2016/2017 Fanzine CV

Well, for any budding Boswells out there, here's what I got into print during the season just ended -:

28 Newcastle Benfield programmes

2 Tyneside Amateur League Cup final programmes

1 Tynemouth v Newcastle NEPL programme:

View From The Allotment End #1: Allotment Guilt

The Popular Side #13: The Fulwell End

The Football Pink #13: The Times They Are A-Changin’

View From The Allotment End #2: The Quiet Men

Hopeless Football Romantic #6: The Quiet Men (augmented)

Stand #20: Closing Time

The Popular Side #14: Popular Front, 13 Wasted Years & Christmas Comes Early

View From The Allotment End #3: Abuse In The System

The Football Pink #14: Rewriting History

View From The Allotment End #4: Cross Words

The Football Pink #16: The Concept

Stand #21: Pied Beauty

Sounds of Summer

MUSIC:

When last I wrote about culture, I was compelled to dedicate the piece to my friend Alex Neilson, drummer, polymath and wandering troubadour, who had suffered the tragic loss of his younger brother Alastair. My sympathies are still for the grieving Neilson family, but I would still beg indulgence to write a few words on Alex’s solo debut, Vermillion, released under the name Alex Rex.

This is not the time for false modesty. Vermillion is a work of genius. It is perhaps the best solo album to be released since the Bringing It All Back Home, Highway 61 Revisited, Blonde on Blonde trilogy. Like those three magnum opi, there is a seam of eclectic genius running through the project that Alex and his collaborators (the usual helpers; Alasdair, Lavinia and Mike) mine imaginatively and zealously, but not exhaustively. The subterranean pit of Neilson’s artistry has many shafts of magnificence as yet undiscovered.  With typical insouciance, it begins with Screaming Cathedral; a duet with Lavinia Blackwall that is more Bosch and Dante than Peters and Lee; “it’s horror heaped on horror,” they endlessly chirp like Sonny and Cher jamming with The Third Ear Band on the walls of Bamburgh Castle.  Postcard from a Dream has vocals similar to Visions of Johanna, pushed along by a jolly electric organ and an optimistic spring in its step. Just lovely.

The Perpetually Replenished Cup must be the only song in 2017 that borrows from Wilhelmus van Nassau, the national anthem of the Netherlands (a fact admitted to in a tweet by Alex himself) and turns it into an endearingly shambolic Klezmer pub crawl of a song. Best of all Song for Dora begins with an unaccompanied doo wop surreal poem in the style of Ginsberg, before a tight and dirty Magic Band style romp, with the most effective three note fuzztone guitar figure you’ll hear all year. Then all of a sudden, it’s Song for Athene at last orders in a social club Karaoke. You can’t want more than that. It is the finest album of 2017 so far and only likely to be bettered when Trembling Bells release Dungeness late this year.

The last time I saw Alex was when he was drumming for Shirley Collins at the Sage in March.  Another Glasgow based artist who sought to work with a grande dame of the folk tradition is Aidan Moffat, the engaging , bearded Arab Strap singer and sometime Bill Wells collaborator. Seeking to rewrite traditional Scottish folk songs for the modern world, he contacted the legendary travelling balladeer Sheila Stewart. Their artistic relationship was sometimes spiky, often frosty and bedevilled by distrust; on her part at least. Perhaps her songs were so personal to her and almost living fossils of an extinct age; she was reluctant to let them go. Thankfully, Moffat was not dissuaded.

The documentary and live album Where You’re Meant To Be chronicles the project from the inauspicious start to the triumphant climax at a packed Barrowlands. Sadly Sheila died just before the project was released, but Moffat talks (and writes in the sleevesnotes) of her with enormous fondness. While numbers such as The Ball of Kirriemuir, both in traditional and modern forms, will never be anything more than rugby club singalongs, the achingly poignant beauty in both words and music of the title track and the musical deoch an doris that is The Parting Song could never be beaten. At Barrowlands, Sheila barged on stage to deliver her version of The Parting Song, which can be seen on the documentary, as she emphatically dropped the microphone on Moffat. Sadly, sound quality issues meant the Sheila-less performance at Drumnadroichit makes up the CD and it is great, like all of Moffat’s stuff. Nobody else could deliver the line “another wee ned with another burst nose” and make it sound like poetry.

As a companion and a comparison, I also bought a Sheila Stewart sampler; Songs from the Heart of the Tradition. Now I don’t know if it’s my instinctive bias towards the Irish over the Scots and the English when it comes to the folk tradition, but like Shirley Collins, I find that a small amount of Sheila works well enough; obviously The Parting Song, but also Ewan McColl’s Moving On Song, the standard Blackwaterside and the compelling  Oxford Tragedy are worth the entrance fee alone. However, the rest of it can seem a little too much like Lulu with Jimmy Shand at the White Heather Club to these untrained ears.

2016 was the year of 4 Wedding Present gigs; in comparison 2017 has been a Gedgeless desert. Having made the schoolboy error of assuming there would be Stockton tickets left at the gig itself, I missed out on the March tour. Thankfully, there was the 30^th Anniversary George Best farewell tour to look forward to, especially as Newcastle didn’t get a visit on the 20^th anniversary tour for some reason (not that we’ve been short of Weddoes gigs recently).  The only that that put me off was the fact it was at the Academy, on whose sticky carpets I’d last trodden in March 2016 for TWP supporting The Wonder Stuff.  Considering recent Weddoes Newcastle gigs have been at Think Tank, The Cluny and Riverside, this showed that they were again on an upward trajectory in terms of audience figures; though that was as much to do with a deeply ingrained sense of nostalgia than anything else I’ll admit.

As is oft the case on these occasions, we had a few other numbers to warm us up. It was a slightly arcane set list, with the instrumentals Scotland and England bookending this section. As I’ve said previously, I adore the instrumentals on Going Going and The Home Internationals, seeing a whole new potential Gedge oeuvre nascently flowering, though I’m not sure the well-behaved crowd really got what this bit was all about. Perhaps that’s why Ben and I could slowly creep forward through a static crowd to the point the Academy’s notoriously muddy PA could be counteracted by the sound of the back line. Meanwhile Broken Bow and Deer Caught in the Headlights were both received deliriously by those who knew them and politely by those who didn’t. The stand-out songs, as opposed to instrumentals, from the opening bit were a truly down and dirty Love Slave and a stunning Click Click which is sounding better now than at any time since Watusi.

