The National Shame

Some people are upset about Newcastle losing to Hull City in the League Cup; that seems highly insignificant when compared to the scandal of the sexual abuse of young footballers...

A few days ago, we sat down to a meal of the kind I’d not eaten in years; liver and bacon, with braised Savoy cabbage and root mash. It was delicious, with a particular highlight being the cabbage, which had been steamed with a couple of glasses of Riesling; not a wine I’d ordinarily drink for pleasure, but it’s certainly a real flavour enhancer for this simple but flavoursome side dish.

While washing up, I dimly recalled a piece in The Guardian from decades back, where I’d read that liver and bacon was an especial culinary favourite of the late Andrea Dworkin, which lead me to pondering just what the radical feminist and anti-pornography crusader would make of the current global political and patriarchal situation. Donald Trump, post-truth, the internet; no doubt she’d hate them all, with good reason.

Late that night, I attempted to re-familiarise myself with Dworkin’s work; having read Woman Hating at University and Intercourse when it came out back in 1987, I was reasonably au fait with her contention that the existence of pornography and erotic literature in patriarchal societies had the effect of consistently eroticizing women's sexual subordination to men. Of course, in the pre-post-truth era when the latter book came out, this was erroneously and presumably mendaciously interpreted by many on the Trotskyist and Leninist left as meaning she equated all heterosexual intercourse as synonymous with rape, thus finding more grist to the mill for their macho, phallocentric and institutionally homophobic weltanschauung. However Dworkin was explicit in her rejection of this shallow misreading of her work; sex must not put women in a subordinate position. It must be reciprocal and not an act of aggression from a man looking only to satisfy himself. That's my point.

As a male, I am fully cognizant of the fact I can never fully “know” or “understand” the nature of any female sexual experience, as discussed in Dworkin’s work or elsewhere. However, Dworkin’s widow John Stoltenberg has himself produced works that I can fully emotionally and intellectually access, because of my gender. Stoltenberg is often categorized as a radical feminist male, whose key works are The end of manhood: a book for men of conscience and Refusing to be a man: essays on sex and justice. In these writings, Stoltenberg argues that men should refuse to accept the prevalent social model of masculine sexual identity, and learn one built on a different set of ethics based on three essential aspects: consent, mutuality and respect.  By doing so, men will have the chance to both denounce their current social role as heterosexual tyrants and potentially disprove the radical feminist truism; pornography tells lies about women, but pornography tells the truth about men.

I am particularly interested in what Stoltenberg’s theories could tell us about the horrific implications of the scandal concerning the sexual abuse of young footballers by predatory paedophiles, many apparently hiding in plain sight as coaches and trainers. At the time of writing, the scandal that had begun and ended at Crewe Alexandra’s Gresty Road with the imprisonment of Barry Bennell for a string of sexual offences in the past, has revealed itself to be the sporting equivalent of the Lernaean Hydra. Sadly, this is no myth, as investigations at Blackpool,  Chelsea, Leeds United, Manchester City, Stoke City and Newcastle United, where the activities of a certain George Ormond, a convicted child sex offender, are to be examined suggest the investigation will be wide-ranging, prolonged and deeply challenging at every level of the game. I read with increasing distress and alarm the testimony of former Newcastle and indeed Benfield Saints player Derek Bell, whose life has been destroyed by the abuse he endured from Ormond. There is also the uncomfortable story of alleged former Gremlin and serial sex offender Kane “Touchy Hutchy” Hutchison to consider.

As yet, things are moving incredibly quickly and any statements made here could be disproven by subsequent events. For instance, more than 20 former players have made complaints of abuse, which are being investigated by 10 different police forces. Meanwhile the hitherto unmasked Bennell has been charged with a further string of offences that date back to the 1980s; this development came after he disappeared from his home in Milton Keynes, was found unconscious in Knebworth Park in Hertfordshire and spent 3 days in hospital under observation.

