Warrior Race

Those of you not suffering from cognitive degeneration will remember my piece about a trip I took to Greenock Morton v St Mirren on January 2^nd (http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2018/01/bounty-hunting.html)  and the grand time I had there. Fuelled by my Pictophilic love for all things Scotch, I resolved to haste me back, to which end I eagerly scanned the fixture lists for another opportune date to head north. News that my beloved Benfield’s game away to North Shields had been moved back one day to Friday 23^rd March was enough motivation to firmly schedule a visit. All I needed was a game to go to.

Obviously, I wanted to see somewhere new, which immediately restricted my choice. Additionally, with it being an international weekend (Scotland bravely lost 1-0 at home to Costa Rica at a mostly deserted Hampden on the Friday night, in point of fact), the recondite glamour of the Premier League was off the agenda, leaving me marooned with 5 out of 12 top flight grounds visited. In the Championship, with St Mirren and Falkirk (been there) inactive as Inverness Caledonian Thistle and Dumbarton were facing off for the Scottish Challenge Cup at St Johnstone’s McDiarmid Park (not been there, but couldn’t go as it kicked off at 4.30 for BBC Alba’s viewer), I also discounted Morton and Queen of the South as they had already been done, leaving only Dundee United possible in a division balanced equally between ticked and unticked grounds. Albion Rovers’ gloriously shambolic Cliftonhill had been paid homage to in League 1, though back in 1997 I did see Airdrie lose at home to Hibs while tenants at Clyde’s Broadwood Stadium. I could theoretically have gone to their Excelsior Stadium, or to Ayr, Arbroath or Forfar to try and up my 30% completion rate. Finally, League 2: currently precariously balanced at 4 v 6, Berwick was obviously done decades ago, Clyde was a vicarious tick and Peterhead, without a railway station, is impossible for a day trip, unlike the two potential favourites of Stirling Albion or Stenhousemuir.

I decided, being the classical liberal I am, to allow the market to dictate and visited www.thetrainline.com in the search for competitively priced travel options. As is ever the case, travel north of Edinburgh starts to get pricey, especially once you leave Fife and cross the Tay. Bye bye Arbroath, Forfar and Dundee United then. Ayr was similarly expensive, while I was content to leave Airdrie and Clyde in the questionable tick zone, meaning the realistic choice came down to Stirling against Cowdenbeath or Stenny versus Elgin City. The latter won, partly on price (£15.70 return) and partly on train times. If I’d gone to Stirling I’d have been hanging around Waverley for an extra half hour, forced on to the stopping train that always seems to be full of drunks.

Anyway, having slept soundly following Benfield’s third trouncing of North Shields in 2017/2018, I caught the surprisingly deserted 11.45 to Waverley and then stepped on the 13.30 Dunblane service. Of course, there is no Stenhousemuir station at which to alight; the place I was looking for was Larbert. Through beautiful Linlithgow, on to Falkirk (where Andy Hudson and I had seen them beat Aidrie 4-3 in January 2014) and Camelon, whose Junior side always seem the latest to finish their season at the wee ground by the canal and then off at Larbert. Unlike the West of Scotland, the Forth Valley, in which Larbert is situated, is just the kind of charming, upright, prim small town that The People’s Friend would feature on its cover. While Ayrshire and Lanarkshire seem to be populated almost entirely by zombified Buckfast addicts in Old Firm shirts, shouting incoherently at traffic islands and park benches, Larbert is almost reserved and deserted. The walk-up football crowd is singularly absent, other than one fella in his 60s, sporting a black and white scarf; as it turns out, he will comprise 25% of the travelling support.

The journey to Ochilview Park should take 11 minutes on foot. Because of my legendary map reading skills, it takes double that as I purposefully strode out in entirely the wrong direction down the Main Street linking Larbert with Stenhousemuir. Only when I spot the A9, offering me the choice between Falkirk and Stirling, do I turn on my heels and shuffle embarrassed past deserted family shops, where prim assistants regard my untimely reappearance with distaste.

