Extreme Boys Terror

This weekend it's the International Break; it should give a chance for sober reflection over recent events involving Newcastle United, which I'll publish next week. This week, an article from the very wonderful Football Pink #17, discussing the strange phenomenon of the Football Lads Alliance, who will no doubt be keeping St George in their heart over the next few days -:

2017’s Album of the Year so far? While I’m in love with British Sea Power’s thunderous The Dancers Inherit the Party, unquestionably it has to be Vermillion by Alex Neilson, the drummer from Trembling Bells, in his Alex Rex incarnation. This is not the time for false modesty; Vermillion is a majestic work of genius. It is perhaps the best solo album to be released since Dylan’s Bringing It All Back Home, Highway 61 Revisited and 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 mine imaginatively and zealously. 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.  The Perpetually Replenished Cup must be the only song in 2017 that borrows from Wilhelmus van Nassau, the national anthem of the Netherlands and turns it into an endearingly shambolic Klezmer pub crawl of a torch ballad. 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 riff 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 their new one, Dungeness, late this year.

So what else have I been listening to? Perhaps it’s middle-aged nostalgia or perhaps it’s just the most appropriate soundtrack for summer I can think of, but I’ve been gorging on Van Morrison’s solo work from Astral Weeks to No Guru, No Method, No Teacher. You see it’s been 30 years since I had my sole religious experience, which occurred at Glastonbury 1987. Sunday night, still sweltering beneath a clear Somerset sky; Van the Man is headlining, bringing the chaotic Bacchanalian Bohemianism of the weekend to a close at the only festival I’ve ever been to. Perhaps it was the vibe, perhaps it was the 72 hours on the drink or perhaps it was the big bag of mushrooms ingested in preparation for the Belfast Cowboy’s set, but when George Ivan lost himself in a super extended version of And The Healing Has Begun, I found myself cutting a rug with une femme du certain age, who was attired solely in a pair of gumboots and a straw sun hat, while endlessly screaming Hallelujah at the top of my voice. We made a lovely couple. It was an epiphany, a moment of clarity, a game changer.

Similarly, the sight of Jeremy Corbyn on the pyramid stage Saturday afternoon June 24^th 2017 was an epochal moment for our society. Thirty years previously, Billy Bragg was omnipotent and omniscient at Worthy Farm; proselytising the cause of Red Wedge (the Labour Party’s earnest and well-meaning music and entertainment wing) to all Pilton punters, to a respectful rather than ecstatic response. Times change and, to borrow a phrase, it appears Our Day Has Come. People want to believe in kindness, justice and compassion; only Jeremy Corbyn’s vision for Britain offers the chance of that, which is why he was afforded such a rapturous reception, not just by trustafarian hordes at Glasto, but by 200,000 ordinary, working class people at the Durham Miners’ Gala (aka The Big Meeting) on July 8^th.

As I write, the country is in one hell of a mess; the deracincated and marginalised poor of all creeds, colours and ethnicities are in turmoil. The bitter harvest of austerity and the contempt for the less well-off has seen a hundred people or more die in the wholly preventable fire at Grenfell Tower, with the news that the retired judge handed the task of presiding over the Public Inquiry into the tragedy is already pouring doubt on whether the full truth will out and if those who are ultimately to blame will be brought to book. Is it any surprise that misguided and angry youths are wasting their lives and killing hundreds of innocents in terrorist atrocities? We can’t live like this any longer.

Years of unnecessary and damaging austerity inflicted on us by the Tories and the broken promises of the failed Blairite experiment have left the population angry, turning inwards to blame others who are enduring equal levels of social misery and financial misfortune. Embittered, frustrated ordinary people have chosen hatred and blame in preference to understanding and a desire for solutions. However, the mood of negativity is altering, in a good way. About halfway through Theresa May’s election campaign that took more than a single leaf out of the French Royal Family’s 1780s guide to humility and the common touch, it became clear that enough was enough; people simply decided to reject conflict and start loving each other once again. The young in particular got out and voted for a positive, vibrant future and rejected the lies of the Tories and their partners in the mainstream media. We didn’t win, but we will, because that tidal wave of love and warmth and inclusivity is an irresistible force for good in society; it’s going to wash away the hatred and conflict that has left deep, wounding scars on the body politic of our society. Most people, good people, don’t want lies and violence; they want hope and compassion for all. Change is inevitable; have you met a single person who thinks May’s cosying up to the Young Earth Ulster Israelite no dancing on the Sabbath fundamentalist Sharia Law in a Sash that’ll be a billion quid and kick the Pope nutters from the DUP is anything other than a farce? Nah; a change is gonna come. It’s inevitable.

On the same day as Jeremy Corbyn owned Glastonbury more than Chic, more than the Foo Fighters, even more than Michael Eavis, Theresa May was in Liverpool (don’t laugh), being booed from pillar to post (I said don’t laugh) at an Armed Forces Day parade (honestly, please stop laughing). Liverpool, the city whose entire recent history is built upon implacable opposition to the right wing establishment, did not let us down. The endless jeers and catcalls, in contrast to the deafening acclamation Corbyn got at Glastonbury and Durham (and before you start, it’s about ideas not a cult of the personality), meant that May was publicly humiliated, once again.

It is worth noting that her latest public relations fiasco took place at an event commemorating a recently invented day of dubious moral provenance; I mean Armed Forces Day isn’t Remembrance Sunday is it? Indeed, I’m not actually sure what it is and who officially recognises it. Gordon Brown announced a Veterans’ Day would take place on the last Saturday in June back in 2006 and in 2009 it changed its name to Armed Forces Day. Pretty much it appears anyone can set up an event, as the whole umbrella organisation ostensibly co-ordinating the project appears messily organised and less than meticulously scrutinised. No wonder the solemn day of reflection seems to have been hijacked by Britain First, the EDL, UKIP and all the usual far right Fascist fuckwits out there. Indeed in London, while Theresa May was being excoriated by angry Scousers,  a heavily policed EDL gathering of 50 unemployable pissheads were kept behind metal railings by a few dozen Met Officers, while ten times as many UAF protestors let the boneheads know their tired, lame Islamophobic ultra-nationalist agenda was not acceptable in modern day Britain.