Also, legendary loudmouthed moron Eric Bristow has been fired from Sky for victim blaming; the contempt visited on him makes his asinine remarks unworthy of further comment. I wish I could keep my mouth shut, but I have to point out that there lies a deep and disturbing truth at the heart of Bristow’s banality. The white working classes are institutionally and socially homophobic, seeing homosexuality as a disease that mainly infects the posh social classes. Mad Trotskyists have long banged on about “bourgeois sexual and lifestyle choices” (courtesy of the bad Bootle CWI Milimeff) being a sign of dilettantism. Well, the news that the people’s game is seemingly crawling with council house nonces must make them reconsider their position. After all, someone’s got to be right and it isn’t them.

The official response has been characterised by the belated slamming of a stable door, in the shape of the Football Association has instructing independent leading counsel Kate Gallafent QC to oversee an internal review.  At this precise moment, we simply don’t know whether the investigation into child sex abuse in football will unveil a story as heartbreaking and sordid as the BBC Jimmy Savile inquiry did. We don’t know if the investigatory process will be as labyrinthine, funereal and hidebound by procedural incompetence as the inquiry into institutional child abuse. We also have no idea whether subsequent investigations will, like Operation Midland, find out precisely nothing of tangible value. Certainly I don’t imagine it will be a wholly fabricated tissue of lies like the fascist right in America have concocted with the Pizzagate myth.

 When the investigation convenes, the crucial thing, victims and survivors of the horrific crime of child sexual abuse must be believed, supported and trusted; they deserve our love. The Eric Bristows of this world or social media wiseasses who state that “at least Ian Dowie will be OK” aren’t just ignorant; they are part of the problem. Their crass posturing acts as an enabler, because it discourages victims from coming forward as they fear disbelief, ridicule or contempt.

You see predatory paedophiles don’t abuse children out of sexual desire, but out of a lust for power; in their sick, damaged world, exercising control over a weaker, frightened victim is gratification enough. Paedophiles are cunning; they place themselves in positions where they can gain access to children. Scoutmasters, choristers, teachers, step parents, family friends and so on; this is why over  90% of convicted child sex offenders knew their victims, generally because they had groomed them at close quarters over a period of time, to gain the friendship, trust and often love of the child. Sometimes that method of coercion is maintained as the abuse continues; other times it is replaced by fear and threats, but the control remains in place. Hence scare stories about stranger danger are thankfully largely inaccurate; the overwhelming majority of child abuse happens in a family or social context, whether that is home or the local youth club.  Young footballers though are often deeply, unquestioningly loyal towards their coach; siding with them in many instances of conflict. It isn’t beyond imagining to think certain unscrupulous, evil people would exploit that bond of trust.

Certainly these revelations, coming the same weekend as Stonewall’s rainbow laces campaign against homophobia in the game(though I’ve grave misgivings about that organisation’s methods as I stand with Football Against Homophobia on this issue), will not make it any easier in the immediate future for a top level, professional player to come out. Football is an inherently conservative sport and any mention of sexuality during the investigatory period will be sidelined for reasons of presumed probity.  My hope would be that at the end of the investigatory process football will recover and recreate itself as a gay friendly sport at every level. However, that is for the future; immediately, we must offer our help, support and love to all those who suffered at the hands of abusers. No longer shall they suffer guilt for a crime they didn’t commit and shame for events that were not of their making in silence.

Internment

I wasn't feeling that clever on Tuesday 22nd, so I didn't head down to see my beloved Benfield wipe the floor with West Auckland. That's ok; we're an understanding club. I'll be there on Saturday, away to Penrith. Some other outfits are rather unforgiving taskmasters; they set you an exam before you can work your fingers to the bone for them. Obviously there's no pay, but at some places you don't even get any thanks for your on the job training. Crazy eh?

Dear Mr Winnit,

I would like to present this information to support my application for the position of Propaganda Officer and Chief Trombonist with Brexit Trumptington FC.

Despite the fact that I’m as soft as clarts and unable to even put the cat out, I have gathered an extensive array of chunky Italian knitwear and selvage denim, not to mention a rather fetching MA Strum jacket that I had to remortgage the house for. Additionally, to complement the wardrobe of the well-dressed grassroots radge packet, I am possession of numerous pairs of fancy socks and three stripe reissues, bought on the never never from my mam’s catalogue. To ensure I fully look and sound the part, I am prepared to have a total head shave and frontal lobotomy. At a pinch I might even be prepared to wear a Peaky Blinders cap and Burberry scarf, but only for the purposes of social media selfies.

