previous ones heading for Exeter and Bristol, meaning the airport was near deserted, with Boots and WH Smith the only things open. At least the plane flew out on time. Dublin Airport, in contrast, was leaping; it took 30 minutes to make it through arrivals, where I wistfully realised that if Brexit ever happens, things will get far worse for UK passport holders. Thank goodness for Ireland’s Register of Foreign Births eh?

Unfortunately this delay meant I missed the midnight bus to Dalkey, so had an hour to kill. Aimlessly ambling around with a late night coffee, I noticed the next flight out was to Minsk; no doubt taking the players from FC Dinamo home after their narrow victory over a gallant St. Pat’s at a packed Richmond Park. As the club match report said, let’s hope a few of the 2,800 who were present show their faces in Inchicore again in the future. Anyway, I caught a deserted bus to Killiney Castle, where Declan met me around 2.00 and we walked down to his. A still, warm, comforting evening back where I love to be.

Friday morning, I woke late and spent a bit of time with Declan’s amazing father in law Jack, who gave me a little tour of Dalkey to Dun Laoghaire, totally by accident as he got lost going to pick up Declan and Mel’s sons Jack Christopher and Charlie Alan Shearer (I kid you not) from summer sports camp. Then, back home with Mel in from work, I dropped the usual bombshell that has almost everyone I meet in Ireland shaking their heads whenever I say those cursed words; I’m off to a League of Ireland game. Despite the fact that Ireland’s followers at Euro 2016 were named by UEFA as the tournament’s best, the sad reality is that the 20,000 plus who travelled to France are more than likely uninterested in or even antagonistic towards their domestic game.   Depressingly, the week before the Euros kicked off, the League of Ireland announced the lowest set of weekly crowd figures so far, for the 2016 season. Not only do crowds for the GAA dwarf the attendances at League of Ireland games, the domestic game remains a poor relation to English and Scottish (specifically Celtic) soccer. The departure lounges of Dublin Airport are thronged each Friday with weekending Premier League fans, while the sheer volume of Barstoolers watching Sky games in pubs means that Irish football struggles to find a niche. While Bohs sold out Dalier, with 5,400 there for Newcastle, the week before I arrived, typically enough, Big Club’s next game saw 1,175 present for the visit of Derry City that very Friday. It was live on Eir TV, but still…

One explanation for the crisis in the domestic game is that the FAI are one of the most useless, complacent and indolent sporting organisations in the world, which takes some doing I’ll concede. Despite a recent announcement of a modest donation of €100k to League of Ireland clubs, their crass incompetence is perfectly illustrated by their obsession with keeping a 2 division structure in place, when a 16 team single division is by far the most sensible route for the future. Following the disappearances of Kilkenny City, Kildare County, Mervue United, Monaghan United, Salthill Devon, Sporting Fingal and latterly Shamrock Rovers B, finding a team of useful idiots to make up the full complement is a perennially tough ask, mainly because there’s no money and no publicity below the top flight, meaning the 8 team First Division is a sporting elephants’ graveyard. Limerick City may be top by 20 points, but they’re funded personally by JP McManus.  Athlone Town are Ireland’s oldest club; they’re bottom of the table, skint and ready to go bust. Waterford United used to be one of the country’s foremost clubs, but they’re on the bones of their arse. UCD survive on zero crowds and the benevolence of their institution.  Cobh Ramblers were Roy Keane’s first team, but they’re definitely Cork’s minor club.  Drogheda United won the title a decade ago, then suffered relegation and financial problems. Shelbourne used to be successful, but they’re skint and Tolka Park is in a desperate state. This situation is made all the worse by Bohemian selling Dalymount Park to Dublin Corporation, with a full refurbishment promised in return. Sadly Shels are faced with a choice of share, merge or die with their Phibsborough neighbours, or so it seems.

Understandably, there weren’t many applications for the vacant spot in 2014 when Shamrock Rovers B called it a day, so the FAI turned in desperation to Cabinteely, from the affluent south Dublin suburbs to make up the numbers. The main problem was they played at Kilbogget Park, a public amenity shared with Seapoint RFC, where the only seats are the ones in the bar. A deal was struck with Blackrock RFC for a groundshare at Stradbrook, as the differing seasons for the two codes barely overlap, so Cabo joined the senior ranks in 2015. They promptly finished in last place, but unlike many other clubs who’ve been scarred by life in Ireland’s football basement, Cabinteely may just be here to stay. I had expected to find a kind of Irish MK Dons up in Stradbrook, but the reality was pleasantly different.