So what’s all this got to do with football huh? I must mention that finally the CPS have decided to press charges against David Duckinfield, Norman Bettison and other members of South Yorkshire Police for the tragedy of Hillsborough,  which is further vindication of the unending struggles of those who sought Justice for the 96. But there is more to consider than that. You’ll remember the appalling events at London Bridge, when 3 suicidal terrorists murdered 8 innocent people (three French citizens, two Australians, a Spaniard, a Canadian and a Briton). One of the many moments of heroism that evening was the bravery of 47 year old Ray Larner, who was repeatedly stabbed by the terrorists while allowing others to make good their escape from the Black & Blue Restaurant in Borough Market, having stood up and announced “Fuck you I’m Millwall.” He was hospitalised after the attack, when it became clear he was both unemployed and homeless, resulting in a crowd funder campaign that has earned him in excess of £30k, intended to help him put his life back together. Meanwhile a Swedish Brewery has named a beer “Fuck You I’m Millwall” in recognition of his heroism, with some of the proceeds from future sales going to the fund set up in Roy’s name.  That said, the latest tabloid revelations of his prior involvement in a fracas where he set his dogs on several marchers during a Black Lives Matter demo, then followed this up with a tirade of racist abuse, may mean his star has waned already.

I sincerely help his future life is a happy and a fortunate one and that he can rebuild with the cash he has been donated. However, I’m not quite sure if his acts, at Borough Market I stress, are being properly celebrated by the formation of a supposed pressure group called Football Lads Alliance (FLA), taking inspiration from Roy Larner’s bravery, who organised a “Unite Against Extremism” march across London Bridge, also on Saturday 24^th June. Unfortunately, what with the attention being given to Corbyn and May’s activities on the same day, media interest in this procession was minimal, which is a shame as by all the no doubt unbiased accounts of those who took part, there were “fahsands” in attendance and “not a spot of bovver”-:

24 June 2017 21:35

waterloowacker

went ok all firms integrated - west ham , , pompey, yids, chelsea etc etc nobody said a word when they turned up 200 boys each firm just mingled except us lot when we came we sing a low millllllllll and all firms clapped us - bit mad really proper respect we had from everybody. Marched to london bridge and most went our own way west ham turned back halfway over london bridge & did not come south total respect we had a good drink with pompey proper boys these lot and no trouble average age of everybody 45-50.

have a feeling the next march will double in size. It would be good next time for everyone to demonstrate at a mosque or the like, as this is where the extremists are made. That Britain First mob turn up about 30 handed at places like Luton and East London mosque to demonstrate, have to admire their bottle. Would be good if they got the support of the thousands yesterday, as we are all against the same common enemy.

  

I probably don’t need to tell you this, but pictures show the FLA demographic was resolutely white, resolutely male and almost certainly Brexit voting. It’s not an unexpected outcome when you mix up West Ham, Millwall, Chelsea, Palace, Portsmouth and the more lumpen elements of Spurs firms. Again, it’s unsurprising that Arsenal, Fulham, QPR and Brentford followers were conspicuous by their absence. However, I would contend that this was an event with only a tenuous connection to London, specifically restricted to the football clubs those taking part support; indeed the actual home turf for those marching will have been the dreariest of the M25 satellite and dormitory towns, from Basildon to Slough and Dunstable to Haywards Heath, where the displaced descendants of those who could remember Drake’s Ducklings, The Irons winning the World Cup and Harry Cripps in his pomp, have lived their lives.  For them, London is a place for relaxation and recreation not community cohesion, which is probably why they combined protest with a day out on the gargle. Southerners and Home Counties residents, not Londoners or Cockneys. In many ways, they should be of a similar stamp to the enormous crowd drawn to the Big Meeting, but ideologically these modern day variants of Essex Man keep considering closer to the right than left of the spectrum.

While attempting to discover more about the FLA and their beliefs, I liked their Facebook page, followed them on Twitter and sent both the same fairly detailed message, asking if they could tell me exactly what their working definitions of the highly emotive and subjective terms “extremism” and “terrorism” were. I obtained no reply. However, I did find a link to an interview with the founder of the FLA, 32 year old Spurs fan John Meighan on the Shy Society website, an organisation whose raison d’etre is described as follows -:

We are opinionated. We like common sense. We consider ourselves liberal in many aspects. Alas, not by today’s definition. We believe in fairness and transparency. We don’t shy away from change, yet tradition and identity are things we hold dear. We are proud of Britain and will always champion democracy. But we are cynics who can detect corruption like a stench fills the air. We are engaged, yet disenfranchised. We can see right through the mainstream media, career politicians, and the establishment. And we are numb to the excruciating snobbery of the metropolitan class which has stifled our speech for so long. We are loud. But we dare not speak out. We had no voice, until now. We are the Shy Society…

Presumably this is why the site includes two posts revelling in their attendance at marches in the company of Tommy Robinson; one in Sunderland as part of the specious #JusticeForChelsey campaign that local police have described as “racially intolerant” and “deliberately inflammatory” and the other in Birmingham to protest about “Muslim extremists.” If you’re in any doubt about Shy Society’s ideological standpoint, here’s what they said in advance of the general election, while urging readers to vote Tory -:

“Corbyn couldn’t be any more anti-British even if he wrapped himself in a black flag started chanting ‘Allahu Akbar’ through the streets of Islington. From refusing to sing the national anthem, to describing the huge sacrifices made in the Falklands War as “flag-waving nonsense”, to his unrepentant support for terrorists including the IRA and Hamas – backed up in Labour’s manifesto by their pledge to “immediately recognise the state of Palestine” thus putting strains on UK-Israeli relations. This is a man who was arrested at a protest to “show solidarity” with accused IRA terrorists in 1986, a man who invited convicted IRA terrorist Gerry Adams to the House of Commons just weeks after the Brighton bombing, and a man who was actually investigated by the MI5 over his close links to the Republican cause. This despicable man now wants to lead the United Kingdom.”