And so to George Best; it’s a classic isn’t it? The album that defined the received, though incorrect, popular opinion of TWP as the C86 band it’s acceptable to like. Obviously it’s not their greatest album; Seamonsters, Watusi and possibly Going Going vie for that accolade. It does contain great songs, as well as the bona fide drop dead classics My Favourite Dress, A Million Miles and Give My Love to Kevin, with very little filler. You have to say though, The Wedding Present of 2017 are not the band of 1987 or even of 2007, when that era’s incarnation “reimagined” George Best in Albini’s studio. The CD of that recording (raw, elemental and unpolished) was available exclusively on this tour. Needless to say I got a copy.  The live version of the album on the night was enormous fun; joyous and nostalgic. I’m amazed that Gedge can still play Shatner at his age; the bloke’s still got the kind of dexterity in his wrists similar to David Gower in his pomp. So many of the crowd knew every word; it was a good evening, topped off by an absolutely barnstorming Kennedy. We left for a late one in The Head of Steam with a smile and our ears ringing.

A couple of days later, I listened to the 20^th anniversary recording and it’s pretty good. They play them quick, they recorded them live and it hasn’t been produced to death; this is Steve Albini we’re talking about. However, it’s not as good as the original, because the 1987 George Best original was a product of a time, a place, an idea and a vision that subsequently changed. The band changed, they evolved and developed from Bizarro onwards. It seems incredible to think the bloke who wrote Everyone Thinks He Looks Daft could even countenance the thoughts behind the words of Love Slave or Skin Diving, never mind writing the music for them. I mean I’m glad I bought this relic, this memento mori as it tells me Charles Layton is the finest drummer TWP have ever had and that Terri De Castro is the best bassist ever to have worked with Mr Gedge. However, given the choice, I’d rather have the youthful optimism of the 1987 album or the slightly beery bonhomie of the 2017 performance, if you don’t mind.

BOOKS:

Andrew Waterman was my personal tutor when I was an undergraduate at Ulster University between 1983 and1986. At the time he was an erudite and conscientious lecturer whose courses on Fiction 1880-1914, Modernism and British Poetry after World War II were meticulously planned, insightful and stimulating. Away from the classroom, he was a deeply unhappy drunk whose third marriage had just disintegrated, with his wife leaving County Derry for rural Lincolnshire, taking their son Rory with her. Andrew was also a poet of some repute, whose deceptively simple personal narratives were very much in the tradition of The Movement, like a less sardonic and less gifted Larkin. After graduation I kept in touch with Andy for a few years, until his drinking got so bad in the early 90s he entered rehab, successfully.

I met him once more, in November 2005, in the company of Rory in the slightly surreal surrounding of Mark Toney’s on Clayton Street on a late Sunday afternoon. By this time Andy was happily retired, remarried and living in Norwich, while Rory was doing an MA in Modern Literature at Durham. Rory went from that to a PhD to a lecturing job at Nottingham Trent, as well as being a published poet. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree does it? Rory’s first collection Tonight the Summer’s Over came out in 2015 and I liked it immensely.  It was published by Carcanet, who had previously issued his father’s work. However these days, as perhaps befits the diminishing profile and talent of the father, Andy’s work is published by the disarmingly modest Shoestring Press in Norwich.

While Rory is 36 and seeks to address philosophical and temporal questions of great import, Andrew’s horizons are shrinking at he turns 77; his previous collection By the River Wensum was a consideration of life and ageing in the quietude of Norfolk. Recently, he has issued Bitter Sweet; a cycle of poems meditating on the death of his partner’s mother. This is done with care and compassion, avoiding all histrionics, but one wonders if the highly personal nature of such verse would be better kept private, especially as with his desire to provide support for his wife, Andrew has effectively removed himself from the narrative and reduced his role to chronicling rather than interpreting events.

Perhaps Andrew’s pamphlet could have been better analysed by the wonderful cricket writer David Foot. I’d not come across his work until earlier this year when I chanced upon a dog-eared copy of his biography of Harold Gimblett, Tormented Genius of Cricket. Having sympathetically and compassionately addressed the tatty ruins of the life and legacy of Somerset’s greatest batsman, it seemed natural for Foot to consider the case of neighbouring Gloucestershire’s enigmatic legend, Wally Hammond. Not only was Hammond a prolific run scorer and stylish batsman, he was an insatiable womaniser, despite being almost devoid of any fellow feelings or even personality to any large extent.

Foot’s euphemistic, prim prose deals with indelicate facts with delicacy and disdain. Hammond came from a loveless background in a shotgun armed services marriage. As well as excelling in cricket, football (two years with Bristol Rovers) and drinking (always pints and never appearing to be drunk), he was apparently very good in bed.  This provided little problems when his conquests were showgirls and rural socialites in the West Country, but was a life defining issue when it came to ladies of the night in the Caribbean on the 1928 MCC tour.

Wally returned from the Windies with a dose of gonorrhea; in those pre penicillin days (ironically, his other major health issue was repeated tonsilitis), the established treatment was to administer mercury. Unfortunately, if the dose is wrong, it can cause severe neurological problems. Foot’s contention is the fraught journey back from Jamaica while suffering from the effects of what was called a venereal disease, as well as the treatment with mercury and recuperation from this, in isolation in a nursing home, meant that 1928 shaped Hammond’s personality forever. It’s a compelling argument, sensitively put and a fitting explanation for the demons that affected Hammond’s life that was only a fraction less miserable than Gimblett’s post cricket privations.