In the past, I admit I held attitudes that could be regarded as both Socialist and progressive. Rest assured, to fit in with the established ideology of Brexit Trumptington FC, I promise to wear a giant poppy at all times (for the fallen), join every Britain First and North East Infidels Facebook group I can find, march every 12^th July in memory of an event from 17^th Century Irish history I know nothing about and replace all my curtains with St George’s flags from Sports Direct. Can I also take this opportunity to quash rumours that, if I were to be appointed, that I would wish to reach out towards any members of the Muslim, refugee or LBGT community? I realise that these and other terrorists, like Catholics and seahorses, are the enemy.

Most importantly I give you a firm undertaking that anything and everything I write or say regarding Brexit Trumpington FC will have been dictated to me, then proof-read (removing any correct spellings), scrutinised (to eliminate anything that could be viewed as critical) and approved by The Club Fuhrer. It is abundantly clear that the role of Propaganda Officer is one that involves showering praise on The Eternal Leader rather than the football club at any possible opportunity, while abandoning any pretence to independence of thought.  The Chief Trombonist role does, I’ll admit, fill me with trepidation.

I do not expect to get everything right immediately; after all Rome, like a new clubhouse, wasn’t built in a day. Consequently, I understand that remuneration for this role will be in the shape of relentless, unfair, public stick from The Fuhrer, with carrots in the shape out a few out of date tins of Carling in a metal Portakabin on a January morning.

I hope you have found the information in this essay of just less than 500 words, as per instruction, useful in determining my suitability for the role of Propaganda Officer and Chief Trombonist at Brexit Trumpington FC.

No Surrender to the Whitley Bay!

Comical Lord Albert Ali Haw Haw Speer

Moroccan Roll

It’s National Anti-Bullying Week in case you didn’t realise.  Obviously this information hasn’t percolated to some far-flung parts of the cyber universe, where the on-line antics of a bunch of grown men in their 40s and 50s have driven yet another fan away from the world’s unfriendliest non-league club. Quite what this dismal set of barbed-tongued, braying jackals gets out of this, beyond the approbation of their idol, the tormentor in chief, is beyond me. Suffice to say; in future I’ll be referring to them as Trumpington, as they consist of a crowd of obsequious hillbillies toadying to a barely literate fascist dictator with a ludicrous hairstyle.

The whole focus of this week’s blog was going to be the fallout from the Jonjo Shelvey case, but as he’s opted to deny the charge of using racially abusive language to Wolves’ Moroccan international Romain Saiss and requested a personal hearing, it seems best to err on the side of caution and not comment in excessive detail about the whole incident. However, I do think it important to place a line in the sand as regards the actual allegation which, I have been reliably informed by an impeccable source, stems from Shelvey’s alleged use of the phrase fucking couscous nonce.

Taking the 3 words under examination as a whole, it is abundantly clear that such a phrase is designed to insult and offend. The first word is an intensifying adjective; it is intended to strengthen the vehemence of the latter part of the utterance, simply because it is a profanity and therefore, generally, taboo in formal or indeed public conversation, if you’ve been brought up nicely.  Admittedly, we’ve come a long way since Kenneth Tynan’s famed debuting of the word on television back in the 60s, but it’s still regarded as the second most offensive word in the English language, according to BBC guidelines.  The final word, originally an item of prison slang, has seen an exponential explosion in its usage over the past two decades, whereby the most extreme obloquy and excoriation in society is reserved for those who sexually abuse children. As a survivor of child sexual abuse myself, I can state unequivocally that it is by far the most humiliating and enduring cruelty inflicted upon an innocent person imaginable. The physical abuse I suffered hurt like hell, but the cuts and bruises from my father’s feet and fists healed over time. The vestigial mental scars from emotional and sexual abuse are there to this day; truly, it took me more than 35 years to come to terms with what happened to me. That’s why I say, the word nonce is undoubtedly the most abominable and abhorrent insult imaginable; it should be used sparingly, directed only at those whose actions mean they fit the epithet.  A defensive midfielder, making his debut in the Championship, should not and indeed does not automatically trigger the conditions that suggest an accusation of being a child sex abuser is permissible.