I would hope John Meighan was aware of who he was talking to when he gave his interview to Shy Society, because if he didn’t he has shown a terribly naïve lack of judgement. Of course if he were aware, it would make it considerably easier to write off the FLA as another far-right Trojan Horse, looking to recruit the shiftless, prejudiced low-life that have bounced between the BNP, EDL and Britain First over the last decade or so. As the question of his understanding of the agenda of those interviewing him is unknown, we can only judge John Meighan and his pet project with the words they’ve spoken. They aren’t encouraging -:

“Longer term, it’s looking at terror laws and preachers of hate. We’ve all seen it in the press that they’ve got thousands of people on watchlists but the reality is you can’t watch them all so you need to look at somehow putting a framework in place to monitor what they do. Be that electronic tags, be that some form of confinement – I don’t think we as a country should be afraid to deal with radical Islamic extremism.”

When compared to calls for internment or electronic surveillance of ordinary British citizens for ideological reasons, the delusional belief that 5,000 bladdered, baldy, ageing, semi-literate, jug-eared porkers called staying out of Ladbrokes and Wetherspoons for half a day is going to “make our voices heard” or “get things done our way” is almost grimly humorous. Let’s be honest about this; I don’t really see Daesh unilaterally laying down their arms just because The ICF and Bushwhackers have laid a bouquet together, do you?

Now fair play to the FLA for not kicking off on the day, banning flags and ensuring Robinson and his pals were kept well away from this demo, but what on earth can Meighan expect to be the future direction of this organisation if he is making public statements in such immoderate and confrontation language? There is a chance the whole momentum of the thing will get out of control and that is something to worry about. Not only that, it’s disturbing to note there are several tweets by the FLA stating that they respect Tommy Robinson, who is apparently “on our wavelength.” This is a worrying statement and the FLA need, before their next demo on October 7^th, to state explicitly what their ideological as well as organisation links to the EDL or Britain First are. If the answer is none, then best of luck to them, but I worry its political agenda could be more accurately described by changing the word “extremism” to “Muslims.”

I think it is important to realise what we should be doing as football fans to rid our game of hatred. Up here on Tyneside, we have seen the real and positive effect fan involvement in the wider fabric of society can make. In one afternoon, a fundraiser by the Gallowgate Flags collective to purchase a Rainbow banner with an NUFC crest in the middle, as part of an attempting to be socially inclusive and to make the stadium an LGBTI+ place of safety, achieved double its target amount, with the surplus going to Stonewall.  Equally importantly, a channel of communication has been opened with the Football v Homophobia project, which will be as solid and symbiotic as earlier alliances with Show Racism the Red Card and the FSA. Perhaps the FLA could reflect on the fact that the annual Pride parade in London attracted 10 times as many marchers as their debut swagger across London Bridge.  

Of course, there’s more to football supporting than challenging homophobia; the Newcastle United Food Bank project has been an amazing cohesive project for social inclusion, which has brought together club, fans and the local community, despite the niggardly naysing of a dozen dismal dullards with their pitiful #CasualsAgainstFoodBanks hash tag. It makes my heart sing with joy when I see the good this initiative has done and continues to do; it is a source of immense pride that we see young African Muslim women able to wear Hijabs to SJP and not be confronted by small-minded bigots, or the club’s official twitter account wishing Eid Mubarak to all.

If Newcastle United fans, with the stereotypical baggage of northern, industrial working class masculinity to contend with, can bring to fruition such positive achievements, then surely supporters in the South East can do similar?  In my opinion, these are the sort of campaigns the FLA ought to be busying themselves with; reaching out to their local communities, inviting them in, though I’ve seen no hint of that as yet in any of their posts or public pronouncements. If the FLA continue and want to do some good in the world, perhaps they could send their condolences to those who suffered at the Finsbury Park attack or even, have a march in solidarity with poor old Orient fans who have seen their club decimated by corrupt and incompetent owners. It’s got to be a better option than risking heatstroke in a CP Company rig out while looking for bother with anyone who seems up for it. Let’s not look backwards to the days of hatred, but to the optimistic future that awaits us, Inshallah…

The Banking Crisis

Sadly, another wonderful NEPL cricket season is reaching the final straight. With 3 league games to go, the top and bottom of both divisions is not as yet decided, but the likely outcomes are becoming clear. In the Premier, South North look to be in pole position to regain the title, which would be their eleventh out of the 18 years the competition has been in existence. Newcastle are in with a shout, having the bottom 3 sides left to play, but realistically South North would need to lose a game for it go as long as the final day as they hold a 42 point advantage. The relegation issue is tighter; South Shields are bottom, 14 points adrift of Felling and 16 of Whitburn, who have been in a dreadful run of form recently. I’d back Felling to get out of this because of the fight and spirit they’ve shown for most of the campaign and warrant there wouldn’t be many tears shed for the demise of the Westovians.

In Division 1, Sacriston hold a 30 point lead over Burnopfield with Bournmoor a further 4 points back. No-one would deny Sacriston the right to play top division cricket, especially after the manner of their final day heartbreak against Felling last year, when the umpires took them off for bad light with victory in sight. Down at the bottom, Mainsforth’s 2 year stay in the NEPL looks likely to end soon. They can catch Seaham Harbour, but probably won’t. Meanwhile, the race to replace the wooden spoonists continues apace. Rather than simply allowing another Durham League team in, as has been the case previously, the NEPL have decided that the winners (or runners up if the winners don’t want promotion) of the Durham League will play off against the winners (or runners up) of the Northumberland and Tyneside Senior League, where Swalwell and Shotley Bridge are engaged in a titanic tussle. Both have expressed an interest in promotion. I’ve not been to Shotley Bridge, but Swalwell’s new, if windswept, facility is good enough to host Northumberland one day games, so it’s good enough for the NEPL.

I have actually seen Shotley Bridge this season though, the final of the Tyneside Charity Bowl. Having lost the toss, the home side were invited to bat by a determined Shotley Bridge side, who fielded magnificently, restricting Tynemouth to a less than intimidating 92 all out. In that modest total, only club professional Khan, with a fluent 34 and captain Ben Debenham (21) showed any mastery of the conditions. However, some magnificent bowling by Khan, who took 4 wickets and a tight spell by Finn Longberg meant Shotley Bridge fell well behind the asking rate. That should not detract from the heroics of David Hymers, whose hat trick as part of 4 wickets in the final over, meant Tynemouth were able to claim victory by 18 runs as Shotley Bridge subsided to 74 all out. It’s always great to win some silverware and Shotley Bridge showed the determination and organization to suggest they could do more than simply survive in the NEPL.