Friday evening saw me take a scenic ramble from Dalkey to Blackrock, for Cabinteely’s home game against Waterford United. The crowds at L of I Premier Division games are announced, but not in Division 1, possibly out of politeness. A rough guesstimate suggested to me that around 400 punters, paying €10 a head, were gathered in the 3 sided ground. There was no cover; on the top side railway sleepers provided seating; presumably standing when it’s wet. The bottom side, fringed by trees that screened rugby training pitches, saw the 50 or so travelling supporters congregating by the dugout. Waterford Manager Roddy Collins was attired immaculately as ever, in an open-necked white silk shirt, mustard Chinos and lustrously polished oxblood loafers. Prosaically, the far goal immediately beyond him gave way to untilled soil, while the near goal boasted a changing room and bar complex, with tarmacked standing in front. Neat enough, but only up to Northern Alliance standards over here, even with the floodlights.

I watched with interest the pre-match rituals of the two sides; Cabinteely, managed by L of I legend Eddie Gormley were organised, business-like and enthusiastic in their drills and warm-ups. Waterford came out without the manager and had a game of five-a-side, amid much merriment. One team seemed professional and the other a pub team. The game was the first I’d ever seen officiated by a female referee in Ireland. Basically, she had little or nothing to do as the game followed a pattern I’ve become familiar with at Irish First Division games; much lovely control, quick feet and incisive passing, offset by endless offsides and abject shooting.  Pretty play with no end product; pleasing, but a slightly dull opening period.

During the second half, I took a wander round the place, noticing as I did a complete gear change from Cabo, who won the game 2-0; the first an impressive free kick from distance and the second a powerful header from a pinpoint cross, to polite applause. What occurred to me from drinking in the atmosphere of the place is that basically, Cabinteely are a very well run youth club team; almost like the Wallsend Boys Club of south Dublin, with dozens of teams at all ages, everyone paying subs and volunteering to keep the project on track. Stewards, bar staff, club shop and catering operatives are all the relatives of players in all probability. On the pitch the team are disciplined, respectful and organised, with a clear pattern of play I’m sure is replicated in their underage teams. Waterford United had no answer to such organisation; some players capitulated, while others tried to win it by shooting from impossible angles. Collins raged on the touchline. Their support had hit the clubhouse by 80 minutes, muttering darkly about the death agonies of their club. Cabo’s fans applauded politely at the final whistle; after all, it’s only a game.

I didn’t hang around, preferring to take a wander down to Monkstown DART,  meaning I found myself in The Magpie in Dalkey, supping Spire Pale Ale with the quality, for an eyewatering €5.90 a pint within half an hour. Just then Declan arrived in from a work do at a comedy café and the evening got a little messy. Suffice to say; when I arose early on Saturday, I was a little woozy. However, I made the train and DART connections to meet John in Maynooth. Unlike the recent claims by The Most Reverend Diarmuid Martin, Bishop of Dublin, I detected no “sleazy gay subculture” by the banks of the Royal Canal that morning; instead the radio was, perhaps prophetically, playing The Johnsons’ version of The Curragh of Kildare when we met.

John’s a great driver and EU money means Ireland’s roads are grand, by-passing all those places like Kinnegad where you’d be stuck for an hour getting through them in the old days. In 2016, it is a different story, so by lunch time I was staring out on the Atlantic Ocean through a car windscreen. Actually the traffic, once we hit Galway, was so bad getting into Salthill that I saw the same view for about an hour until we parked up. Still, it was nice to take a bracing walk along the promenade of County Galway’s number one seaside resort, before taking our seats for the main event.

To be fair to the GAA, Galway borders Clare to the south and Roscommon to the north, so the choice of venue was almost equidistant for both counties. Despite the 35,000 capacity, the attendance was never likely to reach that figure in the functional, concrete ground that reminded me of the kind of municipal sporting stadia you see in every town in Eastern Europe. Clare is a hurling county, predominantly, and they had a quarter final on the Sunday against Galway down in Thurles, Co Tipperary to think of, while Roscommon fans were noticeably gloomy after the beating they’d endured the week before. Perhaps they were correct to be so circumspect, as in the end, the majority Clare support in the 5,301 crowd went home happy, as their team ran out 2-12 (18 points) to 1-09 (12 points) winners over a desperately disappointing Roscommon.