The Laughing Clowns

Our enemies comprehend only the language of blood… the time for the pen has passed and we enter the era of the sword…words are dead…

Snarling, evil, angry little men; they’re everywhere. You may not know them, but you’ll know their type; products of our time, made possible by the undercurrents of hatred and aggression that blow us kind souls like flotsam in the wind. We who believe in love are anathema to males whose idea of debate is to proselytise their dystopian demi monde, where discussion is at the level of a set of mentally ill drunks in Help for Heroes hoodies screaming incoherently about their bets at 10.00 am in a Wetherspoons.  All they offer is violence. Theirs is a world where a rigorously imposed screed of authoritarian populist beliefs, praising conformity and obedience above all other values, are imposed by those who see the Sleaford Mods as role models.  Tolerance and individualism are considered the dangerous touchstones of Saboteurs who they tried to crush to ensure Hard Brexit, take back control, reclaim the borders, get justice for Big Al and kick all the Muslims out.

Podgy, bad-tempered short blokes; pugilistic alpha male wannabes. Their Tinder profiles list “pognophobic hate crime” as a hobby and an aphrodisiac. They have threatened me with physical violence in 2017, to the complete and utter indifference of Northumbria Police.  To be crystal clear about this, one other person has publicly announced they would “set about me,” but as he suffers from serious mental health problems, I don’t propose to inflict any further suffering on his poor family by discussing him or his conduct here.

Those unfortunates who sought conflict and confrontation with me may work for the cops, or they may have improvised ACAB tattoos, fading now, once etched with ink and compass at the back of an uproarious classroom. I’ve no evidence either way, but I do know the law works such men; Gepettos with warrant cards, toying with unsophisticated loners, in receipt of benefits or precariously employed, dwelling in dank, unpromising social housing developments. Men whose lights are going out. Men whose validity has expired. Men whose otiosity runs through them like the resort’s name in a stick of softened seaside rock.

They hate me you know. They hate all of us who think and can see the madness in our area. They fear our rejection of violence and the ways in which we embrace charity and affection. Not for us the flag of St George, the on-line betting app, Carling lager or the perennial poppy. The refusal to be cowed by moral absolutes creates cognitive dissonance in the mental vortex inhabited by violent heterosexual men. What would Tommy Robinson do in this situation? Or Farage? Or the bad Bootle UKIP meff? Fight peace with violence. Blades, boots and headbutts be thy name.

Saturday February 25^th. I arrived in town around 5.30, having seen my beloved Benfield lose to Dunston UTS.  Coming up St. Andrew’s Street, I saw a dreadful commotion outside Rosie’s; the peelers were cramming several hotheads from the banks of the Tyne and the Avon into the backs of large vans. Apparently the 2-2 draw hadn’t been enough of a contest for the Magpies and Robins, so they’d arranged a bout of posturing. Honestly, what do these rough sorts get out of such antics? Arousal?

I ploughed a solo furrow between by-standers and snarlers. There were friends from over the water in the Irish Centre I wanted to meet. Together, with more enthusiasm than knowledge, we watched the boys in green defeat France in the Six Nations, then went up the stairs to the Gallowgate Lounge to meet more pals. It was good. It was fun and we decided to carry on across the road in The Newcastle Arms, which is where this little old fella in an orange anorak started throwing shapes. I honestly don’t think I’ve exchanged two words with him, but his Twitter feed with a couple of other ageing toughies kept up a constant narrative about my alleged similarity to David Bellamy. Now, as I hate plants, I’d have preferred the more usual comparisons to Sadaam Hussein or Charles Manson, but these things happen, often for a reason. I didn’t know what the reason was and I was keen to find out.

The short, elderly lad was surrounded by a few of his pals, so I said hello as an opening gambit that could offer him the chance to say his piece about me. I think he was a little bemused by my friendly sincerity. He told me I was intelligent, dangerous and a cunt, then he threatened to “fuck” me. I’m fairly sure he meant it metaphorically, but he was so agitated by this point I thought I’d let him say his piece in the hope it enabled exorcism of his pent-up frustrated rage. His associates, who spoke little during this exchange, didn’t seem that keen on conversation either, as none of them responded to my friendly greetings. Strange sorts.  They seemed tense. Weak failures bereft of emotional intelligence. I think the idea behind their conduct and stumpy’s oath-edged peroration was to intimidate me into silence. Make me fearful of a tap on the shoulder on a dark night. Submit to their will. It didn’t work. It just saddened me that such violent heterosexual men are still around, symbiotically feeding from a mythologised, imagined past.

Friday April 14th. Arriving back in NE3 after celebrating the start of the cricket season at Chester Le Street, I alighted from my lift on the High Street. My intention was to walk through the park then down to South Gosforth and train it back to the Coast. In the end, I did, but not immediately. You see I was waylaid on the corner of St. Nicholas’ Avenue by a coiffed and complacent young drunk in the company of a taller, imbecilic posh stooge, who decided to comment on my facial hair. Rather like the tubby old lad in The Newcastle Arms, this shortarse seemed to find my beard worthy of unsolicited disdain. He called me “Isis” and asked if I had a bomb in my rucksack; a strange question for a Good Friday I thought. Perhaps his eyesight was failing, because he then called me a “Turkish fuckwit” and an “Arab prick.” I turned round and explained I’d been born on Tyneside, when things got surreal.

Without further speech, he reached up and put three of his fingers in my mouth, pulling at the back of my lower front teeth. It wasn’t a punch, or a slap, but a bizarrely invasive gesture. Clearly I recoiled, then disengaged before asking him what his game was. He was beyond normal discourse, preferring instead to make several loud “boom!” noises, while gesturing wildly at my small rucksack. I did what anyone sensible would have done in the circumstances. I phoned 999, got through to the poliss and explained I was a victim of an on-going hate crime.

Fry and Laurie decided to do one and unsteadily walked as far as The County, while I continued my conversation with an utterly unhelpful Northumbria Police operative, who insisted on endlessly repeating that they were “very busy” with matters that had “a higher priority” than my case. The Lennie and George of the RGS then affected their escape in an Uber, whose number I did not catch, heading off in the direction of town. It was now just after 6.00pm. I was freezing cold and my attackers had gone. The police were nowhere to be seen, despite me informing them a hate crime was on-going. What else could I do? I gave up and went home.

