The Fallen

2016 has been a frankly terrible year for humanity. It is disturbing to reflect on the awful scenes in Aleppo, the appalling increase in terrorist attacks at home and abroad, an increasingly intolerant domestic social atmosphere and the truly terrifying potential for devastation on an unimaginable scale by those post-truth elephants in the room: Brexit and the Trump Administration. It almost gets to the point where you can understand Stalin’s comment that the death of one man is a tragedy; the death of a million is a statistic.  

Bearing this in mind, I would accept that we have seen the deaths of a disproportionate number of those in the public eye. Demographically, this makes perfect sense as the definition of “celebrity status” and access to it, exploded exponentially in the 1960s with the advent of pop music and popular culture. The basic fact is, as Andy Warhol predicted, a whole load more people became famous, sometimes enduringly and sometimes briefly, about half a century ago. These days, those baby boomers are reaching their three score and ten Biblical allotment, meaning we will be seeing the regular departures of those we have loved.  In no particular order, and with the greatest respect to Cliff Michelmore and Terry Wogan, here is a list of 10 celebrities whose deaths affected me the most in 2016, because their work has touched my life at some point.

David Bowie: The quintessential 70s musical maverick. From The Man Who Sold the World to Lodger, he spanned the glam decade like a colossus. The first album I bought was Diamond Dogs in summer 74; tracks like We Are the Dead and Big Brother still compel with their beguiling, louche insouciance.

Johan Cruyff: The greatest midfielder I’ve ever seen. A dazzlingly talented, footballing genius who stole my heart with Holland at the 74 World Cup, as he moved from turning Ajax into a superpower to reviving the beating heart of Catalonia, FC Barcelona, where he also managed with conspicuous success. The Cruyff Turn is only equalled by the arrogant shrug of the shoulders he performed with such distinction when asked to explain his genius.

Dave Swarbrick: The finest fiddle player to come out of the 60s Folk Revival. He served with distinction and panache in the classic Fairport Convention line-up. An irascible old drunk, he was remembered with almost as much affection for his legendary short temper as his virtuoso violin pieces. Go listen to The Banks of the Sweet Primeroses to understand his appeal and legacy.

Fidel Castro: Not just a man, not just a politician, but an icon for those of us who refuse to cower to authority and imperialism. Castro oversaw a crime-free state with the world’s best healthcare, in the face of a near 60 year blockade by the US, acting as a beacon for all those who strive for freedom and self-determination.

Andrew Sachs: Aged 11, I can still remember the debut series of Fawlty Towers in September 1975. Every episode had me bad laughing; they still do and this must be the greatest legacy for a wonderful actor. The tragic thing to remember is, were his family seeking Asylum from the Nazis now rather than in 1938, Theresa May wouldn’t have allowed them in. Just think about the implications of that for a minute…

Muhammed Ali: I’m no boxing fan. I find it barbaric and frightening. Just look how all those repeated blows to the dead affected Ali. However, what I admired about him was his cultural importance. Everyone loved him when I was growing up. When Eldon Square was officially opened in 1977, the city didn’t ask The Queen to do the honours, despite the fact she was touring the country as part of her Silver Jubilee. Instead, Ali got the gig and a mate of mine got his copy of Pretty Vacant, released that same July morning, signed by the Greatest. The stuff of dreams and legends.

Barry Hines: The author of Kestrel for a Knave enriched the educational experiences of thousands of working class, northern kids, who learned that every school had the Billy Caspers, the McDowells and PE teachers like Sugden. What empowerment came from that knowledge, eh? Hines also penned the chilling Threads, imagining a post nuclear holocaust Sheffield. It was grim as it sounds.

Harper Lee:  As above; how much did we learn about tolerance and respect from To Kill a Mockingbird? The book and the film killed racism stone dead among my generation, allied with what punk taught us. Love brings unity; hate brings division and Harper Lee made sure we understood that.

Prince: Now I wouldn’t claim to be an expert on the bloke’s music, but nobody else quite managed that synthesis of James Brown and Mick Jagger quite like the Paisley Park fella. When Doves Cry, Sometimes it Snows in April, Raspberry Beret, Kiss: solid gold classics every one of them. The finest ever exponent of down and dirty sexy soul and funk.