We are therefore left with the middle word of this three-word expression; Couscous. When used descriptively, in a culinary sense, it refers to small pieces of steamed semolina, generally comprising the carbohydrate bulk in stews, popular across the whole North African region.  It’s a dish I like and Laura hates, so I tend not to make it, but whenever I see pots of it reduced in Sainsbury’s, especially the kind with raisins, I always pick it up for a lunchtime snack at work. However, and let’s be totally clear about this, in the context of the phrase fucking couscous nonce, it is not being used in any culinary way. Such an utterance is designed to be an insult and to offend; to claim otherwise is plainly ridiculous. However, gourmet insults are more popular than you might imagine. The French don’t call the English Les Rosbifs out of respect for the supposedly ubiquitous Sunday lunch staple, but to have a snide dig, which springs from a contemptuous attitude, rooted in a sense of Gallic cultural and culinary superiority. 

Take any powerful European country and you’ll find a kitchen-sink slur directed at a near neighbour; Italians are spaghetti-benders, Germans are sausage-eaters and the French are more than a tad fond of garlic.  If such insults are being traded among and between the major industrial nations listed above, it is pretty much fair game it seems to me. The difference comes when someone from a nation that has held dominion over another, or when the butt of the scorn is a formerly culturally and economically subjugated country, is the one dishing out the digs. This becomes a case, perhaps not of racism, but certainly of cultural insensitivity bordering on the chauvinist arrogance formed over centuries of imperialist oppression.  If Shelvey is found to have used the phrase he’s accused of, then I’d agree it was abusive with racial connotations, because of Morocco’s history as a victim of French and Spanish imperialism, with the enthusiastic support of Britain. One wonders exactly how Achraf Lazaar is feeling at this precise moment.

Saiss apparently speaks very little English and didn’t understand what Shelvey is alleged to have called him, which to me makes it worse and if it were to be proven, I would applaud the Wolves player who reported it to the FA.  If one uses the phrase fucking couscous nonce, one is attempting to hurt, offend or wound; if that is the case, one deserves censure. To all those who claim such insults are too minor to cause offence, I feel you are missing the point; the only person who can determine whether a barbed comment or intended insult is offensive or not, is the recipient.  Going back to my opening paragraph, whether it’s Romain Saiss or a former Trumptington follower who experiences upset or alarm as a result of targeted, personal abuse, it doesn’t matter; the perpetrators are the ones in the wrong and who need to have their unacceptable conduct brought to book.

The Shelvey situation has cast a shadow over this latest international break and the magnificent form shown by Newcastle United in the last few weeks. Wins over Brentford, Barnsley, Ipswich, Preston (twice), and Cardiff have helped to propel the club to the quarter finals of the EFL Cup and opened up an 8 point lead over third place. Indeed, the only source of displeasure for me has been Mitrovic’s conduct in the Preston cup game; his pitiful pleading to take the penalty and booking for taking off his shirt show him to be somewhere between immature and unprofessional. Let’s hope Daryl Murphy is fit again soon, as he’s a far more accomplished player and a calm head we need amidst the blood and thunder of a Championship battle. I worry exactly what Mitrovic will do in the white hot atmosphere at Elland Road for instance.

Of course if Shelvey is found guilty and does receive a ban, then there will be a huge hole in the centre of midfield that we simply don’t want Wearside Jack to be filling under any circumstances. Perhaps Hayden or Diame can do a job there, but such pragmatic practicalities don’t garner clicks on the Chronicle website. Instead, they seem determined to concoct a non-story a day, linking NUFC with every unattached midfielder under the sun. Last week it was Barton and this week it is Gerrard. Can you really see Rafa wanting either of those? Gerrard looks a perfect fit for Celtic, whilst Barton will never eat lunch in this town again.

I am intending to get hold of Barton’s autobiography and possibly Lee Clark’s as well, to contrast the takes on NUFC from two wildly divergent characters and players.  You see I loved Lee Clark and held Barton, paranoid, egotistical fool he is, in utter contempt. Barton, a lifelong Celtic fan, played like one in centre midfield for Rangers and is plainly over the hill. That said, I do feel a large amount of sympathy for him because of his recent diagnosis of stress.