In the Durham League, Castle Eden are currently top, but the rumours are that no club wants to make the step up, so we shall see what happens. One rather brilliant eccentricity is that if weather prevents any play-off game happening before 30^th September, the NEPL management will do a paper based audit to decide who deserves the Division 1 spot. Marvellous eh? As regards the knock-out competitions, the First XI 20/20 was won by South North, who have now made it to the national club finals. The Second XI 20/20 saw Washington, conquerors of Tynemouth, take the title. The 3^rd XI Cup went to Seaham Harbour, while Chester le Street took the Midweek Shield and Gateshead Fell the Midweek League. The First XI Salver saw Newcastle beat Benwell Hill in the final, while the Second XI Bowl sees South North, conquerors of Tynemouth in the semis, host Sacriston on Bank Holiday Monday. The three Sunday divisions are also nearing completion, but I’ll return to them next time, as I’d like to spend a bit of time discussing the Banks Salver, which has been inordinately controversial in some quarters.

 

I’ve been quite lucky in seeing several games in the Banks Salver this season. After my last cricket blog, in which I talked about Tynemouth’s fraught success at Eppleton and Newcastle’s demolition of Sunderland, the situation was that we had reached the semi-final stage; Tynemouth were at home to Benwell Hill and Newcastle entertained Burnopfield, with the winners of the latter tie having drawn the right to host the final, with Sunday 20^th August identified as the date. The semi-finals were supposedly on Sunday 23^rd July, but Newcastle’s game didn’t even get started. Meanwhile, Tynemouth were thwarted by the weather. In the Banks Salver semi-final, the home side had Benwell Hill in a measure of distress at 96/5, courtesy of a pair of wickets each for Tahir Khan and David Hymers, after 26 overs when torrential rain washed the contest out, which finally gave me a chance to have a catch up in the pavilion with Phil Nicholson, Hill batsman and Twitter mainstay. As per the rules of the competition, the score was expunged and the sides started afresh the week after. Being invited to bat this time around, Tynemouth made a very poor effort, registering 147 all out with Chris Fairley top scoring with an obdurate 30 not out. The only other scores of note were a breezy 26 by Matt Brown and determined knocks by David Hymers and Andrew Smith of 16 apiece. In reply, Benwell Hill strolled to an effortless 8 wicket win with 25 overs to spare with Kyle Coetzer and Sameet Brar batting with fluency to build on an explosive 35 from 4 overs by opener Nick Jones. Frankly, the chance for Tynemouth had come and gone the week before and it was a depressingly one sided game, lit up by the stroke play of Coetzer and Brar. Still, well done to the Hill, who are a great club.

The Newcastle v Burnopfield semi-final didn’t take place until 6^th August, as Northumberland were playing at Jesmond the last weekend in July. Sadly, I’ve not been along to any of the Northumberland 3 day games this season, mainly because I felt less than compelled to do so after being unceremoniously blocked by their Twitter account; this may seem childish, but I found it a very disappointing way to repay my enthusiasm and attempts to publicise the team over the past few years. Instead, I stuck with club cricket, watching Tynemouth’s loss to Benwell Hill instead. This did mean I could get to see the second semi-final when it took place on a heavy, overcast afternoon.

Things were all well and good early on as Newcastle posted an impressive 231/5 from a reduced 33 overs, with Alastair Appleby’s 84 the star turn, though Josh Phillippe’s 48 and an unbeaten 49 by Sean Tindale helped set a testing 7 runs an over. This was perhaps a little skewed in Newcastle’s favour as they’d benefitted from 15 overs “Power Play,” an ugly term but we’ll go with it, because the game started on time and the first 15 overs were bowled without interruption. That said when the rain came to curtail the Newcastle innings, things looked so bleak I cycled round home to watch the second half of Newcastle’s friendly with Hellas Verona through the club website. It was dull, but thankfully the afternoon and the weather perked up, as I received tweets from JDT, Oli McGee and Phil Hudson to say the game was restarting around 4.30.

 

Cycling back down, I happened upon a sight similar to the current state of diplomatic relations between DPRK and the Great Satan. Any fractious enmity was not about the recalculated total (141) or number of overs available (20; the minimum required to constitute a proper game), but about the length of the Power Play. Like many things, the conditions of play for the NEPL Banks Salver are a starting point for discussion rather than a definitive set of answers, which will no doubt see retrospective semantic nuancing for next year’s competition. Debate ranged from whether the Power Play should be 6 overs, as per the instructions for games of 20 overs, 15 overs for full games of 45 overs or the potential compromise of 9 overs, as that was about the same percentage as Newcastle had enjoyed in their innings. The browbeaten umpires had JDT in one ear and Burnopfield’s Gareth Breese, who at close quarters looks like the sort of bloke you’d best not push in front of in a Bigg Market taxi queue on Christmas Eve, in the other. Hard competitors, not giving an inch; arguing their respective corners with steely determination. Breese won the debate and Burnopfield chased the runs down with 3 balls to spare, courtesy of a 15 over Power Play that, in all subsequent debate about the game, I’ve yet to find a single person who believed it to be a correct decision, either in the laws or spirit of the game. At the end of the game though, sportsmanship thankfully prevailed, albeit reluctantly, and handshakes were exchanged, followed by a social hour in the bar.

However, the story was not to end there. Newcastle, having been informed by a senior umpire who knows about these things, that they had grounds for appeal, engaged the services of Hudson and Hudson Cricket Attorneys. The NEPL upheld Newcastle’s complaint and decreed that the game would have to be replayed on Sunday 20^th August. To me, it seemed an eminently sensible decision, but Burnopfield demurred and withdrew from the competition immediately. I’m unsure if this was in a fit of pique, or whether it was because they’d struggle to get a side out, as a number of senior players had already committed to attending Paul Collingwood’s testimonial game at the Emirates and swanky dinner afterwards. Their choice, but Burnopfield’s loss, as Newcastle and Benwell Hill played out a magnificent game that must be the best I’ve seen all season. One wonders, of course, what Burnopfield would have done if they’d been required to play the final on the date stipulated.