Leonard Cohen: Musically, the death that has affected me above all others is that of the wonderful Leonard Cohen. While Bob Dylan remains my first and most enduring singer / songwriter crush, I adored much of Laughing Len’s output. I first heard him aged 12, in early 1977, when my older cousin Grahame gave me an old CBS compilation album, The Rock Machine Turns You On, which included The Sisters of Mercy. I immediately fell in love with Cohen’s voice and the atmospheric sparsity of the sound. Having, at that time, already embarked on a process of collecting all of Dylan’s early albums following my exposure to Highway 61 Revisited some months before, I did the same with Len. Then, as now, Songs Of and Songs from a Room were my favourites. Suddenly punk happened for me and the frankly baffling Phil Spector produced Death of a Ladies' Man stopped me in my tracks, as did Dylan's subsequent Christian bilgefest Slow Train Coming. I’ve never bought any subsequent product by either of them, but will adore until my grave the work they produced from 66-74 and 63-78 respectively.

Of course, like David Bowie, Leonard Cohen had penned his own musical epitaph, in the shape of You Want It Darker, which came out a month before his death. Unlike those awful jazz-tinged live albums he churned out, replete with hysterical backing singers and unnecessary alto sax waffling, this was stripped back, solemn, funereal and hilarious; the title track and the marvellous Treaty would go in a top 10 of my favourite Len moments. It is a fitting, self-penned obituary to a unique talent. Goodbye Chuckles; your work will endure. Incidentally my favourite cover version of all time is The Jesus & Mary Chain's go at Tower of Song.

Obviously the deaths of all these celebrities are deeply saddening, but it shouldn’t detract from the fact that the passing on of many ordinary people is an equal, if not greater, cause for sober reflection. In the last couple of years, a few of my very aged aunts and uncles have started to rest in peace, but as I didn’t really know them, their deaths haven’t affected me unduly. Instead, I looked to the 1,313 “friends” I have on Facebook and was quite startled to discover how many people I knew, directly or indirectly, whose presence remains on that list are actually no longer with us. Suspended like relics in amber, their profiles remain unchanged and unchanging, except for the occasional incongruous spambot or in memoriam post on their anniversary or birthday.

You may see it as trivial, but my Laura’s wonderful cat Prince who left us on 4 August 2012 still has his profile up there. He was a brilliant lad was Prince; spoiled rotten by Laura and firmly of the belief he needed 5 square meals a day, plus a bite of supper. He lived until the age of 16 and every day he breathed, he was Laura’s devoted companion. Still his memory lives on.

Tom O’Grady was a larger than life Teenage Fanclub devotee. Raised in Mitchelstown, County Cork, he made Luton his home and music, Spurs and socialising, his life. I met him twice at the 2006 Bandwagonesque gigs and he was superb company. Cancer claimed him in 2010. We TFC boarders talk of him fondly and with great regularity. Simply a fabulously entertaining bloke.

Joe McGinniss shot to fame with the new journalistic account of Nixon’s 68 election victory, The Selling of the President, a book I read at University and adored. He next crossed my path when, in early 2013, I read his account of the most unlikely of Serie A contenders The Miracle of Castel di Sangro. So impressed was I by his writing, I dropped him a line on Facebook and he replied the day after he’d seen Newcastle stutter to a 0-0 away to Norwich -:

Geordies are woeful.  And yesterday?  The cup?  Ouch! Pardew's got his tit

caught in a wringer.  8 year contract, with seven in Championship was not what he envisioned a high-flying year ago.  Italy is wholly corrupt on every level, but nonetheless I'd live there if I could. 

Joe was exceptionally knowledgeable about football and he read (and enjoyed!) my book about Percy Main Amateurs, Village Voice. For about a year we exchanged infrequent emails and messages about football and politics, before prostate cancer took Joe in March 2014. I am delighted to have been in contact with him, however superficially.

Karel van Bergen was a mad, camp, crazy New Zealander of Germany ethnicity, who played violin in the Band of Holy Joy; he was simply beguiling to watch.  While he moved away from the band to live in Munich, he kept in touch and was a regular Facebooker, where we became pals. I only ever met him twice at BOHJ Newcastle gigs, but he was charming company.  He left us at the end of August 2013.

Jackie Leven was the driving force behind Doll By Doll, whose 1979 magnum opus Palace of Love still makes it onto my turntable. He had a lengthy solo career, where his artistic integrity was sometimes hampered by his liberal to excessive reliance on drink and drugs. Like his fellow Scots John Martyn and Bert Jansch, his expert guitar playing, both fluent and beautiful, kept him going through the hard times. I sent him a message explaining how much I admired him and received a two word reply; Cheers Pal.