Around 7.15, after returning home, I received a call from Northumbria Police asking if the crime was still taking place. I pointed out that people suffering tirades of invective and abuse don’t tend to hang around listening to 75 minutes of that sort of thing.  I explained everything I had endured and witnessed, but the bored cop told me there was nothing he could do now they were gone, because “it’s your word against theirs and we know quite a bit about you, don’t we?”  He refused to check CCTV or Uber’s bookings, saying he wouldn’t record my complaint as a hate crime as my departure from the scene “indicates no offence has been committed.” The final, sinister pay-off was his warning to “be careful what you say about us and why you contact us in the future. We know your game.”

Astonishing huh? Evidence that a stratum of society clearly desires that we should live an increasingly right-wing, crypto-fascist, semi-dictatorship that is as much of a police state as the 1980s were. The Cops, the Tories and the Little Casuals are all in this together. From Blaydon to Marsden and North Shields to Newburn, the instigators of violent hate crime are cowering behind their crew cuts, swaddled in chunky Italian knitwear, afraid of ideas.  Starved of affection. Scared of love.

My life may be in danger, but the triumph of Hope in the election shows we who believe in love, tolerance and compassion are in the ascendancy. Don’t fight the little fat lads; forgive them. Indulge them. Love them. Emasculate them. They have lost. They are finished. They are dying out.

The June Bridies

One of the most eagerly anticipated events in my sporting calendar is the annual pilgrimage to see an end of season Scottish Juniors game. With an end date of the third Saturday in June, which is the day of the Scottish Juniors AGM, a myriad of cup competitions and promotion / relegation play-offs, not to mention the occasional league fixture that hasn’t been played, there are always games for the seasoned groundhopper to enjoy. In the East, there are both the East of Scotland and Fife & Lothians Cup to consider, while the West is simply brimming with knockout competitions; the Ayrshire Cup, the Central League Cup, the West of Scotland Cup and the Evening Times Champions Trophy are all season-ending boxes of delight.

While my baptism in the Juniors was Pollok 1 Arthurlie 2 in February 2003, the first of my season ending adventures wasn’t until 2009. Unlike my previous trips to Pollok, Benburb and Petershill, the Bathgate Thistle versus Forfar West End game at the magnificently named Creamery Park was in the East Region and not the West. Not only that, it was a shit or bust relegation decider. Despite trailing 2-1 at half time, Bathgate turned things around comprehensively and won 5-2, ensuring their safety in the East Region Super League (the top division) and returning Forfar to the Premier League below.

In the 8 years since then, I’ve visited whenever I can and have steadily accumulated a total of 16 different venues in both East and West Regions, from the fascinatingly idiosyncratic Arthurlie, Shotts, Linlithgow and Maryhill to the prosaically spartan Thornton. At the same time, Forfar West End’s fortunes have also fluctuated; while never as bad as their neighbours Forfar Albion, widely considered to be the worst team in the East Region, West End were obliged to spend season 2011/2012 in abeyance as they were unable to raise a team or the funds to pay for one. Thankfully those days are gone and the club is resurgent.

The end of the regular 2016/2017 season saw Musselburgh Athletic and Fauldhouse United occupying the two bottom spots in the East Super League, indicating mandatory demotion. Meanwhile, Sauchie and Kennoway Star Hearts were promoted, leaving a 2 legged promotion / relegation play-off between Newtowngrange Star and Forfar West End as my game of choice. Forfar had won the first leg 3-1 at home on Saturday May 27th, but my choice was made mainly on account of Newtowngrange’s proximity to Edinburgh, especially when compared to the other 3 games in the East Region that same day. What had seemed to be the most enticing fixture, a possible title shoot-out between Kelty Hearts and Bonnyrigg Rose, ended up as a damp squib after Bonnyrigg’s home loss to Linlithgow the previous week handed the title to Kelty. The other 2 games, Broughty Athletic 2 Lochee United 3 in Dundee and Jeanfield Swifts 0 Linlithgow Rose 1 in Perth, were out of the question because of distance.

Meanwhile, over in the West, there was only 1 game scheduled and the baffling complexities of Juniors football are summed up by its scheduling.  On Wednesday May 31^st, Petershill won 2-1 away to Pollok in the Central League Cup semi-final, giving them a place in the final at Cambuslang on Sunday June 11^th. Meanwhile, Benburb and Lesmahagow faced each other in a quarter final tie, with the winners due to host Yoker in the other semi on Saturday June 3^rd. All clear so far? Right, here’s where it gets crazy; a last gasp equaliser by Lesmahagow took the Benburb game straight to penalties after a 2-2 draw, as is the Juniors way. Benburb were allowed by the referee to bring on 2 substitutes for the shoot-out, against all laws of the game; predictably they both scored and Benburb won 5-4. Lesmahagow protested and were awarded the game, at which point Benburb appealed successfully at this decision. The West Region officials decided a replay would take place on Saturday 3^rd June, only for Benburb to claim they couldn’t raise a team, despite the fact they ought to have been playing Yoker in a semi-final that day.

The final decision was to put the Benburb v Lesmahagow back to Monday 5^th June and for Yoker to host Petershill in a league game. Not only was this a potential Central League Cup final rehearsal, it was a relegation decider, as Yoker needed a point to stay up. Somewhat incredibly they lost 6-0, sending them down to the Central First Division and reprieving Maryhill. On the Monday, Benburb trounced Lesmahagow 3-0 in the replayed quarter final, meaning they’ll host Yoker on Wednesday June 7^th for the right to play Petershill in the final on Sunday 11^th June at Cambuslang. 

Also in the West, the Ayrshire Cup is at the semi-final stage; both games taking place on Wednesday June 7^th and the final is on Wednesday 14^th June at Irvine Meadow. The Evening Times League Champions’ Cup final will be Saturday 10^th June at Benburb, where Glasgow Perthshire will face the winners of Glenafton Athletic (fresh from adding the Scottish Junior Cup to their West Premier League title after seeing off old foes Auchinleck Talbot 2-1 in the final) against Girvan, which is also on Wednesday 7^th June.

The East sees Tranent facing Broxburn on Wednesday 7^th June at Newtongrange in the final of the Fife & Lothians Cup, while Mussleburgh Athletic host Bonnyrigg Rose the same night for a chance to play Dundee North End in the final of the East of Scotland Cup. In the best traditions of the Juniors, the date and venue for that game is yet to be announced.