Batting first, Newcastle started methodically after losing Alastair Appleby for 1 and Cameron Steel for 17. JDT came to the crease and hammered a quick-fire 35 before Coetzer had him LBW. At this point, Josh Phillippe went through the gears; after scratching his way to 30, he suddenly unleashed his inner Chris Gayle, reaching 162 not out from 119 balls with 15 fours and 9 sixes, most of which required lengthy stoppages to rescue missing balls from the graveyard or Osborne Avenue gardens. Messrs. Du Toit and Coetzer would have surely admired the young Aussie’s effortless savagery, though the Hill would have been alarmed at an intimidating final total of 284/8. Sadly Ben McGee was unable to play, having been required to work in his job as a TV licence detector van drone. His brother made the most tremendous entrance to the field of play when batting. The enthusiasm he carried was too much for his little legs to take and he almost careered face first into the turf after a Harold Lloyd style stumble. Well done Oli.

To give Benwell Hill full credit, they made a hell of a good fist of it, falling only 31 runs short. At the top of the innings, Phil Nicholson contributed a dogged 56, but wickets kept falling. When Sameet Brar quickly followed Coetzer, caught behind by that man Phillippe from the bowling of Steel, back to the changing rooms, it seemed as if Newcastle would win with something to spare. Enter Hill pro Haseeb Azam who smashed 63 from 43 balls to put his side back in contention until JDT intervened; a run out, a pair of catches and a couple of wickets, the last fittingly a catch by Phillippe, saw Newcastle home. It was a game where the casual spectator was caught up in the beauty, the intrigue and the drama of events; one left the ground with palms smarting from generous, repeated applause as to the efforts of all involved.  The only drawback being the endless retelling by A Trotter Esq of his dismissal of Marcus North the day before which, as the afternoon progressed and libations were enjoyed, took on the kind of semi-mystical aura of Warne against Gatting in 1993.

 

In all seriousness, it was a wonderful advert for the local game and, while it was a pity that Burnopfield chose not to accept the offer of a replay, the fact is they would almost certainly have lost against Newcastle in the first game if the Power Play had been correctly applied. Followers of other clubs, who tearfully raged over social media with banal impotence in an unpleasantly personal manner about the supposed favouritism shown by the management committee’s decision, ought to take a long hard look at themselves and shamefacedly apologise for their immoderate language and rampant paranoia. This is cricket; uphold and respect the traditions of the game please. Either that, or consider your response in light of, or properly in darkness of, a certain FA Vase floodlight failure last season…

So, where else have I been? Following Tynemouth mainly. On the day after the Shotley Bridge cup win, Stockton visited Preston Avenue. When Tynemouth had faced Stockton away earlier in the season in the North East Premier League, they’d shaded a tight contest by 2 runs and the margin of victory at Preston Avenue was almost as tight in the return fixture. This did not seem to be likely when, in a rain reduced contest, Finn Longberg’s superb spell of bowling (5/15) restricted Stockton to 102/9 declared. In response, the home team were cruising to victory on 91/3, with Stewart Poynter, who had already taken a pair of the finest, most athletic catches of the season, contributing an elegant 53, when he was controversially run out. A sense of collective panic then afflicted the middle order, with the game up for grabs at 96/7. However the Bearded Brothers, Hymers and wicket keeper Chris Fairley saw Tynemouth home without further mishap, to move the team up to 8^th in the Premier Division at the two thirds point of the season.

The week after, it was South Shields away, which gave me a chance to cycle to the game; down the Fish Quay, across on the Ferry rather than biking on water, then through the parts of Laygate, Chichester and Westoe the guidebooks don’t tell you about; the hideous pubs, dilapidated housing and beautiful Mosque. Wood Terrace is undoubtedly the worst ground in the Premier Division, in terms of facilities. While lacking the confrontational brusqueness that can be prevalent at Eppleton for those of us with north of Tyne addresses and accents, Shields isn’t a place I enjoy visiting, mainly as it just looks like it’s falling down, which apparently will be the case when they move to a new sporting hub athwart the John Reid Road at the Temple Park end. Hopefully the grass on the new outfield will be shorter, as if it was your next door’s lawn looking like that; you’d be on the phone to the Environmental Health.

Tynemouth were hampered by a weakened attack; Sean Longstaff was making his Blackpool debut and Finn Longberg was out on the gargle. As such, Shields had made a leisurely 92/3 at lunch, when I headed off to see Northern League new boys Jarrow at home in a final pre-season friendly against Washington. Their Perth Green ground on Inverness Road in the Scotch (not Scottish) Estate is functional and improved; lights, hard standing and a small stand like Ryhope CW. Their team wasn’t bad either, destroying a totally disorganized Washington side 4-0, for whom former Whitley Bay striker Adam Shanks was a shadow of his former self.

Full time and I head back down to the cricket; it wasn’t a game to last long in the memory. The home side made 160/9 declared after 56 overs. Luke Elliott was top scorer with 45, while Andrew Smith (3/42) and Martin Pollard (3/20) proved to be the most effective bowlers. In response, Tynemouth never seriously challenged the seemingly less than imposing total, though the Wood Terrace ground is notoriously difficult to score on. Nevertheless, to be 91/7 was a sign of poor batting and with 20 overs to go, defeat seemed inevitable. Thankfully resolute batting by Andrew Smith (29 not out) and Chris Fairley (17 not out) staved off another loss. Indeed, if it weren’t for the pair’s totemic obduracy, then it could have been a second loss of the season to Shields and the cause for much wailing and breast beating up High Heworth Lane.

 

The football season returned on 5^th August, so I was detained at Benfield 1 West Allotment 0 in the FA Cup, before arriving at Preston Avenue just on tea. We’d made 166/7 and that seemed positively dashing when compared to Whitburn’s response. Despite being dangerously close to the relegation spot, they made no attempt at getting the runs and crawled to a funereal 71/3 after 37 overs when the rain thankfully intervened. It rained for a couple of days; indeed on Tuesday 8^th August, Whitley Bay 4 Seaham Red Star 1 was like a November night, with driving rain and howling winds. Scarcely believably, 24 hours later saw a glorious sunny evening for the oft-delayed quarter final of the Roseworth Trophy at Preston Avenue. Visitors Boldon 2nds batted first and made a respectable 135/5, but some virtuoso hitting by Marcus Turner and Graeme Hallam saw an 8 wicket win with overs to spare. Sadly, the 2nds came up short in the semi-final away to Ryhope CC.