Finally, Jo Wallace. Jo taught English Literature at Carlisle College and I knew her when I worked on the Higher Education Foundation Certificate programme at Northumbria University. She was a hard working young lass, always bright, always positive, who made ends meet by working at a variety of colleges across the North West, from her home in Runcorn. Less than a year before she left, she secured a full-time, permanent job in her home town and when I saw her last in July 2014, I wished her all the best for the future. We kept on touch on Facebook regularly; griping and moaning about bullying managers, insane admin tasks and the general feelings of being undervalued and underappreciated in FE. I knew she was due a neurological operation in May 2015, but it stunned me when she passed on during surgery, leaving a young daughter. Her death was a tragedy undoubtedly, but she touched so many people’s lives and did such good, I feel proud to have known her. Rest easy Jo x

And to you all; I wish a better 2017 than 2016 xxx

The Best Christmas Present Ever

Received wisdom holds that the football season goes on far too long. Ignoring the grotesquery that is the professional game, I can see the truth in that statement; pre-season friendlies can begin on July 1^st and grassroots games below Northern League level only need to wrap up by May 31^st. Eleven whole months of it stands in total opposition to the window of pulchritude offered by the most beautiful game of them all; local cricket. Sadly the North East Premier League runs for a mere 22 weeks and, for half of that time at least, I’ve got to put the fortunes of my beloved Newcastle Benfield as my number one priority.

Please note; everything I say from this point onwards is at the mercy of Mother Nature’s caprices. The NEPL begins in 2017 on April 15^th and ends on September 9^th; I know this as my Christmas came early with the publication of next season’s fixtures on December 15^th. We learned of the scheduled Saturday games and the 20/20 outline for firsts and seconds, midweek and Sunday fixtures for third teams and Academy sides, as well as the draws for the early rounds of the various Banks knock-outs: Salver, Bowl, Cup and Shield. Enough data for an obsessive like me to spend Black Eye Friday night poring over the early season fixtures, with the idea of knocking up a potential cricket-watching schedule for mid-April to the end of June. Bear in mind that we had snow in May 2016 of course.

Currently, Benfield’s fixtures finish on April 22^nd with a trip to Chester le Street; the only other game during the cricket season, as things stand, is home to West Auckland on April 15^th. As you’ll no doubt be aware, my cricket support is shared between Tynemouth and Newcastle, so watching their first teams on Saturdays will be my stated priority. Bearing in mind the way things have transpired, watching Newcastle at home in the first 2 Saturdays of the season is a sensible course of action. Here’s hoping they’ve retrieved the balls Captain Nicotine despatched into Jesmond Dene back in September and that floodlights on Osborne Avenue have been installed in time for the visit of the crepuscularphobic Chester le Street outfit on April 22^nd, where I think Oli McGee only needs 3 for his half century. Tynemouth Academy will have my support on April 16^th, with the first side subsequently enjoying my patronage from the home game against Felling on April 29^th until South North visit Preston Avenue on June 24^th. I’ve not looked further ahead than that. In those opening 3 months, the highlight will be the game against Newcastle on May 27^th as I’m fully intending to sponsor that game, which I hope will be Ponces Picnic #2.

That said, I am also setting myself the target of, as soon as practicable, visiting the 11, or 12 if you include the eminence grise of South Hetton’s participation in the Midweek League, grounds NEPL I’ve not seen cricket in. Weather, hangovers and the toad work, that insists on squatting on my life with a late finish on Wednesday evenings that suggests I may not make it to South Hetton before July 19^th, all notwithstanding.  The only 2 premier division clubs I’ve not visited are Stockton, who host Tynemouth on May 6^th and Hetton Lyons, where the Croons visit on June 17^th. There’s also an away 20/20 First XI at Seaham Harbour on Friday June 16^th and the Second XI 20/20 heats at Washington on June 11^th. The other unvisited grounds require a little bit of creative scheduling, as I’m bereft of low-hanging fruit, with the result I’ve come up with the following itinerary.