Anyway, with Harry, Gary, Ben, Ollie, Ginger Dave and Big Kenny all turning down the chance to accompany me to this veritable football feast, I headed north on the 11.45 ex Newcastle with Laura, who was up for a spot of sightseeing and a bit shopping rather than the football. We parted at Waverley at 1.15 where my pal James Little picked me up and whisked me to the newish, but well designed and comfortable New Victoria Park.  Its semi-rural setting amid pine trees will make it a magnet for late summer midges and the rough grass banking was carpeted in as many desiccated fox turds as it was stray pine cones. As is ever the case on these occasions, I seemed to know as many in the crowd as I do at an average Northern League game; Davie Stoker, King of the Groundhoppers John Dawson, Katie & Lee, as well as several others I was on nodding terms with at least, had journeyed to this crucial clash.

There were big stakes riding on this game; hence the tentative opening, where both sides showed good touches but few direct goal attempts.  Also, without seeking to say anything controversial about Scottish society, games in the East do tend to have a veneer of respectability that is more often than not replaced by undercurrents of malevolence in the West.  So it was in this case. There were 20 or so well-refreshed Forfarians with their shirts off, but they didn’t cause a bit of bother.  Mind, I do wonder if Forfar’s female fans are called the West End Girls.

Just before half time, Newtowngrange, which I discovered was pronounced Nitten by the locals, took the lead with a suspiciously offside looking cushioned volley. It was a decent goal and before we could even begin to discuss whether he’d sliced it in, the whistle blew for the break.

Nitten started the second half like an express train, looking likely not just to get back on terms on aggregate, but to go ahead and steamroller the opposition. However, resolute Forfar defending saw the home side’s fire snuff itself out amid a succession of aimless, hopeful balls into the box. Several times Forfar broke and several times they failed to make the most of their chances.  The clock ran down, the referee blew up and Forfar celebrated deliriously.  Strangely, there were no players flat on their back with eyes closed, or down on their haunches dabbing at fake tears among the home side, or vitriolic anger from betrayed and bellicose Star supporters in the 500 plus crowd. It was all rather low key, mainly on account of the prevalence of persistent rumours that suggest Kelty Hearts will resign from the Juniors to take their place in the Scottish pyramid, via the East of Scotland and then Lowland Leagues, with the idea of progressing to the SPFL Division 3 and the chance to play Annan and Peterhead. If this comes to pass, Newtowngrange will be reprieved to fight another day.

After James had whisked me back to Waverley, Laura and I raised a glass in both The Guildford and then The Café Royal, in honour of Nitten and all the other Junior sides for all the entertainment they’ve given me. Long may these annual visits continue.

Brothers & Sisters

Three summers ago I was at my lowest ever ebb. A seemingly endless array of health issues and personal problems had left me facing the prospect, aged 50 that my working life and general usefulness as a person were coming to an end. It was a grim time and I was in a bad place; somewhere I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy. However, the care, support and love of those around me gave me the strength to go on and, little by little, I got better and turned things around. Clearly, those I must thank most of all are my friends and my family, who will forever have my boundless appreciation of their efforts and concern. However, with the benefit of time, hindsight also tells me that The 3 Cs, namely Cats, Coffee and Cricket, were also vital factors in my recuperation.

Most people seem to have an instinctive preference for canines or felines; I’m a firm supporter of the latter camp, and not just because I was bitten up the posterior by a Rottweiler on February 8^th 1992 either. Cats are brilliant. Just as I nosedived into my period of ill-health, things became immeasurably more painful when my beloved moggy Mista Leggyfur died suddenly in my partner Laura’s arms. We’d had him a touch less than 4 years, adopting him as a stray and he’d been the softest, most endearing animal imaginable. It broke both of our hearts and that of his feline brother Paw Paw when Leggy left us. Happily a few months later we took possession of a deceptively cute bundle of unkempt black fur called Tromszo and the healing had begun. These days Tromszo spends her every waking moment attempting to decimate the NE30 mouse and bird populations, seagulls included, but as a tiny kitten, her curiosity and affection made me understand why we must all strive to move on. The sense of wonder and amazement in her wide, shining eyes made me reconsider the vastness and beauty of our universe. I didn’t want to let go of this.

All my life I’ve been a coffee drinker; never have been able to abide the taste of tea. Several of our neighbours feel the same and part of my routine of recovery was the daily ritual of preparing hot drinks in the garden with Laura and her lady friends in the late afternoon. This simple act of helping people made me feel useful, appreciated and connected to the world again. A small gesture perhaps, but an enormously important one for me.

And then there was the cricket, where I found community, ethics, morals and companionship. We’re not talking Test Matches or even the County Championship; we’re talking local club cricket. It has charmed, beguiled and fascinated me in a way I no longer believed any sport could do. As I’m somewhat ashamed to admit, I grew up in Felling; that scenic fishing village on the south bank of the Tyne. However hideous NE10 may be; it is blessed with the delightful Felling Cricket Club ground on Watermill Lane, which is where I saw my first games back in the days when the telly only had 2 channels, and both of them were in black and white. I’d always loved the game but other than infrequent visits to Durham or the odd game at Percy Main when I was involved with the neighbouring football club, I had merely followed cricket on telly or on-line for a quarter of a century or more; a tragic waste of too many years that I’ll never recover, but which I’m working hard to compensate for. Then, in the same way his seminal work The Far Corner reaffirmed my belief that non-league football was the only morally defensible level at which to watch football, my pal Harry Pearson’s wonderful Slipless in Settle made me realise I was missing out on so much by living without club cricket. I simply had to investigate what was out there.

I’ll admit to knowing next to nothing about the local game when Harry and I arranged to see the first day of Northumberland against Norfolk at Jesmond on July 7^th 2013. The previous time I’d been to County Club, as was, would have been either one of those Callers Pegasus all-star events in the mid-80s, or to see Northumberland cuffed aside by Middlesex in the Nat West Trophy, possibly around 87. Suffice to say, that baking hot July Sunday was memorable enough, possibly because Andy Murray won his first Wimbledon title and I didn’t see a single stroke of it, to make me take out Northumberland membership there and then. Indeed I’m proud to say I have maintained it since to support them; in 2015 my mate Gary Oliver and I went to Wormsley to see them lose the Unicorns One Day final to Cornwall and in August 2016 I was in despair that a heroic 2 wicket win over Cambridgeshire wasn’t enough to win the Minor Counties Eastern Division, as Lincolnshire claimed the title by a single point. Mind, the least said about the performances in the Unicorns One Day competition so far in 2017 the better.