 

As Laura and I were celebrating my birthday with Sunday lunch at Dave and Heather’s, there was no game for me on 13^th August or 19^th either, because I was down in Goole watching Benfield win 2-1 in the FA Cup. Consequently, the only other game to mention is the remnants of the Newcastle v Tynemouth game I caught after travelling back from Benfield’s astonishing 7-3 win at Bishop Auckland. Having made 136/8 on another rain ruined day, I get there with Newcastle 55/2. Tynemouth try their best, but lose by 5 wickets. JDT is out for 0, but he got 150 for Northumberland the next day. Such a shame I wasn’t able to see it.

So, it’s 42 games at 15 different grounds at the time of writing. Sadly, it doesn’t look possible to complete the whole of the NEPL this year, what with Burnopfield withdrawing from the Banks, Mainsforth being almost inaccessible and Brandon and Willington being washed out on the day I wanted to visit. That said I intend to make 50 games by the middle of September, weather permitting. I’ll let you know if I do. Or even if I don’t.

The Kindness of Strangers

This weekend sees the publication of the North Ferriby fanzine, View from the Allotment End #5. You should buy it & not just because I've got this piece in it either. It recalls events almost 21 years ago & was originally written for Hopeless Football Romantic, which seems to have gone into abeyance, with a downbeat theme as Washington FC were about to throw in the towel. Thankfully, they are still in existence, so I'm happy to be able to share the optimistic version of this piece -:

Newcastle United have just been promoted to the Premier League (again); meanwhile Washington withdrew their resignation from The Northern League at the eleventh hour. Ian Cusack discusses why the relief of the latter outweighs any satisfaction with the former.

Twenty one years ago, Newcastle United versus Manchester United could justifiably lay claim to being the biggest club game in the world. In the era between the sun setting on the starched formality of Serie A and the emergence of La Liga as the home for technical brilliance and attacking splendour, contests between the gung-ho optimism of Kevin Keegan’s flawed cavaliers and Alex Ferguson’s wily roundheads saw romance come off a poor second to pragmatism almost every time. 1996 was the key year of that ephemeral rivalry. Ferguson, as ever, held the upper hand; a double over the Magpies saw the Reds dismantle a seemingly impregnable deficit to win the title. Going forward, the stakes were raised as Keegan beat Ferguson to Shearer’s signature, then handed him a debut at Wembley in the Charity Shield; the Champions humiliated the upstarts 4-0. However, the subsequent league campaign was a closer affair, with the two sides cheek by jowl at the top of the table in the autumn.

The first league meeting was to be on Tyneside; Sky TV predictably intervened to move the game to Sunday at 4pm. Tickets were scarce, but back then I possessed a treasured season ticket, so I was alright. Indeed, so was my mate Declan, chair of the Newcastle United Irish Supporters Club. Flying in first thing Saturday morning, he made it down to our house, literally a decent goal kick away from St James’ Park from the airport and learned that the plan for the day was a Northern League Division 2 game.

Looking back, I can sense the slackening of my emotional bonds with Newcastle United from 1994/1995 onwards. I never missed a home game and had been a regular, almost frequent, away traveller, back in the days when you could decide to hit the road in support of the team if you woke up early enough on a match day morning, but what really began to irk me was the number of spare Saturdays, caused by television moving games; in 1992/1993 we had 12 blanks and 13 the year after. This wasn’t to my liking, so I resolved to have zero spares in future, because I was going to watch non-league football.

On Saturday 3^rd September 1994, with the Premier League on an international break, I plumped for Blue Star against Shildon. I watched a game of low quality thud and blunder on a bumpy pitch, which ended 1-1 courtesy of a couple of set piece headers, in front of about 130 people. It cost £3 to get in and the programme was 50p, so the financial investment was negligible. However what struck me, apart from the fact hot drinks were served in china mugs that you were entrusted with bringing back when you’d finished, is how proud both sets of fans, players and committee members were of their respective clubs. On the way out, a Blue Star coach, collecting the corner flags, cheerily exclaimed “thanks now. See you again.” Without thinking, I replied “hope so” and I knew I meant it. There was a bloke, busy with his own allocated job, who’d taken time out to speak to a person who he’d never met before. It wasn’t like that in the Premier, but in non-league, clubs are genuinely pleased to have people visit them.

Subsequently I saw games at Whickham, Whitley Bay, Dunston Fed, Hebburn and South Shields. I didn’t know the term groundhopper, but I was becoming one. As I didn’t really support any team, I was utterly determined to collect the full Northern League set. Indeed, the enduring love I bear for my team Benfield didn’t begin until 2003 when they joined the Northern League.

Half an hour after Declan chapped the door, we were on our way to Albany Park on the evocatively named Spout Lane, to see Washington against Ashington.  I’d taken him up to Portland Park in March 1996, to see the Colliers beat Alnwick Town 3-2, so he was happy to watch the home town team of Jackie Milburn again. These days Ashington are managed by former England pace bowler Steve Harmison and play at the impressive Hirst Welfare, while Washington, formed by pitmen at F Pit during a tea break in 1949, recently came within an inch of folding. It wasn’t finance that almost did for them, but a lack of volunteers; simply speaking, the lads on the committee got too old to peg the nets, wash the strips and sweep the changing rooms out. Thankfully there were new volunteers able to take over and save another club from dying. 

That day, Ashington must have taken 50 fans; daft, drunken lads enjoying their day out. They sang incessantly, banging a repetitive rhythm on the corrugated metal roof of the covered shed opposite the club house. The home support were older, more circumspect, but equally passionate.  Ashington won 1-0 with a goal in the last 15 minutes and at full time, the players and fans cavorted with each other, celebrating as if they’d won the Champions League; whatever level your club plays at, the taste of victory is equally as sweet. The crucial difference is that defeats at non-league level may be disappointing, but they don’t produce the gut-wrenching agony felt by Premier League followers as the emotional involvement isn’t reinforced by a massive financial investment.