Getting back to National Anti-Bullying Week, to suggest Barton should be insulated against mental illness because of his relative prosperity displays utter ignorance about the nature of depression.  Joey Barton is a whole encyclopaedia of negative behaviours and emotions, but one thing he can’t be accused of is lying about his feelings. Having lived with depression myself, I can tell you it isn’t something you’d wish on your worst enemy, never mind an unemployed footballer.

Champagne Cork

And so, after 4 successive Saturdays of mesmerising club football, the Championship judders to a depressing halt for one of the all-too frequent international autumnal interregnums; un autre quinzième sans le jeu joli, malheureusement… Though at least once the latest FIFA farce and poppycock is out the way, it’s back to domestic football bliss from 19^th November onwards in this country; weather permitting of course. Sadly in Ireland they’ve put away the strips, the nets, the corner flags and the dubbin until next March, so I thought it best to update you all on how the 2016 Irish season panned out in the end.

However firstly, we’d better have a look at a couple of the other Irish sporting competitions that I’ve written about before. This, of course, won’t include rugby union and Ireland’s victory over New Zealand in Chicago (apparently); some garrison games are still a little too garrison and Limerick even for me.

In the GAA, the main focus is now on club games. Each county runs its own championship; the winners of those then participate in a provincial championship and eventually the All Ireland club finals at Croker around St. Patrick’s Day. Of course, there are plenty of checks, balances, caveats and exceptions in the three grades of senior, intermediate and junior competition, based on ability not age. I’m hoping to get my head round the complexities in the near future. For instance, the various English champions (London, Warwickshire and Lancashire mainly) are exempt until the quarter final stage.  As far as the inter-county game is concerned, hurling stopped on 4^th September, when Tipperary edged out favourites Kilkenny 2-29 (35) to 2-20 (26) to lift the Liam MacCarthy Cup. In football, it wasn’t until 1^st October when Dublin eventually got the better of Mayo to win the Sam Maguire Cup after a replay. The first game was drawn 2-9 to 0-15, with an equally close replay ending 1-15 to 1-14 in the Jackeens’ favour, much to the chagrin of the Rhubarbarians.

Meanwhile, in the rarefied climes of the Leinster Cricket Union, the overall champions were Clontarf, mainly on account of Alex Cusack’s sparkling batting, while the side I’ve developed affection for, YMCA, came 5^th, as well as winning the Leinster Senior Cup. The side they defeated in the final, Leinster (the club), gained promotion as runners-up to the slightly out of Leinster Cork Constitution.  In the interprovincial tournament, Leinster Lightning proved there is nothing to fear from beyond The Pale, by claiming the 20/20, 50 over and 3 day competitions. On the other side of the coin, spare a thought for poor old Greystones 4^th team, who finished rock bottom of basement division 16, with a record of 1 win, 1 abandonment and 12 losses; even their solitary victory was only because of a walkover.  I’m looking forward to visiting Claremont Road in Sandymount next summer, as part of my annual undiplomatic mission.

Now; football. The Irish domestic season ended on 6^th November, with Cork City avenging their defeat in last year’s final, by overcoming Dundalk 1-0 with a goal in the last minute of extra time, in front of an encouraging 26,400 crowd. Dundalk would have celebrated the triple double if they’d won the FAI Cup, but can still console themselves by the fact they’re still in with a shout of progressing from the group stages of the Europa League. Such unprecedented European success in the modern era by an Irish club side has seen them draw with AZ Alkmaar and beat Maccabi Tel Aviv, meaning they are still in 2^nd place in Group C with a couple of games to go. Even if they bow out soon, it’ll be a tremendous achievement and one that will almost certainly ensure their continued dominance of the League of Ireland for the foreseeable future.