Saturday 15^th April: Newcastle v Eppleton, NEPL Premier Division

Sunday 16^th April: Tynemouth Academy v South North 3rd XI

Saturday 22^nd April: Newcastle v Chester le Street, NEPL Premier Division

Sunday 23^rd April: Mainsforth 3^rd XI v Seaham Harbour 3rd XI

Saturday 29^th April: Tynemouth v Felling, NEPL Premier Division

Saturday 30^th April: Willington 2^nd XI v Newcastle 2^nd XI, Banks Bowl

Monday 1^st May: Burnopfield v Eppleton, Banks Salver

Saturday 6^th May: Stockton v Tynemouth, NEPL Premier Division

Saturday 13^th May: Tynemouth v South Shields, NEPL Premier Division

Sunday 14^th May: Sacriston 3^rd XI v Brandon 3^rd XI

Friday 19^th May: Newcastle v Tynemouth, 20/20 Group C

Saturday 20^th May: Whitburn v Tynemouth, NEPL Premier Division

Sunday 21^st May: Brandon 3^rd XI v Boldon A

Friday 26^th May: Tynemouth v Durham Academy, 20/20 Group C

Saturday 27^th May: Tynemouth v Newcastle, NEPL Premier Division

Sunday 28^th May: Sunderland 3^rd XI v Brandon 3^rd XI

Wednesday 31^st May: Burnmoor v Washington, Midweek League

Friday 2^nd June: Tynemouth v Burnopfield, 20/20 Group C

Saturday 3^rd June: Eppleton v Tynemouth, NEPL Premier Division

Friday 9^th June: Tynemouth v Sacriston, 20/20 Group C

Saturday 10^th June: Tynemouth v Chester le Street, NEPL Premier Division

Sunday 11^th June: Washington v Hetton Lyons v Tynemouth, 2^nd XI 20/20

Friday 16^th June: Seaham Harbour v Tynemouth, 20/20 Group C

Saturday 17^th June: Hetton Lyons v Tynemouth, NEPL Premier Division

Saturday 24^th June: Tynemouth v South North, NEPL Premier Division

While I currently intend to follow this schedule, it should be noted that Banks Salver and Bowl second round games, as well as the elephant on the boundary rope of Northumberland county fixtures, need to be factored into the equation, when that esoteric and seemingly embargoed information becomes available. Needless to say, I’m also keen on maintaining the tradition of my annual visit to the Scottish Juniors in late May or early June. That said, unlike the Brexit cretins, I’ve published my plans early. Please feel free to join me; especially at Tynemouth against Newcastle at Preston Avenue on May 27^th. 

Borrowed Time

Back in September, I retired from 11 a side football & wrote a long, impassioned blog about it(http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2016/09/full-time.html); now recently published Stand issue #20 has printed this edited version -:

In June 2001, aged almost 37, I believed I’d completed my final season of 11-a-side football. Having spent two academic years working in Slovakia, and more importantly keeping goal for the expatriate Bratislava Academicals club, I’d decided to return home. Of rather more immediate concern was securing paid employment in the day job than finding a team to play for, though I did pick up a couple of regular 5-a-side kickabouts each week, topped up with infrequent challenge matches at work. 

Consequently it was something of a bolt from the blue when my mate Hezza asked if I fancied a game in the North East Over 40s League in late summer 2005, as his team’s regular keeper was on holiday. Formed in 1979, the league consists of 5 divisions of 16 teams, extending from Richmond in North Yorkshire to Ashington in Northumberland, giving well over 1,000 blokes in their 40s, 50s, sometimes 60s and very occasionally 70s, the chance to play competitive football at 10.30 every Saturday morning for 8 months of the year, with the only concessions for age being 5 roll-on / roll-off substitutes and a truncation of the game to 80 minutes.  It’s a deadly serious business; you have to provide your passport as proof of age before you can be registered.  Ringers and wrong’uns, as well as culpable secretaries, get sine die bans if caught.

So it was on Saturday 20^th August 2005, over 4 years since I’d last stood in front of a full sized set of goals in a properly competitive context, I made my debut for Heaton Winstons (aka Wallsend Winstons aka Wallsend Boys Club Veterans) in Division 4 of the Mill View WMC Over 40s League, away to The Welcome Inn at Blue House Fields in Hendon, Sunderland (the original home of SAFC in 1879 no less) and conceded half a dozen unanswered goals. We changed by the side of the pitch. New players were introduced to old campaigners in the warm up. The only person I knew was Hezza.  I was a bag of nerves, but couldn’t be blamed for any of the goals as the opposition, a right bunch of hairy arsed Mackem radgies, steamrollered us. At full time, everyone paid £4 subs. I loved every second of it, despite the result.