After clouting 348 against Cambridgeshire at Saffron Walden on Shakespeare’s Birthday, they contrived to lose by 2 wickets. The week after, it was the turn of leafy NE3 to host a game. Typically delayed metros made my arrival later than intended, by which point Cumberland were 54/1 and there was nobody on the gate at the NEPL Etihad. Cumberland made 239, with Captain Nicotine claiming 4 victims. Between innings I headed out for hot drinks at Greggs. In the shop a lass with make-up smeared across her dial like a Heath Ledger tribute act was sobbing into her iPhone. Perhaps she had a portent of the innings to come, as Northumberland subsided from 89/2 to 123 all out after JDT departed. It wasn’t all bad though; it had been such a blustery day that so august an observer as Geoff Cook had described climactic conditions as “bloody perishing,” so it was relief to get inside for a warm, as me, Gary and another pal Kev Carling worked a 6 pint round in The Brandling in the time it would have taken to bowl the missing overs. Meanwhile, a trip to Norfolk resulted in another defeat before a final group game rout by Lincolnshire at Jesmond saw Northumberland finish bottom of the table. The 3 day games will be atrocious to endure if the batting disintegrates the way it has been doing.

However, putting the county set aside for a moment, what I’ve truly fallen for is NEPL cricket: the spirit, the community, the friendships, the conversation, the beer, the settings, the people, in fact everything about it. I adore non-league football, especially my beloved Newcastle Benfield, but the warmth (I’m not talking about spectating conditions here) of the cricketing environment knocks spots off the winter game, when it comes to convivial, civilised, intelligent conversation. To give an example; at the end of the 2015 season, I’d travelled to Eppleton to watch Tynemouth in the Banks Salver final. The home side won by a fair margin and I trudged away a little disappointed at around 7pm on a baking hot Sunday evening, with the prospect of 2 hours on the bus (I don’t drive) back to the coast ahead of me. As I stood waiting for the bus, a car drew up and the driver offered me a lift; it was Tynemouth’s Director of Cricket Vince Howe who’d seen me around the grounds (well I’m fairly easy to spot I suppose) and wanted to repay my support with this gesture. I’ll always be grateful to him for that simple act of kindness. Indirectly, that is one of the reasons why Cricket joins Cats and Coffee as part of my redemptive recovery. Directly, it’s why I sponsored Tynemouth v Newcastle in the NEPL on the last Saturday in May, which became the first meeting of the sides this season as the 20/20 on Friday 19^th was washed out before noon; six hours before the scheduled start.

The two Saturdays before I’d seen Tynemouth and then Newcastle put in dismal showings in heavy home losses that were as surprising as they were comprehensive. On May 13^th, I arrived at Preston Avenue with Tynemouth 54/0 chasing 187 against South Shields. Of course I was conscious the big game of the day was probably Benwell Hill, who’ve started like an express train, in particular Kyle Coetzer, against Newcastle. South Shields seemed to be ready to scrap it out with Eppleton and Felling for the relegation spot. Nobody told this to Matty Muchall who took 7 wickets as Tynemouth disintegrated to 91/9 and then 111 all out. Good bowling or horrible batting? A bit of both, unlike up at Denton Burn, where Coetzer flayed the Newcastle attack all around the park to win the game by himself, as he had against Tynemouth on the opening day; 120 not out off 65 balls to be precise.

May 20^th I got to see some lovely batting at Jesmond. Unfortunately it was Durham Academy who made the most of a generous declaration that meant they needed 229 from 57 overs. I got there at 36/1 and the young stars moved sedately to 110 before losing another couple, but a fine unbroken fifth wicket partnership of 90 saw them home with a couple of overs to spare. Newcastle’s maddeningly inconsistent home form continues; this season they’ve beaten Chester, drawn gallantly with South North but lost limply to Eppleton and the Academy.

Consequently, I made Tynemouth slight favourites for this one, especially with JDT missing out through injury. Of course, attempting to be purely neutral, I made it known my preferred result was a tie. It didn’t happen that way. Ben Debnam won the toss and elected to bat. Bad move.  Oliver Sale, Calum Harding and Sean Tindale tore through the home side, reducing Tynemouth to 19/6 when a torrential rain shower made for an early lunch. Clearly the catering is the high spot of any cricket match; the fresh salmon, Waldorf salad and a strawberry Pavlova that deserved an Oscar made this a feast as memorable and soothing as the cricket had been troublesome and stressful.

Post refreshments, the resumed game got no better for the hosts, even in brilliant sunshine. Tynemouth posted their lowest total in living memory; 31 all out from a tortuous 29 overs and Oli McGee didn’t even get to bowl. Newcastle knocked off the runs for the loss of 3 wickets in 8 overs before 4.30. There wasn’t even the consolation of watching the 3^rd XI, as they’d already lost to Cramlington 2nds on the adjoining field. It was still a great day out, despite the result.

Of course, there are many other cricketing adventures I’ve not mentioned as yet, since my previous blog on the game back in mid-April.  The second Saturday of the season was a busy day for me; the last connection with Wallsend Boys Club Over 40s was severed as my retirement was confirmed after we lost the Ironside Cup Final 3-0 but claimed the Division 2 title on account of other results. This was followed by a mad dash back from Wearside to Tyneside for Record Store Day to purchase my annual Trembling Bells and Wedding Present releases (see elsewhere for glowing reviews). Then, it was a case of catching the X21 for the Chester Le Street against Newcastle show.  As I’d lucked onto an express bus, I arrived in CLS earlier than anticipated, but with no option to get off at Chester Moor for the football. Consequently, I headed for Ropery Lane to see Newcastle 2nds play the home club’s shadow squad, giving me a chance to catch up with The Man with the Golden Ankle, Phil Hudson, and Keith Brown, who were optimistically doing a few slow laps as the visitors looked to be accumulating a steady total. Lunch came with Newcastle 117/2 and I journeyed onward by foot to Chester Moor Park, where Benfield ended the season in decent fashion with a 2-0 win; Paul Brayson scored a superb and memorable 52^nd goal of the season to bring the curtain down in emphatic style.