In the first half, Roscommon’s short, hand-passing game did not allow them to use the wind advantage properly, while Clare’s aggressive, long game saw them surge ahead. They could have goaled after 20 seconds, so slow out the blocks were the Rossies. Roscommon battled back to level 1-03 to 0-06 on the half hour, but then fell away badly. The second half was all Clare and they could have won by a far greater margin, as Roscommon lost their discipline and had 2 players sent off. Clare had one dismissed; their number 9 who was forced to sit disconsolately in the stand near us. The lad looked on the verge of tears at his fate. Happily, his card was subsequently reduced to a yellow and he was cleared to play in the quarter finals at Croke Park the week after.

At full time, we headed disconsolately north east to Tuam in Galway for a bite to eat. We stopped when tired and anguished by our inability to find any radio commentary on the next qualifier, where Tipperary defeated Derry to set up a quarter final with Galway, also the week after. Our appetite assuaged, including a remarkably reasonably priced pint of Hooegaarden, our next stop was Boyle in Roscommon, John’s home town, to drink black porter until almost 5 in the morning in Kate Lavin’s Bar. I had one of those superb nights that will live long in the memory; the camaraderie, the friendship, the astonishing popularity of G&T in Roscommon and the quality of the drink, all of which will make me return to a fabulous little bar. Thanks to you all for the worst hangover of the whole holiday!!

It was with sore heads and bleary eyes, after a cautious drive east along the road, we saw RTE’s coverage on the excellent Sunday Game of the double-header from Thurles, when Waterford eased past Wexford and Galway trounced Clare, to advance to the hurling semi-finals against Kilkenny and Tipperary respectively. Seriously, the quality of RTE punditry, the whining Ger Loughnane apart, puts the BBC to shame. Mind, their quality coverage isn’t restricted to GAA only. While Eir TV, the inheritors of Setanta’s debt, show a live top flight game every Friday night, RTE cover cup games and have a weekly highlights programme on a Monday, Soccer Republic, that brings in good viewing figures and boasts the intelligent commentary of former national boss Brian Kerr, which begs the question why the FAI haven’t found a role for him in their structure.

Despite a dry Sunday, I was still feeling rough on Monday, so I took a bracing coastal walk up to Dun Laoghaire, with the idea of buying a reasonably priced, second hand bike, for a bit of touring about. Sadly the three places I tried had nothing suitable, so I took a long walk out on the east pier, to watch the baffling sight of the Men’s World Laser Yachting Championships, which appears to consist of lots of little boats crisscrossing each other, while the pilot almost falls out, trying to manoeuvre the sails. It’s not a spectator sport to be fair. When it started to train, I headed into the Library for a coffee, like a real pensioner on holiday and idly flicked through a guide to what was on in Dublin, to commemorate the 1916 Rising.

Ordinarily of late, I’ve spent little or no time in Dublin as, basically, I know it so well and there’s nothing for me to see. This time was different; I decided I really ought to visit 3 exhibitions on 1916, at Collins Barracks National Museum, in the GPO and at The Ambassador Theatre at the top of O’Connell Street. Consequently on the Tuesday, I took the DART from Dalkey to Tara Street, walked along the south quays as far as Heuston Station, then crossed over the Liffey and followed the LUAS tracks back two stops to the Museum. It was free entry, but I donated €10, because the exhibition was beyond brilliant. Detailed, interactive, respectful and structured; it provided information on The Rising that would be accessible to both zealous patriot and curious on-looker alike.

While in Britain there has been much brouhaha and intemperate flag waving over the 100^th anniversary of the Somme, which has unsurprisingly left me utterly cold for every reason imaginable, I was moved to tears by the stories of the gallant Irish volunteers who stood up to British Imperialism, serving neither King nor Kaiser but Ireland, in the almost certain knowledge that their bravery would result in death. Seeing up close the actual flags that flew over the GPO and Liberty Hall at Easter 1916 and the week after, left me humbled.

