Men 2nd

I had my first ever trip to see Newcastle United Women on Sunday 24th September; it certainly won't be my last visit.

Perhaps the saddest thing about the build up to Newcastle’s away defeat against Brighton was the smug self-adoration of the ultra-uber Superfans on Twitter, bragging how they’d been to Swansea, had a ticket for Brighton and would all be on their way to Southampton in mid-October, as if shelling out the thick end of £500 on games they could have watched on the telly made them a better person. Three away games; all long distance, all 4pm Sunday on Sky and each one sold out. Against modern football indeed.

Well done to those whose family, financial and work circumstances allow them to spend their disposable income in this way. I’m on £32k per annum and I couldn’t afford one those journeys from my regularly monthly income, even if I was remotely interested in making them. Frankly, I’ll happily stick with watching them round at Ginger Dave’s, leaving it up to the middle classes and benefit claimants to attend in my stead, as they’re the only ones who could possibly afford it. I suppose the fact that Brighton was also hosting the Labour Party Conference was rather ironic; while Comrade Chris Hughton would be just the sort of bloke to sit down and talk dialectics with Jeremy Corbyn, our posh fans would all be Tories and the dole wallahs EDL or Britain First types.

Now I love my Sunday excursions to sporting events whatever they may be; for the last 4 months these have almost exclusively been trips to cricket. There was one last game on Sunday 24^th, where Castle Eden secured promotion to NEPL Division 1 by beating Swalwell by 35 runs at the Emirates. Fair play to them; I look forward to visiting in 2018.  While I was delighted to hear about Moeen Ali and Chris Gayle’s heroics in the one dayer at Bristol, the result from Chester le Street was of more importance to me, as it actually concerns where I’ll be getting my entertainment from next summer. So with cricket out the way, I had half thought of rugby league as a possible alternative, but the Thunder’s heroic late season momentum ground to a halt in the play-off semi-final, with a narrow 60-0 loss to Barrow. Better luck next year lads.

However, there are still a couple of other forthcoming sporting events worth considering. My one and only trip to ice hockey was to see Slovan Bratislava beat Spisska Nova Ves 3-1 in March 2000, but I’ve decided to give my support to David Longstaff and Whitley Warriors. Hence when Newcastle face Liverpool next Sunday, my intention is to be at Hillheads to see if the Warriors can build on this week’s win over Nottingham Lions when Deeside Dragons are the visitors.

What I actually did on Sunday 24^th September was to see Newcastle United Women’s FC at home to Leeds United Ladies at their new home of Cochrane Park and I’m very glad I did, as it was an excellent game. Previously NUWFC played across the road at Team Northumbria, but prohibitive ground rent saw them occupy what may still be the home sod for Newcastle University’s Northern Alliance Premier Division team, though the word on the street is they’re upgrading a pitch with lights elsewhere in the complex for the purpose of applying to the Northern League next season.

Now my knowledge of the women’s game is as sketchy as my understanding of the Champions’ League. I’m aware England did well in an international tournament this summer and have just sacked their boss, not for a load of hideous 70s style racism but because he’s a reputation as a bit of a sleaze. There’s also a WPSL as well, which has just switched from summer to winter seasons, with the local Sunderland side getting bombed out of their former home of Eppleton CW to play at South Shields’ Mariners Park instead. There you have it; my whole knowledge condensed into a paragraph.

I did have a bit of experience of women’s football at Percy Main between 2009 and 2012. Indeed I still remember a few games; a 21-0 win over Newcastle Medicals in the inaugural league game was the first game I saw. A few months later, the Women’s FA Cup appeared, in the shape of a home tie against North Shields Women. A big local derby with a compulsory programme required; we did 100 copies and I think there were 85 of them left when I left Percy Main for Benfield in 2013. At least we beat them though, giving us a home tie against a side from Liverpool. This time we did a dozen programmes; one for every goal the visitors scored as it turned out. Eventually the women’s team folded after one of the managers immigrated to New Zealand and the other was smuggled out the back door from his job as a student mentor at a local College for blurring a few boundaries. Therefore it was with an open mind I cycled through the wrought iron portico of Cochrane Park on Sunday afternoon and willingly handed over the £3 entrance fee.

There were actually two games taking place; on the bottom pitch the NUWFC Development Squad were taking on their Blackburn Rovers counterparts, who returned home with a 4-1 victory under their belts. While I had intended to watch a half of each game, such was the standard of play, degree of excitement and level of enjoyment provided by the first team contest, expertly officiated by Lyndsay Robinson, I literally couldn’t tear myself away from it.

Within 4 minutes it was 1-1; Newcastle took the lead with a gloriously curled finish from an exquisite pull-back. Leeds kicked off, went down the other end and, after the NUFC keeper had pulled off a world class save, an unmarked forward rushed to stroke home the loose ball. Leeds took the lead after 8 minutes and it looked like either team would score every time they attacked. Newcastle had 4 excellent chances in a row; two spurned and two marvellous saves. Eventually Newcastle drew level on the half hour, breaking the high, risky and hitherto effective Yorkshire defensive line. Only after the scores were tied did the tempo drop from the breakneck.