The following week, with John the regular keeper still away, I kept my place as we went to top flight Cramlington Burton House in the whole league Villa Real Cup. This time I felt a little less terrified about playing, partly because we took the lead after about 15 seconds; I can still see skinny Robbie Morrow, a whippet of a winger, scampering down the touch line, then slinging in a cross for Brian Jones, a secondary school deputy head rather than his more exotic, iconic namesake, to power a header home from the penalty spot. I made a couple of really smart stops, but class told and we eventually lost 3-1, which was no disgrace.

Week 3; we are away again, this time in the League to Hartlepool Navy Club on a pitch absolutely decimated by mole activity. John the regular keeper is back, but it’s agreed we play a half each. Tim, our bouffant-haired professional trombonist left back, takes a free kick on the halfway line. It sails into the box, lands on a molehill and proceeds to die, scuttling along the floor and apologetically dribbling into the net. We’re still giggling about it at half time when we change round a goal up. I go off for John, who proceeds to concede 3 absolute jokes in 10 minutes, before we get a late consolation. The full time inquest concludes that, as we’ll be back to full strength next week as the holiday season is over, there’s no need for panic; especially as our manager Ash is heading to Spain for a month. This means our secretary steps in as boss; he’s called Dave and is a solicitor. John the keeper is a solicitor as well. Perhaps that’s why he shrugs off his howlers. Consequently, I got 2 more games in goal that whole season when John was on his February skiing break, though I found myself playing in a variety of outfield roles as an emergency substitute when we were severely depleted, on about a dozen occasions. That becomes my signature role; unused spare keeper, flag waving assistant ref and bit part sub. Meanwhile m’learned friend in nets concedes an average of 3 goals a game, at least one being a lob and another at his near post.

We finished 4^th bottom that year. In 2006/2007 we secured the antepenultimate berth. Thereafter, we went on a recruitment drive and signed some less than terrible players, to finish 6^th in 2007/2008. The tough thing about the bottom division is that each season a couple of new clubs, often from sizeable communities, generally consisting of Sunday morning teams who have grown old together, join and more often than not, run away with the league, while teams higher up find they’re just too old and pack in. As a result occasionally more than 3 teams are promoted to fill up the gaps; in 07/08 the top 5 went up. We missed out by a point and it looked like our ship had sailed, as in the following years we finished 8^th, 9^th, 11^th, 12^th and 9^th again. In all those seasons, bar an extended run in 08/09 when John was out injured from January onwards, I played a maximum of 6 games a season, but remained involved as webmaster, treasurer and linesman. I was the archetypal clubman; the spare keeper at one of the worst sides in the region.

However, summer 2013 saw a revolution at Winstons. We moved pitches from the sometimes swamplands, often dustbowl Paddy Freeman’s pitches in High Heaton, where one end of season home game had to be postponed when we discovered the council had rotovated the goalmouths without telling us, to the Bigges Main home of the legendary Wallsend Boys’ Club. A subtle change of name from Heaton to Wallsend Winstons enabled us to recruit half a dozen top quality, youngish players; blokes I’d paid money to watch in the Northern Alliance and Northern League. Fellas who’d turned out for my club Newcastle Benfield in the past, like Tom Rantoul who got 46 goals that season, the same as his strike partner Chris Arnott.  Wallsend lads, who looked upon it as an honour to represent their home town.

One of the new arrivals was former Percy Main keeper Ian Hall; a fitness fanatic who dominated his area and specialised in top drawer saves. I couldn’t hold a candle to him. Sometimes you just know when it is time to go and I prepared for retirement. Suddenly John the keeper announced he “wasn’t standing on the touchline for anyone” and transferred to Mill View WMC, meaning I resumed my place as back-up keeper. Except Hally then broke his foot in our season-opening cup tie win over South Shields Catholic Club. The result was I was back between the posts for the next 8 games. As a keeper I’ve always prided myself on good reactions, safe handling and decent kicking, but I’m lousy in the air when it comes to crosses and ponderously slow. Despite this, we won every one, scored loads and I had virtually nothing to do as we roared to a league and cup double, winning the league by 27 points. The trophy was presented live on Football Focus, in a special edition from Wallsend Boys’ Club. To paraphrase Larkin, I’d never known success so whole and unexpected. Hally would go off for me whenever the game was clearly won; I really appreciated the way he thought about me. It hadn’t been like that before.  