Leaving the museum after more than 2 hours, I walked the scruffy streets of north inner Dublin. Through Smithfield, up Capel Street, along Dorset Street, to the North Circular Road, in the shadow of Croke Park, along multi-ethnic, multi-cultural streets, where every nationality, creed and belief lived in peaceful co-existence, back down Amiens Street, along Talbot Street (where Ashley has a Sports Direct outlet planned) and onto O’Connell Street for the GPO, where their exhibition was dull beyond words, though it did not quench my ardent political passion, as here, for one glorious week, those brave men and women of 1916 showed the British what freedom and liberty was about. While the idiocy of the English and Welsh embraced Brexit, the Scottish will have no part in such a charade. Indeed, the place of the North is coming under intense scrutiny; frankly, it is time for the 6 counties to come home in a New Ireland, with a line drawn under the past and parity of esteem and parity of aspiration.

Sure, now as then, the grinding poverty of the failed Irish neo-liberal capitalist experiment was evident at every corner I passed in Dublin 1, but this is Ireland. And Ireland is the whole world. Not for Ireland an ugly undercurrent of conflict on the streets or Islamophobia in the media that signifies the ugly intolerance of England’s essence. In the only country where the citizens have voted for equal marriage rights, regardless of sexual orientation, the post Christian, post Nationalist, post Republican social attitudes show that the only solution for those in the North who voted to remain, is to join in a reconfigured 32 County federation under the auspices of the EU. To do that, De Valera’s grotesque Clericofascist constitution must be ripped up, with the 8^th Amendment prohibiting abortion repealed instantly. Ignore the Diehards. Ignore the bonfire boys and Mad Arlene. A new tolerant, socially inclusive constitution needs to be written, in consultation with every citizen on the island of Ireland.

After all that philosophising, I strolled to the Liffey and met Declan on O’Connell Bridge, catching a bus to Seapoint Rugby Club where he coaches, took a couple of pints watching Dundalk put up a good show away to BATE Borisov, only losing 1-0, before grabbing a Joer, whose driver took the piss out of me about Brexit, up to The Druid’s Chair and a few fine craft ales, at about a quid a pint less than Dalkey prices.

Thursday, I took in the Sinn Fein organised 1916 commemoration at The Ambassador Theatre. It was dramatic I’ll grant you that, but lacking the curator’s eye of the Collins Barracks display. It was ideological rather than analytical; hysterical rather than historical. Also, it seemed a little bizarre to see a whole section in a 1916 memorial dedicated to the 1981 hunger strikers. As I heard a tour guide say to a couple of departing punters when I arrived, I wouldn’t claim to know a great deal about Irish history…. Me neither, but I can count up to 100. Anyway, never mind that; equilibrium was restored as I soon found myself in The Palace Bar, The International, The Porterhouse and The Stag’s Head, not to mention a rather nice Greek place on Dame Street. A Hull Tiger and a Celtic Tiger in the same place, at the same time…

All of which set me up nicely for a trip out to Maynooth to meet John and our long day’s journey into night for his 64^th birthday. He loves driving, which is just as well as we found ourselves whizzing through Kildare, Meath, Cavan, Fermanagh, Monaghan, Armagh and Louth (in addition to Dublin, Westmeath, Longford, Roscommon, Galway, Sligo and Leitrim the previous week) as we toured the unapproved roads less travelled. Not only did I visit 14 counties this time, my debut visits to Cavan, Monaghan and Fermanagh now mean I’ve set foot in 31 of the 32 counties, with only the Healey Rae fiefdom of Kerry left to experience. Normally, a trip through the Irish countryside sees an array of Bed and Breakfast establishments on offer, with small hotels in the towns as well; there was none of that in Cavan, Monaghan or Armagh, though Fermanagh, more specifically Enniskillen, was geared up for fishing holidays. Elsewhere, the roads were deserted other than farming and other commercial traffic; tourists just don’t come to these parts.

You’ll no doubt notice that the drive included a crisscrossing of the “border;” frankly there is no discernible difference in landscape between Cavan and Fermanagh or Monaghan and Armagh. No red, white and blue kerbs or Orange Lodges, though we did see a disused Masonic Hall in Clones, Monaghan. Certainly brave, indomitable Crossmaglen, with its sombre memorials to fallen Republicans in the town square, gave no indication of ever paying allegiance to the House of Windsor. That said, we still felt a little nervous when the same car tailed us all the way to Castleblaney; old, paranoid habits die hard. New traditions need to be learned.