Come the second period and things initially slowed down; there were plenty of deft flicks and touches of remarkable fluency. Equally there were plenty of F words uttered in frustration, though not by the two benches; the Newcastle management in particular seemed insistent on emotional blackmail and guilt tripping the officials rather than resorting to the language of the snooker hall. It didn’t work. Leeds went 3-2 up, before Newcastle got level with a thumping header from a corner that Jamaal Lascelles would have been proud of. That wasn’t the end though; another great save by the home keeper was harshly rewarded with a tap-in for the visitors gave them a 4-3 lead that they held onto, despite endless waves of Newcastle pressure and heroic Leeds defence. What a great game; it could have been 10-10 it really could. I’ll definitely be back.

So, what about the blokes? Only saw the second half. Poor marking for the goal. Plenty of possession. Lots of effort and honest endeavour. A few half chances. Little guile or craft. No robbery. No great tragedy. No crisis as yet. Sometimes you lose a game and just have to accept it; I’m sure NUWFC did that with grace and intelligence.

51 Not Out

Durham are playing their final home County Championship game this week, with a trip to Worcester to follow. There are a few England v Windies One Dayers as well. However, for me, the cricket season is over. Time to say goodbye and grieve behind closed front parlour curtains -:

The 2017 cricket season is dying. It began for me on a freezing cold Good Friday with the first day of Durham v Notts in the County Championship Division 2 and ended, 5 months and 51 games later, in a torrential downpour after Hebburn 2nds had laboured to 84/6 against Stobswood 2nds, who managed to collect the 8 points needed to win Northumberland League Division 3. With only the NEPL promotion play-off between Castle Eden and Swalwell, rained off twice and scheduled for high noon Sunday 24^th September at the Emirates left to be played, it is with a heavy heart, I must summarise what was so good about the season and what I’ll miss about local cricket in the long winter months that lie ahead.

My previous cricket blog (http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2017/08/banking-crisis.html) was penned in the immediate aftermath of Newcastle’s victory over Benwell Hill in the final of the Banks Salver; a win secured in no small measure by Josh Phillippe’s imperious 162 not out. In some ways it is fitting that this was the lad’s last knock at Jesmond, but in many other ways it is a crying shame that the young West Australian had to curtail his time on Tyneside. I am not privy to the exact details of the potential problems with Josh’s visa that caused the hasty termination of his engagement on Osborne Avenue, nor am I interested in the minutiae of legal process concerning this issue or the shamefully indecorous clamour from certain quarters on social media that brought obloquy on certain clubs and individuals. I was interested in watching Josh, in the same way as I like to watch Jacques Du Toit, Marcus North, Kyle Coetzer and any other stylish, entertaining batsman flaying the bowling from April to September each year, as a spectator and lover of good cricket. However, as a Tynemouth fan, I was mightily relieved that Josh wasn’t playing for Newcastle at Jesmond in the semi-final of the Smithson Cup on the Wednesday following I must say.

In the event, I spent a good deal of the evening in the company of Josh; he’s a smashing young lad, with a good head on his shoulders and utterly bereft of any edge or tinge of arrogance, even if he did refuse to pick up the slack for his comrades as Twelfth Man.  As it was a midweek game, both sides were very much a mix and match of who was available. While Josh was going home early, JDT hadn’t even left home that evening. Tynemouth were bolstered with some lads in from the 3rds. In the end, it made for a tremendously exciting game; Newcastle batted first and made 104/7 from 15 overs. Tynemouth replied with 104/5, victory denied by a fine last over from Alistair Appleby who took 2 wickets and conceded only 4 runs. With scores level and wickets not counting at this stage, it was time for the Super Over. In near darkness, Tynemouth went first and amassed 10 for 2 from Appleby’s bowling, before Tahir Khan won the day, restricting Newcastle to 6 for 3. After a great game played in a convivial atmosphere, Tynemouth advanced to the final against Benwell Hill at South Northumberland the following Sunday.

On the Saturday following, Benfield’s home game with Marske United (limp performance; deservedly lost 2-0) prevented me from following Tynemouth Firsts to Chester le Street, where an uncharacteristically cautious home batting decision to use all 58 overs to score 267/8 in the hope of drawing the sting from the game as Tynemouth consequently had only 52 overs available to them, backfired spectacularly. Matty Brown and Stuart Poynter batted with savage brilliance to chase the total down in less than 50 overs. Winning away at Ropery Lane was probably the best result of the season, at that point, and I had to miss it. My second choice on the day would have been another visit to Jesmond for Newcastle against South Shields where, thankfully, the potential for rancour in the fall-out from injudicious social media posts was not an issue. However Newcastle skittled the visitors for around 120 and had the game won by 3pm, denying me the chance of seeing any of it. In the end, I headed back to Tynemouth to watch the Seconds beat Chester le Street by 4 wickets in chasing down 218. A good day all round and, as a result, the following day’s final could be approached with optimism.