Elsewhere, Longford Town finished bottom of the Premier Division and swapped places with a resurgent Limerick side, whose only disappointment of the season just ending was in losing the EA League Cup final 4-1 to St Patrick’s Athletic. Having already seen off an obdurate and revitalised Cobh Ramblers in the first play-off round, Drogheda United sealed a fabulous comeback against Wexford Youths in the promotion v relegation tussle. Putting aside the misfortune of having lost 2-0 to Mick Wallace’s pink-shirted vanity projects at Ferrycarrig Park,  Drogs triumphed 3-0 at home, with ex-Mackem Sean Thornton’s penalty making it all Hunky Dory in Louth again.

Considering Wexford’s supposed advisor Lee Chin didn’t even bother attending the second leg, as it clashed with the GAA awards dinner, having excused himself by claiming the tie was as good as won, there will be little sympathy for boys from the pleasant Slaney in the wider League of Ireland community.  Similarly, Roddy Collins getting the boot at Waterford or the fate of the scoundrels running wooden-spoonists Athlone will provoke few tears. However, a far more vexed question is the potential ground share agreement between Bohemian and Shelbourne at a redeveloped Dalymount Park.

Bohs were formed in 1890; after a decade of gentle wandering through the less than leafy lanes of north inner Dublin, they opened Dalymount Park in 1901, on land that had charmingly been known as Pisser Dignam's Field. In 2006 they decide to sell the ground to developers, in return for a 10,000 seat stadium out by the airport until in 2008 the deal was dashed by the Irish Property Crash.  In 2015, after years of hand-wringing, Dublin City Council bought the ground in Phibsborough for €4m and promised to demolish and rebuild Dalier at a cost of €20m. Fair play to the Corpo, if you’re a follower of Big Club, which I am.

Shels were formed in 1895; their origins are in Ringsend, on the south side.  Their current ground is Tolka Park, less than 2 miles from Dalymount, in the adjoining suburb of Drumcondra.  Shels moved into Tolka in 1989, but had previously played there in the 1930s and 1940s, as well as other venues across the south side of the city, such as Harold’s Cross, Irishtown and Shelbourne Stadium. Rather ironically, Bohs are known as the Gypsies, not Shels.  Over the years, seven different League of Ireland clubs have used Tolka Park for home league matches on a regular basis: Drumcondra, Shelbourne, Dolphin, Home Farm, Dublin City, Shamrock Rovers and St James Gate F.C.

The main problem is both Dalier and Tolka are falling to bits and need serious attention. Predictably, Bohs are jubilant that their ground issues have seemingly been solved, securing their future. The ones unhappy with this deal are Shels, whose board announced last month that they will move into Dalymount Park next year, as Tolka has been sold for redevelopment. Obviously, the two clubs, Bohs and Shels, will need to find a temporary home while Dalier is being rebuilt in the future, but where remains unclear.

As ever, the only ones left disgruntled by boardroom machinations are the ones who nobody bothered to consult with in the first place; the fans of Shelbourne, who fear not only a dilution of their identity, but even the potential death of their club. Now I’m not a Shels fan, so I don’t fully understand the fury with which they’ve greeted this news, though the ghosts of Drumcondra, Home Farm, St James Gate, Sporting Fingal, Monaghan United loom large on the horizon. We’ve been here before in the League of Ireland and, undoubtedly, we’ll be here again.  If I can’t find anyone better qualified to tell you the story, I’ll do so myself.

Moyes Annoys

There’s a bizarre belief among football fans that passing informed comment on the fortunes of a rival team doesn’t demonstrate intelligence or perception on the part of the observer, but instead shows them to be obsessed; an insult almost as serious as being deemed a glory hunter, part-timer or Sky Boy. Such an attitude is baffling to the point of incomprehensibility; can you imagine a situation whereby a Labour politician was denied the opportunity to give an opinion on the latest Tory crime against humanity, on account of the fact it had “nothing to do with you?” Or Wordsworth’s biographer refused access to a conference on William Blake because “romantics aren’t welcome here pal?” Unfortunately this is exactly the kind of reaction touchy types from Wearside have as their default response when anyone dares pass comment about the fortunes of their team. If George Caulkin, Martin Hardy and Simon Bird are called out over the legitimacy of their opinions, then I realise I’m in for a rough ride once I share my thoughts, but here goes…

Quite frankly, Sunderland are in a worse situation than they were when they accumulated 19 points in their 2002/2003 relegation season; they’re now performing at about the same level as the famed 15 point fiasco of 2005/2006, with every chance of replicating the McMenemy era if things continue the way they are. What’s more, there is no realistic prospect of recovery in the medium or short term. Whether David Moyes stays or goes is really of no particular relevance; unless a billionaire takes over between now and the start of the transfer window, providing untold riches for a whole squad of signings, they are going down. Even with a fairy godfather on board, the current rate of progress means they could be needing snookers by Christmas.  I mean, I could be wrong and Moyes may oversee a May 2015 Leicester style revival, but it isn’t looking very likely is it?