After the football, I availed myself of a lift back to Jesmond from the Benfield Hipsters Jamie and Alix, where Newcastle’s first team were doing a number on Chester Le Street, which was important for a couple of reasons. Newcastle’s season had started with a poor loss to Eppleton, while 2016 had ended in controversy with the outrageous gamesmanship of the Chester lads that coerced the umpires into bringing everyone off for bad light, a decision at least partly responsible for the new playing regulations that state games in September will start at 11.30 from now on. No such problems with light this time, though nerves came into play as Newcastle lost 8 wickets in chasing 240; sadly, nervous batting collapses seem to be the order of the season in many of the games I’m seeing.

The following Saturday (the day before Northumberland waved the white flag against Cumberland at South North) I went to see my present play my past as Tynemouth hosted Felling. It took a while getting in to Preston Avenue, not because of crowds, but because of the traffic bringing the stage and lighting for the Fake Festival taking place next door. I’ve never got my head around the tribute band phenomenon, which seemed even more baffling as a cricket game took place to the incongruous background of 1977’s sound check; definitely more New Rose than New Road. I remember attending Darlington 3 Crewe Alexandra 0 in September 1992 at the old Feethams, where the PA bloke announced that there would be no music played that day as there was a cricket game on next door. Attitudes change in a quarter of a century and on the surface, it appeared Tynemouth’s bowlers rather than Felling’s batsmen responded best to a cavalcade of punk classics, dismissing the visitors right on lunch for 76.

I cycled off to John Spence to see North Shields Athletic battered 5-1 in the Alliance by the sneering, gobby, foul-mouthed oiks from Walker Central, reminding of nothing so much as the Sex Pistols being interviewed by Bill Grundy. Decent game mind, but not a contest; same with the cricket, Tynemouth had eased to a 7 wicket win before I got back. Instead, I pedalled on past the ground and towards home, half deafened by a terrible version of Led Zep’s Black Dog blasting out of the Fake Festival tented village.

And so we arrive in May, desperately hungover after the aforementioned session in The Brandling. I’m not quite a cricket groundhopper yet, but with Tynemouth and Newcastle both receiving byes in the first round of the Second XI knock out competition, the Banks Bowl, I decided to head somewhere exotic to tick off my list of unvisited grounds. A long metro journey from Tynemouth to South Hylton was followed by a nervous trudge up an unpromising dirt track towards Pennywell, in order to reach the Ford Quarry Complex home of Sunderland West End FC who were hosting the Wearside League Monkwearmouth Cup final against Redcar Athletic. The day was as cold and windswept as the day before. The pitch hard, rutted and undulating; the football rough, aggressive and uncompromising, but it was a new ground. Redcar, who played the tiny fraction of football that could be discerned, deservedly won 2-1.

At full time, I scrounged a lift to Hastings Hill and caught the delayed 78A to Burnmoor, where Sunderland were finishing their innings on 175/8 as I arrived. You could tell it was village cricket County Durham style; a Victorian former board school is the clubhouse and the ground is rustic pretty on three sides, with clumps of daisies flecking the outfield. The fourth provides a vista of smoking chimneys atop pit cottages and the smell of anthracite. Chris Rushworth’s dad walking his dog, last heard barking when Notts lost a wicket at the Riverside on Good Friday, around the boundary in company with chainsmoking Norman. Burnmoor lose their wickets regularly; 33/4, 65/7, then 76 all out. Three games I’d seen that weekend and not one of them a contest. Still, 14 NEPL grounds down and only 10 to go for the full set.

May 5^th; Einsturzende Neubauten at the Boiler Shop for £35? Durham v Leicester at South North for £15? Shankhouse 3 Walker Central 0 in the NFA Benevolent Bowl at Blue Flames for £4? Go on then; well worth it to see Russell Ward rolling back the years with a Man of the Match captain’s display, including the winning goal from the spot. Anyway, Neubauten was too late and Durham, over by 5.00, too early. On the Saturday and we’re into the final football stretch; the 3 last Tyneside Amateur League fixtures of 2016/2017 and Cramlington Town lost them all. That’s a league decider 3-0 at home to Ponteland Reserves, the Neville Cowey Cup final 4-1 to Wardley at Benfield on May 13^th and the Tyneside Amateur Challenge Shield 2-0 to Morpeth Town Seniors at the same place the week after.

After the first of these, I made it to Jesmond for the Cavaliers v Roundheads battle between Newcastle and South North, where the NEPL Millionaires had been dismissed for 224, with JDT claiming 3 and Oli McGee a brace. Newcastle were 20/0 and it seemed beautifully poised on the first warm afternoon of the season. Johnny Wightman was trying to wrest control back to the Gosforth Parliamentarians; he could have been turning out for South Shields as they humiliated North Shields 5-0 in the Northern League Cup final, to the extent the father of a Robins player invaded the pitch to beg the Mariners for mercy, but instead he was on Osborne Avenue, in front of a big crowd in NEPL terms. He took the first wicket. Alastair Appleby caught behind; 42/1.

Joining O.F. McGee at the crease was his younger (by a year) brother B. J. McGee. Hyperactive Oli; a non-stop bundle of energy, constantly talking his way through games,  improvising with bat and ball, the outgoing one who wears his heart on his sleeve, showing both the pleasure and the pain the game brings. Studious Ben; half a head taller, the lawyer in waiting, considering decisions carefully, the elegant batsman who keeps his own counsel. The stage was set for them to bat through and win the game, in memory of their grandmother who’d just passed away. Instead reality, and terrible umpiring, intervened; 67/2 as Ben is given LBW to one that hit him on the thigh pad and was still rising. Almost as infuriating as the noise of screaming Jesbairns tearing backwards and forwards across the wooden decking in front of the pavilion as their bourgeois parents sip Prosecco oblivious to the sporting magnificence unfolding. Walking off, it’s the first time I’ve heard Ben swear. Ever. Oli does loads of that, but his mam still tells him off for it.