Sundays, as ever, are public transport disaster zones on Tyneside; unsurprisingly the Metro was off, so the horror of a sluggish and slothful replacement bus from Shiremoor to South Gosforth caused me to miss the first part of the undercard. In the Northumberland County Bowl final, Newcastle City had made 142 batting first and Tynedale were going along nicely in response, with a first wicket partnership of 80. However, some superbly accurate bowling by Newcastle City, who play on Broadway West on the way from Gosforth to Fawdon, meant they won by 5 runs. I knew there were entirely Asian teams up here, such as GEMS (Gateshead Ethnic Minorities), but I’d never seen such a side as Newcastle City play before. Basically, below the NEPL I’ve seen very little of the Tyneside and Northumberland Senior League, the various divisions of the Northumberland League or any of the West of Tyne League; this is something I really need to remedy next year, once I’ve ticked my remaining NEPL grounds off. With the relegation of Mainsforth, my total of missing grounds extends to Brandon, Burnopfield, Willington and potentially Castle Eden, if they win the delayed promotion play-off; all in Division 1 incidentally.

In the Smithson final, Tynemouth did remarkably well to restrict The Hill to 111/8, especially as Chris Fairley managed to concede 16 byes in Tahir Khan’s opening over. Subsequently Tahir and young Henry Malton, deservedly keeping his place in the Firsts after a combination of some solid performances by him and pitiful cry-offs from more experienced players left the team seemingly weaker than one would have liked, bowled with guile and economy. Unfortunately, the reply was characterised by rash shots and risible run-outs; only Fairley and Sam Robson, who did well in scoring 38, gave reason for optimism. Sadly, two run-outs in the penultimate over allowed The Hill to win by 10 runs. Well done to them; a club I have enormous respect for and feel genuinely disappointed not to have visited this year.

And so to September. When my father died in the early hours of Saturday August 1^st 2009, the day after Bobby Robson had passed; I still got up to play in goal for Heaton Winstons Over 40s in a pre-season friendly. We won 3-1 and then I headed to Percy Main Amateurs v North Shields in the Gary Hull Trophy; the visitors won on penalties after a 2-2 draw. On a day when I could have been concerned with private grief, I chose to absorb myself in sport. It just seemed the correct and appropriate thing to do; to keep myself busy, to keep myself sober and to be amongst friends. Once it became clear my mother was near death, it was somehow fitting that I learned of her passing while cycling to Tynemouth Cricket Club, a place I regard as of equal sporting and spiritual importance to me as the twin icons of Sam Smith’s Park and Easter Road, for the last home game of the season on Saturday September 2^nd, when Hetton Lyons were the visitors. Ironically, that morning I’d been having a conversation about French literature on Twitter before I left the house, so could have quite feasibly tweeted the news by saying -: Aujourd’hui, maman est morte. However I didn’t; there was cricket to be watched.

It was my 48^th game of the season and undoubtedly the one I’ve paid the least attention to, partly for emotional reasons but mainly on account of the enormous volume of phone calls I had to make and receive during the course of the first session. When a life ends, life and all of its administrative tasks must go on. It was lovely to see Stuart Poynter compile a sparkling cameo of 21, before being taken at gully by the kind of catch he specialises in, even if it was a loose and lousy shot. On World Beard Day, the sun shone brilliantly across Preston Avenue and the calming beauty of my surroundings, allied to the genuine and understated messages of sympathy I received, as news of my loss spread round the ground, made me feel utterly at peace with the universe as lunch arrived with us 138/5.

At this point I took to my cycle and headed for Hillheads and Whitley Bay versus Benfield in the FA Cup. My club did us all proud by winning 2-0 and they did me enormous good by the fact that almost all the travelling fans took time out to shake my hand and express their sympathies, as did a considerable number of Whitley supporters. Full time, I headed back to Tynemouth, having already learned we’d made 228/7 declared. Only the third innings over 200 of the season in point of fact, and looking certain to bring us a win with Hetton teetering on 77/6 as I arrived. However, the Lyons batted like tigers and obdurate defence allowed them to collect a gritty, losing draw, closing on 144/8. As the overs wound down and the sun began to set, the beer started to flow and, regardless of the score, the ethos of the Tynemouth Cricket Club extended family came to the fore. It may not have been what the doctor would order, but it’s exactly what I needed; a serious rake of pints in the company of some of the best people you’re ever likely to meet in a sporting or any other context. Meanwhile, those from my extensive network of local cricket and football followers from places other than Benfield and Tynemouth expressed genuine messages of sympathy on social media. I am honoured and humbled to know you all and call you my friends.