The problem, as ever with top level football clubs, is that supposedly altruistic patrician lords of the manor are actually greedy, rapacious venture capitalists whose first and only loyalty is to their wealth. Like the Glazers, Hinks and Gillette, Randy Lerner and the whole sordid rogues’ gallery from the Halls to Ashley via Freddy Shepherd, these owners are motivated by profit margins and personal avarice; once it becomes clear that their prized cash cow is refusing to calve, interest soon dwindles and purse strings are tied tight with a double bow.  This is precisely where Sunderland are now; but how exactly did they get here?

Current owner Ellis Short, described repeatedly as an Irish American billionaire hedge fund speculator, has absolutely no links with Wearside, other than the football club he bought from Niall Quinn’s Drumaville Consortium. Back in 2006, with Kevin Ball as caretaker boss when the team went down with 15 points, a then record low, long-time owner Bob Murray, whose 20 seasons in charge had begun with the sacking of Lawrie McMenemy, signalled it was time to chuck the towel in. The rumour being he was suffering from stress-related depression; understandable after 2 decades of bankrolling that shower. Murray, despite the fact he endured hatred from the terraces (he was once glassed in Vujon curry restaurant on Newcastle Quayside, when enjoying a relaxing Balti with Mick McCarthy), was a real fan of his home town club, though similar to Gordon McKeague at NUFC, he just wasn’t very good at running it. Ironically though, he’d been seen as a trade up from his predecessor Tom Cowie, who’d fallen foul of the great unwashed by telling the truth when he announced Newcastle had better fans than Sunderland. The cavalry arrived in the shape of the Drumaville Consortium. The loathsome, oleaginous Niall Quinn assembled a predictable, pre-recession Irish squad of dodgy builders, chain licensees and horse owners, prepared to gamble a few quid on rescuing the football club I’ll concede he had a genuine affection for.  These shadowy operators shelled out £20m, which was chump change in the world of Irish credit back then, to buy the club outright. At first it was hilarious; they couldn’t find a manager, so Quinn took over for 6 successive defeats, then Roy Keane came in, acted all professional for a while and won promotion. Things carried on swimmingly until the Lads needed their readies sharpish and passed the club on to Short for the thick end of £50m, at which point Keane went mad, quit and the regular pattern of annual battles against relegation, unlikely escapes after beating Newcastle and sacking the manager began. So why should this season be any different to previous ones, apart from the removal of the annual NUFC points donation?

Firstly, the players; Jermaine Defoe is a class act, so is the injured Jan Kirchoff, while Borini (also injured), Van Aanholt and Pickford the keeper aren’t bad and I suppose O’Shea, Pienaar and Larsson have been decent players in the past. Sadly the rest are dross; absolute garbage who are lacking ability, motivation and any desire to fight and save their side. Take it from me; I remember the two dozen crash test dummies Rafa moved on from NUFC post demotion, so I know a load of lazy, lousy mercenaries when I see them. Other than Defoe they won’t score goals and even with him, they’ll never keep them out. If your main hope for a revival rests with the return of Lee Cattermole as a midfield playmaker, then you may as well hand in your Premier League resignation now.

Secondly, the manager; David Moyes looks like a bloke on the very edge of a nervous breakdown and has done since the season started. Now, I go back a long time with Sunderland managers; I remember Alan Brown getting the bullet in autumn 72 and Bob “well you know George” Stokoe, the man who finished off McMenemy’s handiwork by relegating them to Division 3, coming in. He was replaced in turn by Jimmy Adamson, on a gap year between his Burnley and Leeds gigs; the anonymous Billy Elliott and Ken Knighton did their bit, before Alan Durban arrived. Durban is chiefly remembered for telling supporters that if they wanted entertainment they should “go to the circus.” Once he got his P45, Len Ashurst pitched up; the man with the worst fringe in history got them to the League Cup final and relegated, before the legendary McMenemy arrived.