Eventually I turn left up the magnificently named Tryst Road and the ground almost looms before me. A vision of maroon drenched brickwork, the turnstiles beneath this beautiful façade are closed. Instead access is through a side door into the stand, which appears to be called the Norway Stand. I had hoped this was on account of something along the lines of the Gothenburg System of pubs once so popular in Fife, whereby temperance was encouraged by making hostelries particularly drab and dull. Despite the presence of Stirlingshire’s last remaining Goth in Fallin, only 10 miles up the A9, I was mistaken. It was simply a sign of gratitude for the repeated presence of so many Scandanavian groundhoppers over the years, whose regular visits and thirst for merchandise has helped keep the club afloat in the bad times, which have been most of the times. That said, I first fancied going to Ochilview in the mid-90s after seeing the highlights of their amazing 2-0 defeat of Aberdeen in the Scottish Cup, which hastened Willie Miller’s departure from the Pittordie hot seat.

My personal hot seat was the highly appropriate C86 in the stand, almost as a tribute to the legendary Pete Astor who I’d seen the night before. To my left were the snack bar and club shop. To my right and opposite was a concrete path, populated by ball boys not supporters. Behind the far goal was a covered enclosure, where about 100 Stenny teenagers congregated and gave their misinterpretation of ultras terrace culture. They had a couple of drums they banged incessantly and arrhythmically, not to mention a loud hailer that the youth wielding it barked ferociously and incomprehensibly through, augmented by the occasional squall of painful feedback. It was like listening to an embryonic Mark E Smith tribute act. I enjoyed it tremendously; indeed, it was much better than the football on display.

 Stenny’s previous game had seen them lose at home in midweek to basement club Cowdenbeath; it was the Blue Brazil’s second win since August, with the first being 3 days earlier away to Elgin. Despite the two of them sitting in 4^th and 5^th places and consequently in a battle for the play-offs, this was a contest between two out of form teams. The game began in a timid, hesitant fashion, with both sides unable to string together any discernible passing moves as play was so disjointed as to make the drummers in the enclosure sound like kings of syncopation. I was delighted, for many reasons, to meet Derek Steel, editor of Razur Cuts, Bairns fan and punk rocker for life, who’d crawled out of his sick bed to meet me. He was great company, persuading me to head back up to these parts on June 9^th for the launch of Razur Cuts V by generally being more entertaining than the game.  But you know it’s good sometimes to watch a game where the score really doesn’t matter.

Suddenly Elgin scored; a break down the left saw the ball slipped into the path of the on-rushing Chris McLeish to bury with some aplomb. The goal was greeted by silence, then a grim exhalation of disappointment by over 400 stony-faced home fans and the polite applause of the hardy few down from Elgin. There was no reaction on the pitch. There wasn’t much of anything from either team. In the case of the home side, the situation got worse as the afternoon wore on; out of the whole 90 minutes, only the opening 10 of the second half, when they emerged from the dressing room after a good bollocking, saw them play any football. In that brief window of adequacy, they made and missed 4 presentable chances before conceding one of the most banal, mundane goals I’ve seen in my life.

An unnecessarily conceded corner is slung in by the veteran Jon-Paul McGovern, who was playing in the Northern League 4 seasons back for that ill-starred vanity publishing exercise Celtic Nation. There are no defenders awake.  Darryl McHardy heads it into the net, unchallenged, from inside the six-yard box. The exhalation from the first goal is replaced by a groan. It turns into a grumble when the home side’s ace up their sleeve is the introduction of McGovern’s equally aged former Celtic Nation team mate, Colin McMenamin. He does nothing of note, like all of his team mates, with the exception of David Marsh who earns a thoroughly pointless red card for one stupid trip and an equally idiotic tug on an opponent’s shirt. This is after 70 minutes. In the time remaining Warriors fans in the 422 crowd begin to drift away on a sunny, windy and pleasant afternoon.

 Full time is greeted by desultory booing and semi audible clapping from the jubilant visitors. Derek gives me a lift to the station. There are 2 Elgin fans in the same carriage as me, but no Stirling Albion or Cowdenbeath supporters fresh from their 2-2 draw in front of 768 punters. Scotland slips past and after a smooth change at Waverley, I’m back in Newcastle for 8pm. The station is full of half drunk posh people in Ralph Lauren who’ve been watching the Falcons beat Northampton. It’s like a Russell Group alumni reunion. They ignore me as I head for the bus, planning my return for a Juniors fixture at the end of May or start of June. This was a good day.