In 2014/2015, we missed promotion by 2 points, but won the higher divisional cup. In 2015/2016, the cup remained in our possession and we eased to promotion as runners-up. In the last game of the season, I played instead of Hally, keeping a clean sheet in an almost unheard of goalless draw.  For the first time ever, I was named Man of the Match. During the summer, I celebrated my 52^nd birthday and the club changed its name to Wallsend Boys Club Over 40s. With Hally on his jollies, I joined the hallowed ranks of Alan Shearer, Michael Carrick, Steve Bruce, Lee Clark and Alan Thompson, debuting for “the Boyza” in a 2-1 loss to Newton Aycliffe Cobblers’ Hall in the Villa Real Cup. Neither goal was my fault.

August 20^th 2016 marked the 11^th anniversary of my first appearance; things had changed a bit in the interim period in terms of playing strength. We went in 8-0 up against Gateshead Team Club, so I came on for Hally as part of wholesale changes to give everyone a run out. The final score was 10-0 and, in all honesty, I didn’t even touch the ball. I remained sub not used in subsequent weeks as we defeated Pelton Crown 4-2 away and Hartlepool Catholic Club 4-1 at home on the first Saturday in September, but didn’t worry as I knew Hally was away for the following weekend we were due to play North Shields Pineapple.

I’d not been well in the week leading up to the Hartlepool fixture; the tail end of a summer cold had given way to a chest infection which, allied to my constant intimations of mortality, in the shape of clicking, arthritic knees and incessant lower back pain from a dodgy SI joint, had me beat. I’d come in from work on the Friday, worn out and struggling for breath as I sat down to take my shoes off. There was no other explanation for my decrepitude; I was actually feeling properly old for the first time in my life. Allied to that, I somehow managed to forget my boots that morning and had been forced to root through the bag of abandoned kit for a pair that were almost the right fit. Half a size too large, they chafed my heel, leaving a blood blister that lasted the following week.

Limping back to the changers, manager Ash introduced me to Davy, a decade my junior, 4 inches taller and 5 stones lighter, who I was told “will be playing in nets next week.” Three years on from my presumed retirement, this time I knew the game really was up. Clubs at our level don’t have third choice keepers, so I shook hands and wished him all the best, before announcing my immediate retirement, except in dire emergencies.

This decision wasn’t a strop or a sulk; it was made in the best interests of the team. It was also a decision made for my best interests, as I realised the process of ageing catches up on us all. In my 11 years with Winstons, I must have played with the thick end of 100 players; only 1 of them (no names, no pack drill) I really didn’t get on with. In all that time Ash has been the manager, while only 4 of us who played against The Welcome Inn still show up now. Aidan, still getting his game in centre midfield, is 56; Rod is 67 in November and will always make himself available when we’re short, while Trev is 61 and made 2 appearances last year but still comes along to watch. Like the latter pair, I’m still determined to follow the lads representing the club I’ve been proud to call my own for more than a decade.

In contrast to my first appearance, Davy saved a penalty as we won 4-1 against North Shields Pineapple, but was on the line the week after when we went joint top after beating Darsley Park 3-1. I saw both games, held the flag, kicked every ball and punched the air when we scored. It’s in the blood you see.

I haven’t retired from playing completely; 6-a-sides on Monday and Thursday will continue until I physically can’t play any longer. There are still 2 pairs of £50 keeper gloves and a brace of proper keeper tops and bottoms to get full use from. However, I have rationalised and thinned out the amount of kit in the bottom of the wardrobe. Rolls of tape, spare laces, boot spanners and a plethora of half empty tubes of tiger balm; all gone to charity, recycling or land fill. In some ways it reminded me of emptying my dad’s wardrobe after his passing.  The essential difference between death and retirement, is that my departure from the 11-a-side game is both voluntary and without regrets.

Over 40s football gave me not only 3 winners’ medals (my only previous one was from the D&P Garages Trophy from Sunday football in 1993), but endless glorious memories (penalty saves against Willow Pond in 2008 and Darsley Park in 2013, a goal as an emergency striker versus Peterlee Helford in February 2007) of minor triumphs, close friendships, endless mickey taking, lots of serious drinking and an unbreakable bond of belonging that I’ll take to my grave.