The final weekend of the NEPL season was the week after; on Laura’s birthday. I gave her a card and made my way to South North courtesy of a properly functioning Metro. Another gloriously sunny, warm day with South North batting first and, despite unfurling the NEPL Champions flag, only around 50 people gathered to watch, though loads of spectators had brought their dogs. The Champs started off like the usual well-oiled machine they are and reached 88/2, when Martin Pollard caught a Marcus North skier in Tahir’s first over just as it began to rain. The shower was light and brief, but it signified an early lunch and I took my cue to head for Benfield. While we lost 4-1 at home to a vengeful Whitley Bay in a game where the score tells nothing of the story of the game, Tahir went crazy on Roseworth Terrace, taking 6 wickets, meaning South North were bowled out for 156. Amazing eh? Even better, the Tynemouth lads knocked off the runs required for the loss of 5 wickets, with skipper Ben Debnam contributing an excellent unbeaten 70. Only one problem; I didn’t see it. As the end of season drinks evening in the clubhouse was planned, I headed to Preston Avenue from Benfield, where the Seconds were already on their second pints having glamorously lost by 8 wickets to South North 2nds. What was a fella to do?

I contributed to the end of season inquest by getting on the San Miguel, joined in a game of 5 a side (won 3-1 with that man Fairley getting a hat trick) and spent several hours in the company of all 3 teams, with the 3rds returning victorious from Bomarsund, not to mention birthday girl Laura, plus Dave and Heather. Everyone got half cut and sentimental. I truly would have loved to stay for the curry that Tahir and his wife had prepared, even if Matty and Smithy’s rice experiments were running seriously late, but we left them to it. What a wonderful sport. What a wonderful club. What wonderful people. I’m missing Tynemouth and the NEPL already.

However, the vagaries of the fixture list gifted me one last hurrah; a chance for an adventure south of the Tyne. Hebburn Cricket Club share their home with two football teams; on the “big” pitch Hebburn Town play in Northern League Division 2 (indeed I’ll be there on Saturday September 23^rd watching my beloved Benfield in the FA Vase), while Hebburn Reyrolle of Northern Alliance Division 1 play on the “small” pitch. Reyrolle had hosted Coundon & Leasholme in the Northern Alliance George Dobbins League Cup on the Saturday, losing 4-2 in the process. As a result the cricket seconds were forced to host Stobswood 2^nd XI (the team I ought to have made my still delayed Monkseaton 3rds debut against back in July) on the Sunday. Because all the other games had been played, already promoted Stobswood knew they needed 8 points to win the title ahead of Rock CC. As a result, on a dank and overcast day, they were keen to get as much of the game played as possible.

Via Metro and the meanderings of the generally unhelpful 27 bus, I arrived just in time to see a Hebburn batsmen caught from a skier. At this point the crowd consisted of me and Geoff the Durham fan, who told me he’d seen 165 games this season, which put my half century in its place. Eventually a few supporters and zealots arrived and the spectators must have numbered a dozen or more, by my reckoning. Trying to find out the score was a different matter; twenty minutes later the portable tins said 7/0 from 4 overs. Runs came from a variety of unorthodox shots, yielding fewer boundaries than deserved as the dampness of the outfield, on both the “big” and “small” sides of the wicket, made ground shots slow up and lofted ones plug in the earth. At drinks, there was a brief shower of no more than 5 minutes duration.

I took the opportunity to grab a coffee from the refreshment stall and noticed the umpire, who had the same idea, was attired in a Metallica hoodie. He was in a loose conversation with the home scorer, so I took the opportunity to inquire as to the state of play; 71/4. The Hebburn lad then asked “are you a Rock fan?” I replied in the negative, but suggested that the umpire probably was, to baffled looks of incomprehension.

The players returned and in the 10 minutes possible before the heavens opened, Hebburn advanced to 84/6. As flooding became a possibility, tea was taken, stumps were drawn and the game abandoned. I sipped my coffee, waiting for a cessation of the storm to allow me safe passage.  It was my intention, on the day before my mother’s funeral, to take a bus from by Hebburn graveyard to Heworth, by the cemetery where my grandparents lie, then metro and bus to Benwell Hill, opposite Newcastle West Road Crematorium for the James Bell Cup final. Stood at the stop by St. Andrew’s churchyard awaiting the 39, I checked my phone to discover the weather had won out; the game has been postponed until 2018. Something to keep us going over the winter anyway.

So, that’s it for another year; just time for a few daft awards. Sell you all in 2018.

Best innings: Josh Phillippe 162 not out for Newcastle v Benwell Hill in the Banks Salver final; 20-08-17

Best non NEPL innings: Gary Oliver 28 not out for Monkseaton 3rds in a measured response to Rock’s 370/2 from 40 overs; 28-05-17

Best ball: Sean Longstaff for Tynemouth 2nds away to Stockton 2nds; tie between his first and last deliveries of the game, both of which made a terrible mess of the timbers and neither of which were seen by the batsmen; 25-06-17

Best game: Tynemouth beat Benwell Hill by 23 runs in a contest of heartstopping tension; 01-07-17

Best food: Di Brown’s strawberry Pavlova, which deserves an Oscar; 27-05-17

Dullest game: Tynemouth 2nds beating Sunderland 2nds in the Banks Bowl, where even Finn Longberg confided “this is rubbish this;” 29-05-17

Coldest game: Northumberland being trounced by Cumberland in 50 overs competition in a hurricane at South North; 30-04-17

Most ridiculous run out: Awarded collectively to every side Tynemouth CC put out this season.