Progress slows as another wicket falls and it’s 81/3 at tea, meaning there’s 34 overs left to get 144. Not impossible, but successive maidens after tea make the job a mite more exacting. Arriving round about then are my friends John and Ciaran McQuaid from County Kildare; they’re not of the cricketing tradition, but of the GAA one that frowns on Garrison Games. Mind they’re also Newcastle fans over for the Barnsley game, so the chance of a few beers and a bit sport is more than appealing.

The downstairs function room is booked for a landmark birthday party and a Talking Heads tribute band have been engaged, continuing the tradition of incongruous NEPL soundtracks; Burning Down The House, Psycho Killer and Take Me To The River are given faithful renditions. Magnificent and almost soothing, but the tension is building. Oli falls over his stumps and is out hit wicket for 45. JDT comes in, plays effortlessly then pops up a simple catch to go for 34. The atmosphere is so thick I can’t breathe as Newcastle teeter at 211/8 with an over to go and 15 theoretically needed. It’s 211/9 and the last 5 balls are blocked in semi darkness for honours to be almost even. It was an amazing afternoon; community, unity and drama that you just have to visit at least once in your life to appreciate. This game means something, but not too much to the participants. It’s sport at the most essential and elemental level. To me, it’s theatre of the greatest quality.

Perhaps not all of the spectators at every game see it that way. Take Tynemouth v Durham Academy in the NEPL 20/20 on Friday 26^th May for instance.  As big a crowd as I’d seen at Preston Avenue, but for many it was the coastal equivalent of Jesbairns; the children weren’t running riot, but they didn’t sit still and shut up, while Dad downed endless San Miquels and Mum worked her way steadily through a pair of Proseccos. Meanwhile, Tynemouth clock up a slightly disappointing 119/6, which the fluent young tyros from the Emirates see off for the loss of 2 wickets. I’m with my pals Olly Scholes and Ginger Dave, who pronounce the beer to be excellent and a decent preparation for an evening in the Tynemouth Lodge.

Come Sunday, after the Newcastle fiasco, I didn’t make it to Preston Avenue 3 days in a row, opting for Monkseaton 3^rd XI v Rock in Northumberland Division 3, of which more in a minute.  However, I did get there for 3 out of 4, with a trip to the Banks Bowl second round game against Sunderland 2^nd XI on Monday. The weather had predictably turned for the Bank Holiday and it was cold and damp, reducing the game to 37 overs. Tynemouth steadily accumulated 256/8, with a far stronger and older side than the seemingly rag bag collection of 10 pressganged teenagers in a baffling array of mismatched cricket clothing who dragged themselves unwillingly northwards from Wearside to waste a Bank Holiday. At least, that’s how it seemed until Sunderland started to bat. In conditions whereby they could easily have gone off for fog, the visitors gave it their best shot. Once 20 overs had been completed in brightening conditions with the temperature falling, a result was definite. Even when the run rate was bordering on the ludicrous side of impossible, Sunderland kept plugging laboriously away, though it wasn’t compelling stuff.

I took the opportunity to have a good chat with Sean Longstaff about his time with Kilmarnock and his options for the future, as his Newcastle United contract is up for discussion. I doubt they even know he turns out for Tynemouth 2nds, much less care.  When he nips home for his tea, Sunderland are 90/3 from 23 overs and I’m the last spectator in the ground. A kids’ party is taking place in the pavilion, so I head across to the far side and watch the dying embers from the benches in front of Jacka the groundsman’s cottage, where he is no doubt still smouldering about Saturday’s result and the criticism of his wicket, taking out his frustrations on social media.  The Sunderland opener is still battling on and really deserves a century for his efforts; sadly he’s out for 94 in the last over as Tynemouth win by 75 runs and I head home to thaw out. Summertime in England; what can you say?

If you want a definition of the true spirit of recreational cricket in summer, you need to see Monkseaton 3^rd XI at their home ground of Churchill Playing Fields. Bottom of Northumberland Division 3, they were hosting table topping Rock. I chose this game in order to see Gary back in action behind the timbers, as he’s started playing again for the first time in over a decade. His opening bowler  identifies as a non-binary woman.  The brilliant thing about Monkseaton is that they’re totally supportive; they are a side who embrace Corinthian ideals like no other I’ve seen. Skipper Nigel is back playing after a hip replacement and many of the rest of the team are advanced in years; Gary is the fourth youngest in his late 40s. Their forbearance and perseverance in the field is an education for any footballer; this lot love their sport, regardless of the result.

It’s a hot day and the Rock openers are merciless. Both take centuries as Monkseaton toil in the field, until Gary whips off the bails and it’s 257/1 as Keith Fairley grabs the first wicket. He gets the second one as well and it’s 289/2 with 4 overs to go. The lad who came in at number 3, forearms like a spinached-up Popeye, who’d been enjoying an ice cream from the van parked up next to the adventure playground across the road, shows even less mercy in hitting 10 boundaries and 7 maximums to get his own ton and close the innings on 370/2 from 40 overs.

The asking rate is a theoretical 9.25, but Monkseaton are not concerned with that. As there are no draws in this league, all that matters is trying to get a few batting points and maintain a gracious and dignified attitude to defeat. They end on 118/5, just missing out on an extra batting point, but Gary is there at the end on 28 not out. His previous scores have been DNB and 0, so he’s leaping up the averages. In all seriousness, I watch his performance, in the company of Kev for a while, with a sense of warm, semi-paternalistic pride. He’s out there doing what Kev and I wish we could.

After the game, there’s the opportunity for a couple of quick pints in the Monkseaton Arms; the result forgotten, the forthcoming blank weekend without a fixture creates far more anguish. It’s convivial, it’s civilised and Nigel asks me if I’d like to play for them. My heart sings and my soul leaps upward. You know what, I damn well would. Not in 2017 perhaps, but if I winter well and shift a few clem, you never know… No Bass for me, I’m in training.