We made our way across the pitch to the clubhouse. The Washington supporters were gracious in defeat; pints were bought and complimentary post-match buffet devoured, before we shook hands and said our farewells.  At that point, disaster seemed to have struck. Declan, in the days before mobile phones and lap tops, had travelled over in possession of his Psion Palm Pilot. Somewhere, somehow, he’d misplaced it. It was considered very hi tech and valuable, especially by his employers, who’d be furious with him if he didn’t return with it. I left my phone number with the club committee on the off chance it might turn up and we forgot about it, as best we could. Of course, Sunday was a day none of us will ever forget. Philippe Albert put the cherry on the cake with a lob so precise and beautiful I will never tire of seeing it; 5-0.  Full time and the city centre’s in full on Mardi Gras mode. We drink through it with unnecessary late night pints and crawl home around 1.00.

In those days I had an answer machine that recorded missed calls on a C90 cassette. The display blinked a red 7, indicating the number of waiting messages. Half a dozen were slurred, beery odes to the joy of a great win, but the one that mattered had been left soon after 5pm. Just as Newcastle and Man United were kicking off the second half, the Washington groundsman had rung up to say he’d found “that computer thingy the Irish fella lost” while he’d been marking the pitch, ahead of Tuesday night’s game against Chester le Street. What amazed me wasn’t just that Declan’s job was now safe once again, but that while not just the whole of England, but the eyes of the entire footballing world were on a game taking place less than 10 miles from Albany Park, a Washington supporter and volunteer was giving up his Sunday afternoon to prepare the pitch that we’d thoughtlessly shambled across the previous day. To him, what happened at St James Park was irrelevant; his club was Washington and he was doing his duty for them. In those days I marvelled at his dedication; now such involvement would be second nature to me if Benfield needed stuff doing.

Declan had been sensible in booking the Monday off work and an evening flight home. He slept late, long and loud. I’d booked holiday as well, enabling me to head for Washington to collect the missing Psion. The groundsman had already made a pot of tea; although a lifelong coffee drinker, I realised the importance of forcing a cup down. He gave the Palm Pilot a quick wipe with a rag, then handed it back. In return, I offered him a £10 note. He wouldn’t hear of it. I tried to say it was a donation to club funds; again, no interest. Finally I suggested a charitable donation. He assented. On the bar was a collection box for Age UK; this elderly former player and dedicated supporter, gratefully pushed my money into the slot saying, “It’s always good to help the old folk.”

We shook hands, with his final imprecation being “come and see us again.” Sadly, I never did learn the bloke’s name, but I’ll always be thankful to him for saving my friend’s neck. And, more importantly from a personal perspective, for teaching me, in the best way possible, why football doesn’t begin and end with the Premier League. I wish the very best to the other people in Washington who have come forward to save their club.

Double G & T

The football season is here. Two non-league teams that are worth keeping an eye on during the campaign are big spenders South Shields and Billericay Town, who are both enjoying the bountiful munificent patronage of millionaire owners, in Geoff Thompson and Glenn Tamplin respectively. For the new issue of Stand, I considered the merits, drawbacks, pitfalls and opportunities these two clubs may face. Read my article here, then buy the fanzine -:

A mate of mine spent more than two decades as a print journalist, firstly as a football reporter and then as the sports editor of a local paper, before plummeting sales and the advent of the internet gave him the option of taking redundancy. Grown contemptuous of the beautiful game by exposure to endless wearying encounters with paranoid Press Officers, shifty chairmen, avaricious agents and thick players,  it was a no-brainer, especially as he’d already been sounded out by one of the universities in the area to teach the sport options on their journalism degree course. Personally, I’ve always had my suspicions about such courses, recalling William Burrough’s take on his role as a visiting professor of Creative Writing at the City College of New York, where he repeatedly urged the aspirant authors under his tutelage to abandon their dreams of published fame, as “there’s more than enough fucking books in this world already.”

So too with journalism it seems; while the influence and reach of mainstream print media declines by the week, it seems we may as well train people to be blacksmiths, fletchers  or dry stone wallers instead, such is the paucity of current opportunities in Grub Street. Frankly I’d be advising anyone who wants to be a writer to get themselves set up in a decent, well-paid job first of all, because looking to make your living from the quality of your prose is a pretty unrealistic aim in this day and age. While my mate sheepishly admits that those fresh faced and earnest undergrads in his care are spending the thick end of £30k in tuition fees to eventually work in call centres or bespoke chain burger joints while waiting for the phone to ring, his new career has allowed him to peel off the accumulated layers of cynicism towards almost all aspects of professional sport. Don’t get me wrong; he’d not be seen dead at St James’ Park or the Stadium of Light if he could help it, as instead he opts to spend his summer playing village cricket and his winter coaching his son’s junior side, not to mention watching their local non-league side. From his perspective, sport seems so much more pure at the grassroots level and in a lot of ways I tend to agree.

I started attending non-league football in the mid-90s because the demands of television scheduling, the price of away games and the interminable series of international breaks that destroyed the fixture list meant I was left with about 25 spare Saturdays a season. After a while, I was no longer amused or enchanted by the vaguaries and eccentricities of the amateur game, I was completely head over heels in love with it, actively preferring it to wasting my time and even more money at St James’ Park. Walking away from Newcastle United and embracing my beloved Newcastle Benfield of the Northern League First Division was the single most empowering sporting decision I’ve made in my life. The only regret I have is that I didn’t do it sooner, because I know for a fact that for the rest of my life, I will spend winter Saturday afternoons watching Northern League football, and summer Saturdays watching my equally beloved Tynemouth CC in the North East Cricket Premier League, but that’s a different story entirely.

The non-league scene in the north east is thriving, welcoming and inclusive; everyone knows everybody else. Of course that means if you sneeze at Whitley Bay versus Consett someone watching Dunston Fed against West Auckland will say “bless you,” but the community is a great one to be part of. If you’re at a loose end of a Tuesday evening and take in another team’s game, you’ll know most of the crowd and spend the first half catching up briefly with pals from different clubs, comparing notes about players, teams and officials, as well as important stuff like the quality of the tea hut or beer in the clubhouse. Don’t get me wrong, there are a couple of clubs, generally those with ideas above their station or fans who don’t quite grasp what the essential bonhomie of the amateur game is really about, who are less than universally popular, though we’re not talking Delije and Grobari levels of enmity here. In all seriousness, I reckon I’ve got proper mates, as opposed to just nodding acquaintances, from more than half the clubs in our league, such is the camaraderie and shared ethos of teams at this level, in this area.