Second Annual Phil Hudson Award For Comical Fielding: Sam Robson for a pitiful roll over the top of a trundler in front of the pavilion in the Charity Bowl final for Tynemouth against Shotley Bridge. In a tight game, where we’d made only 92, boundaries were crucial; thankfully David Hymers took 4 wickets in the final over, so Tynemouth won.

Player of the Year: Every single one of you. It has been a pleasure watching so many games at 16 different grounds at many levels. Don’t even think about retiring; come back next year and do it all again, as your efforts are appreciated.

Winter well everyone.

Nostalgia

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but my lifelong urge to read voraciously this summer, unlike every other year I can remember, was almost entirely absent. Normally, the start of June marks the opening of the book devouring season round our way but, despite an attractive in-tray at the side of the bed, I opted instead for magazines and on-line information in the main, despite the huge amounts of time available both in the house and at cricket grounds during a lull in play or a break for rain that would have been ideal in other years to salve my bibliophilic urgings. There was one exception; Wisden’s Guide to Cricket Grounds by William Powell, ironically enough. Given to me as a birthday prezzie by Ginger Dave, it’s a satisfyingly encyclopaedic guide to all First Class grounds and a vast number of Minor Counties’ venues, though not delving particularly lowly into the glories of club and village grounds. It’s stuffed with exactly the sort of information the target audience would love; pleasing line drawings, travel arrangements for rail enthusiasts and tips for where to sit, in terms of views, passage of the sun and prevailing winds. It is precisely the sort of book to dip into and lose oneself during the long wait for civilisation to return in April.

On a similarly nostalgic theme, Earth Recordings released the record of the summer; a companion piece to the late Bert Jansch’s ornithologically influenced masterpiece Avocet. Rather than inviting copycat cover versions of the sublime original avian instrumentals, Earth engaged some seriously important contributors to muse upon the sea bird theme to produce a 4 song 12” EP called Avocet Revisited. Side 1 has the only vocal cut; Edwyn Collin’s masterful Fulmar, followed by the hitherto unknown to me chamber-pop outfit Modern Studies and Curlew, which is pleasant enough. Side 2 is where the jewels are really to be found; the gloriously talented Alasdair Roberts produces subtle and superb acoustic guitar picking that evokes the spirit of Jansch, not to mention Leo Kottke or even John Fahey, on the excellent Goosander. However it’s the closing track that is the true prize; Trembling Bells, showing that their beautiful heart of folk opulence still beats beneath those breasts of riffing prog bluster, on Golden Plover. It moves 180 degrees from Sovereign Self, Wide Majestic Aire and recent Record Store Day releases, back to the pastoral and the elegiac and away from the scratch and sniff uncompromising crotch rock that their last live appearance at the Sage evoked.

As a kind of nod to the 50^th Anniversary of the Summer of Love, Trembling Bells headed out in August with Mike Heron for a further instalment of The Circle Will Be Unbroken tour. Support was from left-field, confessional New York auteur Ed Askew, whose gentle tales of human bravery were augmented by Jay Pluck on piano, Alex Neilson on percussion and guitarist Mike Hastings,  who had the hardest paper round of the night, never getting off stage from curtain up to curfew. The Bells were in the café beforehand, Lavinia tucking into cheeseburger and chips; on their usual wonderful form. Friendly, open and genuinely pleased to see someone in a worse shirt than Alex. The Mike Heron set was as charming, whimsical and downright tree hugging as ever; all leading towards a climactic finale of The Cellular Song, but it was Trembling Bells on their own who arrested my senses. The power unleashed by them on stage is verging on the seismic.

Sadly the new album, Dungeness, won’t be out until February 2018, but when it is, it will be possibly the most important release of the year. All the folk that’s fit to sing has been purged from the Bells on stage; you’d not believe this band was responsible for Ravenna or September is the Month of Death. Instead, My Father Was a Collapsing Star disinters the Bonzo Dog Doodah Band to transform sixth form humour into bleak Dadaism. The Prophet Distances Himself from His Prophecy is Black Sabbath with the accelerator jammed to the floor and every bit as scarily brilliant as it sounds. And of course Christ’s Entry Into Govan will be better than Willows of Carbeth, better than Just As The Rainbow and even better than Wide Majestic Aire; songs that all our grandchildren will love in the same way we treasure the Velvets, Fairport, Sun Ra and every other band almost as good as Trembling Bells. Mark my words, people will talk about Trembling Bells in hushed, respectful tones to acknowledge their genius half a century from now.

Now another band who’ll stand the test of time are Penetration. As part of the Whitley Bay Film Festival, they kicked off their 40^th Anniversary Tour at North Shields Saville Exchange, supported by Graham Fellows in his Jilted John incarnation. Logical really; he’d played Cullercoats Cresecent Club as John Shuttleworth the night before. It was the first time I’d been to the Saville Exchange; what a great venue it is too, with proper real ale in proper real glasses. Jilted John was funny, heartwarming and exactly the kind of musical cul de sac that Fellows reversed away from at speed in early 79.