The main purpose of our tour was to take in Drogheda United v Cabinteely, though the first ground we saw that day was Gortakeegan, the currently disused home of the former Monaghan United. It looked in far better shape than the charmingly ramshackle United Park, which until recently had been called Hunky Dory’s Park. In the year of his death, this had nothing to do with David Bowie, but was the result of a sadly expired sponsorship deal between the Diamond Drogs and County Louth’s very own Tayto Crisps. Incidentally, Monaghan’s former home was Belgium Park, while Drogheda initially played at Lourdes Stadium; what brilliant, bonkers names for football grounds.

Drogheda harbour promotion play-off ambitions and are well-placed to achieve this modest target. Their star player and captain is Sean Thornton, a former international with Premier League experience at sunderland in both their 19 point and 15 point relegation seasons. It didn’t come off for him this game though; Cabo were as disciplined and organised as they were the week before and a frustrated Thornton was replaced on the hour. The game saw both teams employ a short, neat passing game, utterly without a cutting edge. Just as it seemed the only risk to a blank scoreline would be a moment of inspiration or insanity, Aaron Ashe swooped on a loose ball and drove it into the bottom corner; a decent enough finish. One goal was, predictably, enough and the 500 Drogs fans, complete with obligatory drummer, went wild at full time. The 11 Cabo stalwarts shrugged their shoulders and made for the car park; it is only a game after all.  If the League of Ireland does go to a single division of 16 clubs, let’s hope it’s passion and achievements on the pitch that count when handing out the membership. However, if it’s financial stability and a solid structure that are the requirements, Cabinteely are waiting quietly in the wings.

Full time, we headed back to Maynooth and made it into The New Town Inn for just past 11, where several pints of Kinsale Pale Ale were enjoyed, still without any evident gay subculture abroad, as well as a few back at the house. I managed to get up in time for sport on the Saturday though. I had been thinking of the 4B football qualifiers, where Cork were playing Donegal at Croke Park and where Cork were to blow a 5 point lead and lose 1-14 (17) to 0-21. The second game of the double header saw Mayo wallop Westmeath, but I decided I wouldn’t watch that either, as I knew at an elemental level that a summer Saturday must have some cricket involved.

Cricket, like many things in Ireland, isn’t governed in a way that seems either predictable or even logical to the interested outsider. Like rugby and boxing, the international cricket side is an island of Ireland construct. Recently the main issue bedevilling the game has been the withdrawal of their automatic place at the 20/20 World Cup. Considering the parlous state of Bangladesh, West Indies and even Sri Lanka as test playing nations, the intransigence of the ICC regarding Ireland seems not just stubborn but wrongheaded. Last year I’d enjoyed a trip to Malahide Cricket Club to see Holland defeat Ireland in the semi-finals of the 20/20 qualifying tournament, where a mightily impressive crowd had gathered, and so I was anxious to show my solidarity with the Irish Cricket Union with further visits to local cricket.

Similar to rugby and the GAA, cricket is played by provinces in Ireland; in cricket’s case, there are not 4 of them, but 5 provincial unions. Simple enough to understand is the province around Dublin, Leinster, where I was based. A quick search on-line lead me to a treasure trove of information; the glorious, encyclopaedic www.cricketleinster.ie which told me everything I needed to know. For a start, there are 47 clubs in Leinster, including 33 in Dublin City and County, who field a total of 128 open age sides in 16 divisions of 8, with one up and one down at the end of the season. Additionally there are 3 women’s divisions and a vast array of youth, involving boys and girls, leagues. Naturally, this being cricket, there are more cup competitions than clubs, or so it seems. Compared to GAA, soccer and rugby, cricket is the invisible participation sport of the capital and surrounding areas, where the sheer volume of those playing is both staggering and testament to the truly multi-racial, multi-ethnic and socially inclusive fabric of contemporary urban Irish society. Historically it has to be said that cricket was the game of the West Brit upper classes, but that state of affairs is changing rapidly, because of social mobility and the changing demographics of Ireland as a country.