Up here in the North East, I’d wager the overwhelming majority of football fans are Labour voters, with little if any time for the Royal Family. Check out the 250,000 in attendance at the Durham Miners’ Gala this year and the riotous acclaim for Dennis Skinner, who gained even louder cheers than Jeremy Corbyn that day. This is why I say the idea of any NUFC supporters singing God Save the Queen at the game is as likely as the Leazes End bursting into a spontaneous rendition of Mladic by Godspeed You! Black Emperor. The fact is that an instinctive belief in the morality enshrined in the values of shared history, community and class struggle is integral to the working class DNA inherited by the descendants of those generations who worked in Tyneside shipyards, Durham coal mines and Teesside steel mills; we look after our own and we hate Tories.

There has never been any hint of indigenous quasi Essex man sensibilities up here, in politics or in football. Take for instance South Shields FC; in summer 2013, they were made homeless by the actions of their former chair John Rundle, who locked them out of their Filtrona Park ground, which he owned. Freshly relegated to Northern League Division 2, they were forced to play home games a 40 mile round-trip away, at Eden Lane in Peterlee in front of crowds that dwindled alarmingly to about the 50 mark. The future looked bleak until local lad made good, Geoff Thompson, a fabulously wealthy businessman who’d made his cash in the domestic energy provider market, took over. He bought Filtrona Park, renamed it Mariners’ Park, built new stands, got a new pitch laid and brought the team home for 2015/2016, when they waltzed to the Division 2 title. Last season, he appointed former North Shields boss Graham Fenton, who’d won the Vase with the Robins in 2015, as co-manager and saw success beyond anyone’s wildest dreams. Sold out notices. All ticket games. 33 successive wins. Former professionals like Julio Arca, Carl Finnigan and John Shaw turning out for the Mariners. A quadruple of The Durham Challenge Cup, The Northern League Cup and Division 1 title, as well as the FA Vase, following a 4-0 demolition of Cleethorpes Town at Wembley where 13,000 Sand Dancers roared their team on to a famous, crushing victory. You simply couldn’t credit it compared to the desperate days three seasons previous. Promotion was achieved and South Shields, historically a football league side a century or more ago, will play in the Northern Premier League in 2017/2018. I’d wager they won’t stop there too long.

Now I’ll be honest and admit that South Shields have got a few fans that have got more than a little giddy with their success. They weren’t nasty or aggressive; just daft, drunken lads in replica shirts, face paint and big nylon curly wigs, carrying silly home-made flags and banners. Fair’s fair though; South Shields is split 60/40 between NUFC and Sunderland, so they’re bound to get a bit beyond themselves if their home town team starts winning stuff, bearing in mind how little success they’ve seen over the past few millennia from the supposed local powerhouses. In contrast to the tyros on the terraces, Geoff Thompson cut a sober, dignified and humble figure; whether in the corporate areas of Wembley or over half time tea and biscuits at Jarrow Roofing, he certainly didn’t act the big cheese. Fly-by-night wide boys with empty promises and emptier wallets from Spencer Trethewy to Craig Whyte have caused untold chaos at clubs the length and breadth of the country, but Geoff Thompson seems the real deal; a modest philanthropist, doing good deeds in the place he calls home.

How much different to the social life of our own dear Mike Ashley; self-professed power drinker and fireplace vomiter. We’ve been there many times before, so let’s leave the Premier League well alone and concentrate instead on another non-league owner and benefactor of a distinctly different hue to Geoff Thompson. In 2017/2018, Billericay Town will be playing at one step higher in the football pyramid then South Shields, as a member of the Isthmian Premier Division, where they’ve been since 2012. However, there’s potential for growth and expansion at The New Lodge (now renamed the AGP Arena), mainly on the back of self-made millionaire steel magnate and convicted fly tipper Glenn Tamplin’s purchase of the club. Not only did born again Christian Tamplin take a few bob out of his estimated £100m fortune to buy the Ricay, he also installed himself as team manager. How many people, I wonder, have the late, great Ron Noades as a blueprint for their sporting career? And how many of those who do can boast they own an £18m mansion in Abridge that makes Southfork look like a bedsit?

Being honest though, it appears that the partnership is working thus far. Admittedly there have been as many publicity stunts as football achievements, but if Anfield legend Paul Konchesky and the cerebral Jamie O’Hara, notwithstanding a club fine for an “altercation” with a fan after a home loss to Leatherhead, are prepared to keep their careers going and provide the club with the benefits of their experience, then who am I to complain? While O’Hara’s appearance on Celebrity Big Brother is a noted low-water mark in contemporary culture, it’s akin to a Bergman film in comparison to the hideous, toe-curling embarrassment of the footage showing the Billericay squad’s dressing room trashing of R Kelly’s The World’s Greatest. This allegedly musical attempt at team bonding, which appears to come straight from the David Brent school of motivation, accompanied by Tamplin demanding the players “shut your eyes… sing it like you mean it… go out there and do it…” is probably marginally less offensive for the casual viewer than the urological sex tape that caused R Kelly so much embarrassment a few years back. However, there may be something in this febrile R’n’B rubbish, as Billericay went out and thumped Tonbridge Angels by the unlikely margin of 8-3 to win the Isthmian League Cup straight after choir practice.

To be honest, I wonder whether Billericay Town fans are particularly bothered that Tamplin, the presumably unsackable potentate at their club, checks all the boxes that indicate the vulgarity of new money. After all, this is a town that elected the grotesque Thatcherite parvenu Theresa Gorman as their MP for 14 years, in succession to noted disciplinarian Harvey Proctor. No doubt he would have been pleased to see Tonbridge handed a damn good thrashing.

Now, in all seriousness, there is one worry for Billericay Town; while Tamplin may appear to be loving the ride at the minute and displaying a willingness to throw £10k a week at his new pet vanity project, I do wonder whether this will always be the case? The fact he bought them after his bid for Dagenham & Redbridge was turned down shows to me that it isn’t really Billericay Town that interested him, but the idea of owning a football club. Therefore, who’s to say he won’t get itchy feet or seek to trade up for a bigger model? Having a benefactor is great while the good times last, but not as much fun once the money dries up; just ask fans of Orient or Grays what that feels like. Thankfully, it’s not a question I can see having any relevance for South Shields any time soon.