Penetration were trying out their new chronological set, which reminded just how many superb songs they’ve written and equally how daft they are to be modest to the point of diffidence about their remarkable achievements over the years. Don’t Dictate, Silent Community, Shout above the Noise, The Beat Goes On and for that I’m glad. Pauline’s voice remains a perfect beacon in the hands of a siren, Rob grows ever more distinguished and Paul’s spangly white suit as flashy and eye-catching as the guitar work. I was worried about the pace of the set, as the obvious encores had been played in the body of the set, but the rabbit from the hat to close proceedings in the shape of their fabulous readings of I Don’t Mind, debuted previously and a simply stunning Shake Some Action left me in raptures. They’re releasing a pair of crowdfunded 7” singles that I’ve already stumped up for and return to the region on November 4^th at The Cluny; the night after Wire at the Riverside… Be at both; I will.

I’ve bought myself a few records as well; none of them contemporary I hasten to add. One of them was a new release though; No Forgetting by The Manchester Mekon. My weekly email from Monorail drew my attention to this limited edition vinyl compilation of every obscure cut ever released by the highly recondite late 70s Manchester Musicians Collective (MMC) ensemble. Bracketed alongside the very wonderful Spherical Objects, The Manchester Mekon obviously preferred Henry Cow to The Lurkers for inspiration. For the majority of the short time of their existence, they produced memorable, loose-limbed, proggy, improvised jazz rock, with flutes, saxophones and vibraphone, as in Film Music, The Note, Approaching a Russian Caravan and Jonathan Livingstone Seafood. Where they failed to make a mark was when they attempted to write songs, with synthesisers and vocals, when the music failed to ignite, especially the deathly dull Idle Gnome Exhibition or unspeakable Blancmange-lite of the title track. I will listen to this record fairly regularly, but just the second side I imagine.

The other two purchases I’ve made were from Tynemouth Market. For a quid I got the awesome Tackhead Tape Time by Gary Clail’s On-U Sound System. Released in early 1988 it came after the Sherwood inspired football number, The Game, that sampled Brian Moore, included the full band with the sadly forgotten Bristolian ranter Clail declaiming hysterically over the top of crushing beats. It predates his popular success with Human Nature and the false step of Tackhead veering towards commercialism, when trying to be Living Color reanimated with Bernhard Fowler on vocals. All the better for that, with solid gold classics Mind at the End of the Tether and Hard Left reinforcing just how cutting edge, provocative and downright daring this music was. I’m absolutely delighted to add it to my collection.

Similarly, the wonderful Charisma Records sampler One More Chance, featuring a dozen prime middlebrow prog rock and prog folk outfits from the 71-73 era plus Monty Python doing Eric the Half a Bee. Despite dross like The Nice and Jo’Burg Hawk, there are some superb cuts by the likes of Audience, Bell and Arc, the singing schoolmaster himself Clifford T Ward, Capability Brown, Rare Bird, String Driven thing and a closing Clear White Light by Lindisfarne. Well worth £4 I say.

Anyway, on the horizon we have Godspeed You! Back Emperor (25/10), Wire (3/11), Penetration (4/11), Euros Childs (25/11) and Vic Godard with The Band of Holy Joy on 8/12. Sounds decent to me; even if I’ve seen them all many times before, I can still wallow in nostalgia for the gigs yet to come.

Thermidorian Reactions

After the predictable tedium of the early season international break, the Premier League returns this weekend, with Newcastle travelling to Swansea City in what already looks like a crunch relegation 6-pointer, like every game featuring a couple of the PL also rans from outside the hermetically sealed glamorous top 8. Apparently the Magpies may not be under the charge of self-proclaimed Messiah and Greatest Manager in the World Rafa Benitez for the nearest thing to a European tie the club is likely to get for the thick end of a couple of decades, as he is recuperating following a hernia operation. I wish the man a speedy recovery, but would observe that I’m surprised that it hasn’t been a procedure to alleviate a particularly serious cause of haemorrhoids that he’s recently undergone, as he’s been an absolute pain in the arse since it became clear he was being held to account regarding some of his failed signings last year, with the club (okay Ashley and Charnley) standing firm on the need to ship the dead wood out before we signed any more new planks.