Beyond The Pale, the situation is mixed; the Connacht Cricket Union was formed in 2011, the first new administrative region in 60 years, and runs a league with 8 teams, while Munster has 13 clubs playing in 3 divisions of 8, as well as extensive youth and women’s cricket competitions. Of course, this being Ireland, the waters have to be muddied somehow; Munster’s best team are Cork County, so they play in the Leinster leagues and Connacht’s best team are Galway County, who play in Munster. Even more confusing, there are 2 cricket unions in Ulster; thankfully the reasons for their existence are purely geographical. The Northern Cricket Union, involving Armagh, Antrim and Down oversees 50 clubs who field 137 teams, while the North West Cricket Union looks after Derry, Donegal, Fermanagh and Tyrone, with 23 clubs fielding 51 teams in 6 divisions. All in all, 28 counties play cricket, compared to 18 who play hurling. The 4 non-participants are Cavan and Monaghan in Ulster, as well as the hurling strongholds of Clare and Kilkenny, where they don’t even play GAA football. Surprising really, considering how hard those hurlers can hit the ball.

Now, if you know my obsessive nature, you’ll not be surprised to know I’m already planning my next sporting conquests for once I’ve ticked off Cobh Ramblers, Cork City and Limerick to complete the League of Ireland. Visits to Salthill, Thurles and Tullamore leave me with 29 GAA county grounds to collect; Croke Park doesn’t count as Dublin’s home in my book. Should I look to the pursuits of the plain people of Ireland rather than striking out for Garrison Games at Bagenalstown or Ballaghadereen cricket clubs? For the minute I’ll look to visit grounds close my regular bases of Dalkey and Maynooth, which is why I am so indebted to www.cricketleinster.ie  for the voluminous amount of information they provide. Certainly, I advise you to check out their history of the game in Ireland; fascinating doesn’t tell half the story.

Checking the fixtures, two games stood out for the last weekend in July; on the Saturday, the Leinster Senior Cup final was to be played at Clontarf Cricket Club. The hosts of the final are generally the holders; sadly Clontarf, whose top player is Ireland international Alex Cusack, had been eliminated. Instead the combatants were Leinster Cricket Club (as distinct from the Leinster Cricket Union, Senior Cup, League or interprovincial select side, just to clarify things), from Division 2 and YMCA from Division 1. These two opponents both crossed the city from the affluent southern suburbs, halfway towards the other stronghold of cricket in the north of County Dublin.

Comme d’habitude I arrived fashionably late via train and DART to encounter one side struggling at 58/3. Seeing two blazered gentlemen about to undertake the traditional laps of the ground, I inquired of them who was batting. The two fellows, who I subsequently discovered were former Cricket Ireland President Arthur Vincent and renowned Irish cricket podcaster and YMCA legend Heatley Tector, informed me it was Leinster and engaged me in very friendly conversation about this particular game, cricket as a whole, my affection for Tynemouth and Northumberland, the presence of Irish players at Durham, before joining me in excoriating the conditions that had caused the Brexit vote; O tempora! O mores! indeed. Their superb hospitality convinced me immediately that YMCA would be the side I wanted to win. Just like the North East Premier League, the welcome was friendly and genuine. What sport other than cricket offers such unconditional camaraderie?

Clontarf’s Castle Avenue is shared with the rugby club of the same name and is a lovely spot to watch a game; an attractive, expansive, tree-lined treasure that was blessed with a decent sized crowd. Certainly there were more present than at Drogheda United v Cabinteely. It made me certain in the belief that opting for this game, rather than Croker for Cork v Donegal or the AVIVA for Barcelona v Celtic was the correct choice. Amidst the bouffant hair, perfect teeth and obligatory swathes of Ralph Lauren, I could have been in Dalkey (or Gary Oliver’s wardrobe). However, there were also many Irish  of Asian descent  in attendance, not to mention literally dozens of teenagers and young women cricket fans and, in all probability, players; all well-spoken and none of them ever resorting to foul language in their ordinary conversation. It was civilised, it was heaven and I felt ever so humbled when the dad of Durham player Barry McCarthy came over and introduced himself.

Leinster made 225/8, of which the highlight was a fine 70 by George Dockerell, though the total is less impressive than it may seem as the LSC is a 60 over competition, which feels slightly too long to me. For YMCA, Simi Singh benefitted from rash strokes by the lower order to claim 5/57. Between innings, I had a coffee in the bar area and was surprised to see the levels of interest in the fag end of the Cork v Donegal game on RTE. There was a minor scare at the start of the YMCA reply when Fisher was out for 1, but superb, authoritative batting by Jack Tector (75), Simi Singh (66) and a fluent 58 not out by Sean Terry, son of Hampshire and England’s Paul, accompanied by 53 year old international rugby referee Alan Lewis on 13 not out, saw YMCA home by 7 wickets with 10 overs to spare.