Winstons, I gave you everything for 11 years, but I gained an infinite amount more in return and for that I’m eternally grateful.

Christmas Cakes & Ale

We’re in December you know; where the hell did that come from? In a couple of weeks I’ll turn my attention to the annual tables of gigs and releases of the year and, sad to say, a list of remembrances for those who’ve passed on in 2016.  It’s been a sad old year.

Musically, the death that has affected me above all others is that of the wonderful Leonard Cohen. While Bob Dylan remains my first and most enduring singer / songwriter crush, I adored much of Laughing Len’s output. I first heard him aged 12, in early 1977, when my older cousin Grahame gave me an old CBS compilation album, "The Rock Machine Turns You On," which included "The Sisters of Mercy." I immediately fell in love with Cohen’s voice and the atmospheric sparsity of the sound. Having, at that time, already embarked on a process of collecting all of Dylan’s early albums following my exposure to “Highway 61 Revisited” some months before, I did the same with Len. Then, as now, “Songs Of” and “Songs from a Room” were my favourites. Suddenly punk happened for me and the frankly baffling Phil Spector produced "Death of a Ladies' Man" stopped me in my tracks, as did Dylan's subsequent Christian bilgefest "Slow Train Coming." I’ve never bought any subsequent product by either of them, but will adore until my grave the work they produced from 66-74 and 63-78 respectively.

Of course, like David Bowie, Leonard Cohen had penned his own musical epitaph, in the shape of “You Want It Darker,” which came out a month before his death. Unlike those awful jazz-tinged live albums he churned out, replete with hysterical backing singers and unnecessary alto sax waffling, this was stripped back, solemn, funereal and hilarious; the title track and the marvellous “Treaty” would go in a top 10 of my favourite Len moments. It is a fitting, self-penned obituary to a unique talent. Goodbye Chuckles; your work will endure. Incidentally, other than Velvet Crush's take on "Everything Flows," my favourite cover version of all time is The Jesus & Mary Chain's go at "Tower of Song."

One death that bypassed the mainstream media was the tragically early departure of Vic Godard’s wife Georgina (aka George aka Gertie), who was a constant presence at his annual Newcastle gigs, always at the merchandise stall, as well as maintaining an erudite and fascinating blog on the website for the notoriously technophobic Vic. This year, the stars seemed to have aligned as Vic and The Band of Holy Joy were playing together at the Cumberland on a Friday night. Only a week before, the gig was pulled and less than a week later George was dead, of a particularly aggressive type of cancer. There really were no words, but Johny Brown and friends found some, in a beautiful tribute on their Resonance FM programme that I listened to in floods of tears. In these times of social media contact, your heroes become your friends and I’m delighted to have known George, however superficially. I do note, with elation that Vic is gigging again; I send him all my regards.

Because of Vic’s troubles, I found myself with a spare Friday night, so I took the opportunity to see Sean Keane at the Irish Centre for the Tyneside Irish Festival. He wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t quite the authentic Sean Nos I’d hoped for. That said; he did a delicious version of “There Were Roses” by Tommy Sands, which I’d last heard by Andy White probably 30 years previously. Quite ironically, the only book I’ve read of late is “Addicted to Murder” by Michaela Sitfold. It’s an express written cash-in about Harold Shipman, published in the window of financial opportunity between conviction and suicide. It is possibly the most superficial, worst written and banal accounts of evil I’ve had the misfortune to come across. Then again, I’ve just accepted a review copy of Norman Bettison’s self-justifying autohagiography “Hillsborough Untold.” I’ve made it through the opening 65 pages with my teeth permanently on edge. Goodness I look forward to laying into this despicable tome.

However, let’s move on to happier matters; a pair of brilliant gigs by my favourite bands that brought the concert-attending year to a close. Teenage Fanclub at Whitley Bay Playhouse on Wednesday 16 November and The Wedding Present at The Point in Sunderland on Friday 2 December. A key difference between the two bands is the number of opportunities one has to see them in the flesh; this was the first time The Fannies had played the north east since November 2005, while I was seeing the Weddoes for the fourth time in 2016, at four different venues, with four different sets and an already scheduled visit to the Academy next June to play George Best. Suffice to say, David Gedge has a higher profile than Norman, Gerry, Raymond, Francis and Dave. However, neither familiarity breeds contempt nor absence makes the heart grow fonder applies to either of these bands. For instance, since November 2005, I’d seen TFC on 5 separate occasions in Glasgow.