My last piece about Newcastle United (http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2017/07/what-carton.html ) was penned in mid-July, when Newcastle United’s Irish training camp was to include a wonderful opportunity to meet and greet Rafa and the boys in Sports Direct off O’Connell Street. While I was full of the optimism of midsummer, I did wonder whether conduct involving such distasteful self-abasement was a contractual obligation for Benitez, as it seemed to fatally undermine any sense of dignity he could previously command, meaning players may not wish to sign for someone who had so little self-respect as to act as an errand boy for Mike Ashley. Returning to these shores, Benitez then took up the role of glorified glass collector in 9 Bar, turning up for a Q&A session with the great unwashed among the support. Considering the bitter irony of Bob “Lord Haw Haw” Moncur hosting the latest one of these Strawberry Place show trials on 31^st August as the transfer deadline passed with a predictable lack of inward activity on Tyneside, one wonders just what purpose Benitez’s dutiful obedience to the finger clicking orders of his superiors actually served in a wider context. Perhaps this is the sort of issue Benitez’s personal hagiographer Martin Hardy can address in detail when he phones in the next of his banal diary of a season cash cow accounts of how Rafa diverted the threat of nuclear war in Korea, while discovering a cure for all forms of cancer and winning the World Cup with Newcastle. At least Mark Douglas’s account of 2016/2017 attempted to be even-handed and professionally detached when analysing the effect Benitez has had on the club, even if his conclusion that Benitez had effectively checkmated Ashley may seem to be wildly optimistic if not risibly naïve regarding the future direction of NUFC. The many headed Sports Direct hydra will not allow itself to be slain so easily.

Interestingly, on Thursday 7^th September, the NUFC Food Bank are hosting a fundraiser at the Tyneside Irish Centre, whereby 7 local football journalists of varying quality, reliability and reputation, will hold a public “inquest” into the impact of the transfer window and a discussion about the immediate future prospects of the club in the light of this. There are a few tickets left, price £10, but I’ll not be in attendance as the inquest I’m particularly concerned with is the one following my mother’s death last Saturday, which means I need to empty her room in the care home or face a £500 bill. This is a shame, on many levels, but particularly because I’d like to have heard what some of them have to say. As well as Mark Douglas, the opinions of George Caulkin and Simon Bird are worth paying attention to, though the swivel-eyed, paranoid froth from the likes of Craig Hope, Louise Taylor and the frankly pitiful doom-mongering of Luke Edwards and Rafa’s special pal Martin Hardy can be safely ignored. Frankly, even Lee Ryder or Ian Murtagh have more to recommend them than the querulous quartet who’ll no doubt be predicting Benitez out by October, relegation by Christmas, administration by Easter and oblivion in the Summer. Shame I can’t make it…

One thing Newcastle United, and Mike Ashley in particular, does better than anyone else, is the self-destructive, volcanic lurch from one avoidable drama to an equally preventable gargantuan crisis of existential angst. The last 10 years have seen a whole litany of indescribably ludicrous public relations gaffes and nightmares in the boardroom and dugout, as well as on the pitch and among the support. The Quatrième pouvoir Brains Trust gathered on Gallowgate will surely come to that consensus, though one wonders whether any other than Bird, Caulkin and Douglas would have the mental sophistication to accent that the current situation at Newcastle United is not a Doomsday scenario. In my eyes, it appears as if a smaller but slightly stronger squad than the one that gained promotion, are being endlessly rubbished and denigrated by the majority of our support, especially the South Tyneside Twitterati, in an attempt to display unblinking, unthinking loyalty to Benitez and the kind of dog whistle enmity towards Ashley that garners quick and easy numbers in the likes and retweets stakes. Strangely though, supporters of other teams in the top division do not have Newcastle earmarked for one of the relegation spots; partly because of the supposedly world class manager who is in charge and partly because we’ve assembled a few half decent players. These include at least 5 of our new signings: Lejeune, Merino, Atsu, Joselu and Murphy. While I’ll admit the lack of firepower and options at left back are potentially bothersome, I’m more annoyed we didn’t get rid of Haidara, Colback, Gamez and Shitrovic. If we had, other players could have been brought in.

I do find it incredibly strange that Benitez is both the most unprofessional, disloyal and deliberately provocative manager since Brian Clough took on Sam Longson at the Baseball Ground 45 years ago, as well as being simultaneously happy to accept the role of Ashley and Charnley’s patsy. His incessant griping from the point it became clear a block had been put on future incomers, until the dross was disposed of, generally along the lines of some variant on the we must try, but it is hard or not possible to always compete got on my nerves after a couple of days. It seemed excessively negative, deeply divisive and unnecessarily alarmist; one wonders exactly what effect it had on a squad preparing for a return to the Premier League. Having watched the Spurs game, I would contend this Dismal Jimmyism hadn’t really caused much damage to morale; there was a point there for the taking, while the eventual defeat was of Shelvey’s own doing, following his ridiculous stamp in front of the referee. You can’t compete with Harry Kane and Dele Ali when you’re a player short, though Kane ought to have walked for the snide scissors kick on Lejeune.

The week after Spurs, I didn’t see the Huddersfield loss, as I was watching Newcastle beat Benwell Hill in the Banks Salver final at Jesmond, but I caught the highlights later on and it seemed that a timid, negative team selection had put in the kind of stuttering, inadequate performance that we’d seen last year against Blackburn (twice), Sheff Wed (twice) and Wolves at home. It seemed as if they’d gone out there utterly lacking in self-belief and accepted we were beaten as soon as the goal went in. Surely if Benitez is the tactical maestro so many insist he is, then he could have coaxed more than this limp surrender? Or am I missing the wider implications of such hopeless performances? Are we seeing superb counter-intuitive tactics, whereby Ashley will be convinced of the need for new blood if the old stock is deoxygenated, depleted and discredited? You’d be forgiven for thinking that if you’d been at the Nottingham Forest League Cup loss on the following Wednesday, that outstripped anything I’d seen for eye-bleeding torpor since the Souness era.