TERF Wars

Newcastle United, gender politics & the poisoning of former double agents in Salisbury; they're all linked you know -:

The risible notion that Britain is actually regarded as a global super power by any other nation than itself was again exposed as a scarcely credible arcane fantasy by the events of the last week.  As yet, responsibility for the poisoning of Sergei and Yuri Skripal, not to mention some unfortunate and hitherto anonymous flatfoot, has neither been claimed nor apportioned with any semblance of proof. Aside from being a particularly poor advert for landfill pasta chain Zizzi’s Sunday dining options, the incident has been taken as an excuse by the shambolic circus allegedly in charge of the country to engage in a pitiful chorus of bellicose sabre-rattling that would have seemed anachronistic in an Ealing comedy back in the days when we still had rationing.

Here is a fact. Boris Johnson is incompetent. Here is another. He is also mad and, without doubt, a significant danger to public safety. If he dares to imagine that, with or without the blessing or indeed comprehension of Maidenhead’s answer to Cruella De Ville, the plucky Brits can face down Kung Fu Bonaparte’s empire in any kind of conflict from a stare out contest to full scale thermonuclear war, he is even more deranged than I had feared. Although it should be recognised that, in his rampantly delusional state, he’s among likeminded souls in the Tory cabinet.  I have racked my brains, but in all honesty I struggle to find a more compelling example of the pathetic Little Englander mind-set of Brexit Britain than the vacuous pomposity of Gavin Williamson’s attempted calling out of the world’s largest nation. Not since The Times ran the apocryphal headline Fog in Channel; Continent isolated has there been a more fatuous public pronouncement of wrongheaded Anglocentrism. Mind, Johnson’s demand that the World Cup be postponed runs Williamson’s cretinous utterances a close second.

Here’s my prediction; within 10 days or a fortnight at most, the Skripal situation will have been forgotten, as the Government controlled media in both countries downplays the significance of recent events to that of a historical adjunct to the annals of modern diplomacy; a barely remembered footnote in the chronicles of state-sponsored espionage. Of course the whole affair will become murkier and derailed by internecine obfuscatory tactics, resulting in game, set and match to the tiny Beast from the East while Johnson and May are still arranging their towels at the side of the court. Never mind any potential involvement by the United Nations, a far more puissant body, namely FIFA, will ensure that Russia emerges unscathed from this whole fiasco, allowing gas to still be piped westwards and the World Cup to take place.

The lasting legacy for the British public will be the timorous fallout from the BBC’s scandalous photoshopped hatchet job on Jeremy Corbyn, whereby a Breton fisherman’s cap morphed into a Cossack hat for the purpose of spreading the insidious, subliminal lie of treachery, when all Corbyn has sought is that rarest of political commodities; the truth. The justifiable, if naïve, tsunami of indignant outrage from the enlightened wing of the political spectrum has had the welcome effect of uniting the left, especially on social media. This comes as a blessed relief after what has seemed to be months of unremitting enmity regarding the vexed subject of Trans rights, both in society as a whole and the Labour Party specifically, following the clarification of party rules in February, paving the way to allow the presence of self-certifying transgender women on all-female shortlists for parliamentary seats, without the need for a gender recognition certificate.

As an educated, professional, middle class, white, cisgendered, heterosexual male, I am fully aware of the privileged position in capitalist society that my sex, gender, ethnicity and social class has provided me with. Furthermore, as a Socialist I feel I have both ideological insight and socially aware empathy to bring to any debate about Trans rights, as well as an instinctive opinion that Dawn Butler’s communication to constituency branches on the subject of Trans rights was a progressive, inclusive and responsible step forward. However, I was somewhat astonished, not to say aghast, at the vitriolic response from an amalgamation of second and fourth wave feminists to Butler’s document. Not only were there threats of mass resignations from the party, which was enough to stay the hand of the NEC and force consultation before a policy review on this issue, but a fetid plague of poisonous transphobic comments on social media from an ideological alliance that rejected the Socialist principles inherent to those who recognise the importance of intersectionality. In contrast to the holistic, dialectical analysis of the nature of female repression being caused by capitalism rather than reproductive organs by third wave feminists, TERFs (Trans Exclusionary Radical Feminists) placed sex, not gender, at the centre of all debate, denigrating the importance of class, race and all other recognisable measures of conscious and unconscious prejudice when discussing women’s rights.