I didn’t hang around for the presentation, as I was keen to beat the traffic from Croke Park and the AVIVA. I was unsuccessful in that hope, being squashed onto a DART from Lansdowne Road with 20k Barstoolers gushing about Messi and how Celtic are the biggest team in the world. I was glad to escape at Dalkey. Over 40,000 had seen Efe Ambrose score for Barca, though this game wasn’t the ultimate Barstooler experience; 4 years previous Man United beat a League of Ireland select 7-0 in front of 50k in the AVIVA, almost all of whom took the piss out of their own domestic players’ performances. Sickening. Just sickening and certainly not cricket.

Next morning, alert and refreshed, I headed for the 50 over interprovincial game between Leinster Lightning and Northern Knights at Leinster Cricket Club. Only 3 provincial unions are considered of a high enough standard to play in this and the sister 3 day tournament; Munster may be close, but it’ll be a cold day in hell before Connacht feature I’d imagine. Having opted for another long walk through the elegant Georgian terraces of Ranelagh and Rathmines, I arrived at the magnificently named Observatory Lane to see Northern Knights lose their 7th wicket for only 124. It seemed as if the game would be a short one, but perhaps a touch of complacency by the home side saw some less than stellar fielding, as well as a few lusty blows by Getkate, who scored 87 and was dropped 7 (seven!!) times, enabling Northern Knights to amass a more than respectable 246 all out.

Between innings, I did a couple of laps and recognised many in the significantly smaller crowd as having being present at Clontarf the previous day. Indeed Heatley Tector greeted me as a long lost friend he’d not seen in a decade or more. Observatory Lane is a nice ground; perhaps less scenic than Castle Avenue, but more atmospheric than Malahide. The Leinster reply wasn’t a fluent affair; wickets fell regularly, including Simi Singh for nought, but a dogged 85 not out by Sean Terry and a pugilistic cameo unbeaten half century by Lorcan Tucker saw them home by 4 wickets, winning the IP 50 competition in the process. Now I’ve dipped my toe into the pleasant waters of Irish cricket, I can’t wait for a full body immersion; presumably on a soft day at Ballaghadereen.

At the end of the game, I walked south east, back through Rathmines and Ranelagh to Sydney Parade DART station. Just as during my midweek wanderings in the scruffy north side, an epiphany occurred to me as I became aware of the tolerant, inclusive, multi-cultural nature of the privileged south side; Ireland really can show Britain how to be a civilised country. The words of the 1916 proclamation of Pearse and Connolly still ring true today; The Republic guarantees religious and civil liberty, equal rights and equal opportunities to all its citizens, and declares its resolve to pursue the happiness and prosperity of the whole nation and of all its parts, cherishing all of the children of the nation equally, and oblivious of the differences carefully fostered by an alien Government, which have divided a minority from the majority in the past. Surely it is time to move forward in history and in Europe as a beacon of civilisation in an increasingly hateful world.

Still dreaming of a potentially radiant future, I met a disconsolate Declan on board the train. He’d been to Croker watching Galway in the football quarter finals. While Kerry had eased past Clare, Tipperary had thumped Galway; their first win over the Tribesmen in 114 years. I didn’t know what to say to comfort him. The last two quarter finals will be Dublin (Leinster champions) v Donegal and Mayo v Tyrone (Ulster champions). The winners of the first game will play Kerry and the winners of the second will face Tipperary in the semi-finals. It’s all getting exciting, unless you’re for Cork, Galway or Roscommon.

As we passed by Dun Laoghaire, an open air music festival of a distinctly funky hue was taking place. Lee “Scratch” Perry had been on earlier, while Rick James was performing at that point. Top of the bill was George Clinton; I almost went in to check if he’d renamed the band Dail Eireann for the occasion, but there was an early flight to be caught, so we headed back to Dalkey in the twilight, ready to watch The Sunday Game, which is one of my new traditions. Only 50 weeks until I return home, where I'll still observe the old traditions as well...