Sat in an eerily silent Platinum Club on a ten quid ticket, the quality early goal by Shitrovic and the excellent efforts of Aarons, including a blindingly good equaliser, only served to stay the inevitable torrents of bellyaching from those who displayed not so much support for the club, but a sense of arrogant entitlement far removed from any version of fandom I can identify with. The moaning twat in the Thame United fleece behind me managed to be more annoying that the seizure-inducing pitch side adverts for some morally dubious gambling website or other. As a Hibbee, I know Jason Cummings is as fast as hell and a nuisance in the box; he isn’t Neymar though. He scored a brace and tortured the defence who were uniformly pitiful, then went off for NUFC legend Daryl Murphy just in time for their winner in the 97^th minute. In the remaining 23 minutes, Newcastle mustered perhaps 2 efforts on goal, preferring instead to languidly pass the ball along the back line, almost as if defeat was something of an achievement. The strenuous efforts of sub Matt Ritchie to rescue the game stood in sharp relief to the complacent ambling of the rest of the side. I’m just surprised there wasn’t more booing after extra time following such a performance, but it appeared rather like Ritchie’s efforts, there were only pockets of genuine anger and passion to be heard. While I made a vow that I’ll not set foot back in the ground while Benitez is in charge; most punters around us glumly accepted another rancid night at the office and shuffled off without complaint.

However, in the days following this loss, I detected a gear shift in public opinion. Hacked off with the lame excuse of a team who are utterly bereft of ideas once they’ve gone behind, significant numbers of NUFC fans were beginning to question whether Benitez was all he claimed to be cracked up to be; sterile football, indifferent transfer record, ostracising players, a relentlessly negative attitude and a seeming obsession with courting conflict with the elusive and mercurial Ashley were getting people down. Obviously there’s still a huge number of Stockholm Syndrome Sufferers who refuse to believe that Emperor Benitez may not have any new clothes, but their influence was waning. This caused some juvenile hotheads to claim that Benitez wouldn’t be the man they thought he was unless he walked away from NUFC. Just think about that; hoping the boss resigns to show what power he’s got over the owner. The mind boggles…

All in all, it added up to a potentially epochal contest with West Ham in the last game. Surprisingly, it almost all went to plan; the dismal Bracelet Thieves were beaten out of sight and the support remained united. Of course, the idiotic elbow by Shitrovic that has caused him to face an entirely merited 3 game ban was seen as an FA-led attack on the NUFC politic by the authoritarian populists in the Gallowgate, rather than just desserts for rash impetuosity. Amidst all this, the single most amazing thing about the game and its aftermath was the deputation to Benitez led by Charnley, which involved the reading of the Riot Act, the redrawing of boundaries and responsibilities and the emergence of a contrite, on-message manager. It seems that Rafa isn’t Spartacus; he’s a very naughty boy. Thankfully, he’s ditched the Icarus impression in favour of a more solicitous Daelus profile, while at least keep the club on a relatively even keel, even if the hull seems ready to spring a leak at any second.

The manager’s subsequently more respectful tone in his public utterances, following the visit to the Headmaster’s study, show he knows he’d overplayed his hand. If this rebellion had turned into a revolution, Ashley would have been Stalin, Robespierre and Pol Pot combined in terms of the repression visited upon the club. Thankfully Benitez’s awareness of the failings in his conduct could be seen by his eagerness to please his employers by shifting the likes of Hanley, Krul and Lazaar (two of them his signings of course) before the deadline. If only Benitez had been more pro-active and on-message earlier in August, the whole NUFC situation could have been immeasurably more optimistic, especially if he’d ditched his bizarre obsession with signing another keeper.

So, three games in and 16 to go before New Year’s Day, we are where we are. It isn’t ideal, but it’s not time for a Three Mile Island meltdown just yet. Frankly, I’m expecting an ugly season at SJP, with a whole load of attritional, dreary games whereby we crawl at a snail’s pace to around 48 points. This will no doubt be partly thanks to some overpriced, panic buys in January who may provide temporary respite. Undoubtedly, Benitez, who is no longer talking about Newcastle as a long term project, will leave next summer, having met his match in Ashley and the club will have lost an opportunity to push on, because of Ashley’s illogical caprices. Having watched my mother dying on her sick bed these last 2 years, I can confirm there is no joy to be found in remaining one step away from last rites at all times. Benitez, who now knows his limitations, is aware of this, but Ashley doesn’t care, or so it seems. This vile, moneyed patriarch has the power and the amount of devil in his soul to cast us into a footballing nuclear winter at the flick of a switch. Let’s hope the obsessive gambler doesn’t play his ultimate Trump card.