I found the attitudes of TERFs to be abhorrent, but for the sake of impartiality, I sought to inform myself by further reading.  The complexity of the subject was a shock to me, as I’d had neither exposure to nor knowledge of crucial concepts in the Trans debate such as: genderfluidity, intersexuality, as well as MIAF and non-binary orientations.  That said, the conclusion I was repeatedly drawn towards involved embracing the inclusive philosophy of third wave feminism and its interpretation of the importance of intersectionality to debate. For all the reasons listed above, I can never fully appreciate women’s struggles, but in all conscience I reject completely the vindictive isolationism of the voluble, unapologetic TERF minority. The intolerant absolutism reminds me so much of the Leninist Vanguardista tendency, as well as bringing to mind the similar ideological fission which can be seen among the supporters of Newcastle United, between the tolerant, inclusive majority and a tiny cabal of affectedly masculine authoritarian populists.

While we have made enormous strides since I was informed in the 1980s by a particularly servile adherent of the institutionally homophobic workerist tendency who still worship at the feet of Kim-il Taaffe that being gay was a Bourgeois affectation, we must recognise the huge distance we still have to go in society and among certain sections on the Left. As regards football, I had thought that the Rainbow flag on display in the Gallowgate from the start of this season was a massive step forward. Even better news has been the formation of United with Pride, NUFC’s official LGBT+ fans’ group. The very best of luck to them, especially those members in the NE32, NE33 and NE34 areas, as the most vicious homophobia I’ve encountered by Newcastle supporters has come from such parts. One would almost fear for the safety and very existence of genderfluid, intersex, MIAF, non-binary and Trans NUFC followers in such areas.

Unfortunately, there remains an inherent and deeply repugnant strain of Alpha male heterosexism among the more lumpen elements of Newcastle United’s fanbase. Whether this is occasioned by ignorance, emotional retardation or a gross misconception of what it means to be a man, I am not sure, but it needs to be removed from the gene pool forthwith. A particularly sickening example recently was the dog whistle response to Kieron Dyer’s brave revelations that he had been a victim of childhood sexual abuse. Whatever one thought of Dyer as a player, a person or both (and it’s undeniable that the failure to achieve his potential in the former role grew in proportion to the ostentatious, vulgar arrogance of the latter), as decent human beings we ought to express compassion and support for any victim of abuse, not engage in the kind of snide sniping more befitting a slaphead Richard Littlejohn than any (self-appointed) arbiter of fan opinion. As a survivor of childhood sexual abuse myself, I view any attack on another victim as a slight on us all, whether it was said in all honesty or merely as an attempt to antagonise a specific individual (presumably me). Thankfully the unremittingly angry response to such intolerant baloney caused discomfort for the perpetrator in a way Gerald Ratner would have recognised. It is proof that the boors fetishizing the dinosaur ideology, enshrined in the deeply distasteful scripts of Oz and Auf Weidersehen Pet, are dying out among Newcastle’s support. They may be found in the betting shops, estate pubs and chip shops of South Tyneside, muttering away to themselves, but they aren’t in St James Park any longer. It also shows the positive way social media can allow football fans to correct inaccurate slurs about their club.