In terms of venues, surroundings and ambience, the two evenings could not have been more contrasting. For Teenage Fanclub, I’d purchased 3 tickets, with Ben coming up from Leeds to join Laura and me, for his first ever TFC gig. We met in the new micropub that has just opened in Monkseaton station; I have to say the Left Luggage Room is just about perfect in terms of décor, ambience, clientele and, above all, beer; this is simply a jewel in the crown of coastal drinking and an antidote to the bland uniformity of Monkseaton Front Street and the horrors of Whitley (Rockcliffe Arms excepted). What made it even better was the sheer number of punters I knew; all on their way to the Playhouse for the Fannies.

As ever, the support was ignored and we made our way to the venue with 15 minutes to spare; until curtain up, I spent the entire time saying hello to loads of people I’d not seen in ages. Literally, I must have known at least half the audience, which was great for nostalgic reasons. I’ve always found TFC followers to be like a family and this reinforced it tonight. Admittedly it wasn’t the greatest of venues, being all-seated, but I soon got over that problem, charging down the front after the opening notes of I Don’t Want Control of You. Frankly, my dancing is an embarrassment, so it was beneficial for Ben and Laura that I got out of their way, so I didn’t hamper their enjoyment.

My enjoyment level, as ever, was stratospheric. I do feel the Weddoes with Going Going have won album of the year by a short head from Here, but TFC won gig of the year; not just the obvious highlights of Sparky’s Dream, It’s all In My Mind, The Concept, Verisimilitude and Don’t Look Back, but the growing realisation that Raymond McGinley has never been more vital to the band than he is now.  Gerry does the sweetness and Norman knocks how to rock, but Raymond is the eccentric craftsman, taking us down proggy, folky, indie, jazzy byways that make his work just that little bit extra special.

At the end, I spotted Kerry from Kelso, who I’d met in 2006 at the Banwagonesque gigs in London and Glasgow; she was alone, so we took her under our wing and managed to make last orders in Whitley’s grotesque Town House, as ropey a chain pub as you could imagine, but it was quiet, deserted and we could have a chat and a sit. It truly was a wonderful night. In some ways I was a little sad I’d opted for The Weddoes at Sunderland rather than TFC at Barras for the first weekend of December, but in the end, I think I made an economically sensible decision.

Having seen The Weddoes on Laura’s birthday with Ginge, it was perfectly sensible I saw them on his birthday with him. This time, having seen then do a greatest hits set supporting The Wonder Stuff (we left before they spoiled the evening) at the Academy in March, doing Saturnalia in Leeds at the end of May, doing all of Going Going at the Sage, this was a traditional headlining set, drawn from all aspects of their career.  We’d been lucky enough to get a lift there from Ginge’s wonderful Heather; we grabbed a pint in Sunderland’s best bar, The Dun Cow, before ignoring the desperately deteriorating Borough in favour of the frankly bizarre, and deserted supposed Bier Kellar, Bavaria. Lovely Erdinger mind. From there we headed to The Point, which looked like a bingo hall from the outside and had illuminated stairs like Santa’s Grotto, but had a decent shape to it and wasn’t exactly packed.

The evening started with  Give my Love to Kevin, included other early stuff like My Favourite Dress and also several numbers from the new album in the 19-song, 85 minute set, which highlighted the latest guitarist to work with Mr Gedge. Australian Marcus Kain is a dazzling axeman, but I would imagine his foot on the monitor, hand shaking histrionics may be frowned on by the band’s owner.  My highlights were Dalliance, simply because it’s one of the best numbers they’ve ever written, a pulsating Flying Saucer and an absolutely storming Dare. A great night, even if I only knew 4 people in the audience.

Gig over; we headed back towards our pick up point, which resulted in a frankly disturbing experience. A Wetherspoons, in Sunderland, on a Friday night, surrounded by lumpen authoritarian populists; the white working and underclass who are implacably opposed to the cultural assumptions, such as a respect for human rights, immigration, feminism and diversity,  that are the bread-and-butter of liberal democracy. These are not my people; Sunderland, having been twice in a week after attending Ryhope CW 4 Marske United 2 with Harry the previous Saturday, is not my town. Teenage Fanclub and The Wedding Present are my bands, together with my darling Trembling Bells.

Incidentally the title comes from my mother once referring to The Wedding Present as The Christmas Cakes…….