In 1987, the loathsome Dennis Smith, with his husky, high pitched paranoid media visions, came in for 4 years. He got the bullet on New Year’s Eve, at which point Malcolm “Willie Wonka” Crosby  stepped up from running a bed and breakfast hostel to managing a professional football club, losing his job after the Pools Panel opined that Tranmere would beat Sunderland. Next up was the comic era of Terry Butcher; a man so unhinged he’s beyond hilarious (though his stint at my beloved Hibs was far from a laughing matter).  Following a trouncing by Southend, the charismatic Mick Buxton and his compulsory flat cap came on the scene, for the standard 18 months of stagnant regression. With relegation to the third tier a knocking bet, Peter Reid was the final roll of the dice.

I have to say, unlike Sunderland fans, I liked and admired Reid; he had a good sense of humour and did his best to deflate the hysteria around Tyne-Wear derbies, unlike Smith and Butcher whose conduct was shameful. If Mackems look back on Reid’s time with rational eyes, they’ll be sad for what they lost when they drove him out for the Wilkinson and Cotterill dream team. After those crazy fools, Mick McCarthy was normality itself; a plain, blunt football man who I respect as well. Witness the job he has done at Wolves and now Ipswich with no money and little publicity. He also spoke well of Newcastle after our recent battering of Ipswich the other week.

So now we’re back to Keane, who did a sterling job and reveals in his autobiography that it was Ellis Short’s interference that drove him away. Next up was Ricky Sbragia and his Easter Island head, before the equally pulchritudinous Steve Brewse endured 3 years of abuse for being a Mag, especially after a certain 5-1 on Halloween 2010. He was always up against it, trying to win the fans over, with his background; mind his successor Martin O’Neill fared no better. Despite the merchandising slogan “party with Marty,” O’Neill actually took the team backwards and after 15 months was replaced by the loathsome Di Canio. The self-confessed fascist was bizarrely popular with South Tyneside’s most theatrically flamboyant NUFC super fan, but he was regarded with contempt by everyone else, including the Mackems once it became clear Di Canio had no clue how to manage a football team. His replacement was the shifty corprophiliac Poyet; he won 3 games against NUFC, but fell out with Short and the crowd.

The brief Advocaat interregnum saw them stay up in 2015, before he suddenly realised he wanted to retire after all, leaving the field clear for the biggest head of them all, Sam Allardyce; the man who made Sbragia and Brewse look like congenital microcephalus sufferers. Allardyce was the perfect fit for Sunderland; loud, demotic, ignorant and blessed with messianic arrogance. Naturally he kept them up, at our expense, before following the money to England and the Torygraph sting that hoist him with his own petard.

With Big Sam out the door, the choice of Moyes seemed to be a no-brainer, as he was the highest profile, most experienced seemingly safe pair of hands around. Yet it has all turned to dust, as his side currently boast 2 points from 10 games, which is not an unfair reflection of their labours thus far. Frankly Moyes himself set the tone, with his gloomy pronouncements after their home defeat to Middlesbrough. An opening day loss to Man City was, effectively, a free pass, but the Boro defeat, especially the manner of it, resulted in uproar. One tetchy fan approached the dugout, ranting and raving, while Moyes solemnly predicted a season of struggle against relegation. Three months on it seems like a struggle Sunderland will lose, but where could they turn to if Moyes walks or is pushed? Who would seriously take on a job like this? The one club that seems to thrive on constant turmoil and uproar is faced with the prospect of not only relegation, but a full-on meltdown with an owner who wants out, players who are not good enough and a manager who seems utterly unable to motivate his charges, limited though they may be.

There is one ray of hope; Moyes is banned from the dugout for their game away to Bournemouth on Saturday. I predict they’ll win 2-1, but it won’t make much difference in the long run I’m afraid…

https://youtu.be/aTVspy43xxI