Witness also the Jermaine Jenas incident, whereby another player who achieved only a fraction of his potential, was allowed to spout unchallenged gibberish on BT Sport, while in the company of the cerebrally deficient Steven Gerrard and Steve McManaman, as well as some unknown talking head of a presenter. Jenas, despite initially accepting responsibility for failing to reach his true potential, then blamed Newcastle United. Despite arriving at a club that boasted the creative instincts of Shearer, Speed, Bellamy, Dyer, Robert and Solano, as a raw 19 year old and subsequently finishing 4^th, 3^rd and 5^th in his first three seasons with the club, as well as playing in the Champions’ League twice and reaching semi-finals of the FA Cup and UEFA Cup, which enabled him personally to benefit from playing with such stellar talents that he gained 15 of his 17 England caps while based on Tyneside, Jenas claimed that Newcastle United blighted his progress in the game. The fact he gained his sole medal as a player, winning the 2008 League Cup at Spurs, following his unmourned departure does not really prove his point in any meaningful way.

While I’ve no real issue with Gerard or McManaman not pulling Jenas up over his outlandish lies, as they presumably don’t have any detailed knowledge of Newcastle’s performances between 2002 and 2005 at their fingertips, the inability of the presenter, who should know such things, to do so was a disgrace and symptomatic of the default position of sycophantic toadying to fabulously wealthy, sombre and shallow youngish men in distasteful designer suits the media has adopted. However, in an era when the likes of Matt Elliott and Ian Dowie are employed for expressing opinions that sound like the results of a computer programme intended to generate random, unconnected words like the bastard love children of Stanley Unwin and Max Headroom, why should we be surprised? Thankfully, Twitter came to the rescue and the storied ranks of NUFC fans successfully disproved the nonsense Jenas had claimed, to the extent the petulant millionaire withdrew from the platform for a good 10 days, which is an age in social media terms.

Everything seems to age so quickly these days. I’ve not written about Newcastle United in over 2 months and issues that seemed so important in mid-January have less relevance during this latest 3 week interregnum. Indeed, the whole landscape is disturbingly serene. There are 8 games to go, the club are 13^th and lie 4 points above the bottom 3 with the best goal difference in the bottom dozen. We have reason to be cautiously optimistic about avoiding relegation, partly because our old pal  Pards has effectively ruined the Baggies, while Stoke seem doomed. The final drop spot may yet go to the Moyes Boys, especially as they can’t seem to keep the ICF’s Craft Ale division off the pitch. However it was nice to see their reward for a 3-0 home tanking by Burnley was a trip to Florida.

Realistically, Newcastle surely only need victories against Huddersfield and West Brom to be completely safe. The frustration of points squandered against Swansea, Burnley and Bournemouth has been offset by the positive vibes engendered by controlled victories over Manchester United and Southampton, just when the intemperate hotheads at SJP were denouncing Kenedy as “shit;” the latter win was so emphatic Pellegrini lost his job after it. Surely a corner has been turned? If you compare the situation in mid-January, I’d like to think so, even if the governance of the club on a daily basis is the sole responsibility of Charnley, following Bobby Moncur’s resignation.

I know Southampton were dismal, but it would be superb to think that finally Benitez has cajoled the squad into playing in such a compelling way, which must be a positive sign. Of course, the complex Cassandras among us point to the fact the corresponding 8 games earlier in the season harvested a single measly point at The Hawthorns.

Remember the anxiety associated with the end of the transfer window? The bitter tears of the stupid at Mitrovic’s departure. Well, he’s certainly found his level in the Championship; scoring goals and leading with his elbow, accumulating as many yellow cards as Man of the Match awards. The acclamation that greeted Islam Slimani’s arrival. He’s still not been on the pitch, though I suppose if his career trajectory follows those of the similarly invisible Ferraya and Doumbia, he’ll be top scorer in the Champions’ League in 2020/2021. The banner at the Burnley game, offering undying devotion to Benitez. The irony of an anti-Ashley protest happening inside the ground dovetailing superbly with Darlow’s comical own goal. Being serious, the signing of Dubravka is a major step forward for the club and credit must be given to Benitez for his insistence on improving options surrounding that position. Woodman may be doing the business at Aberdeen, but he’s too young. Rob Elliott is a decent keeper, but the Slovak is a wholly different beast. Darlow may have the edge on Elliott in terms of reflexes, but is found severely at a disadvantage when it comes to temperament. Top level keepers do not panic the way he does. Get the lad some beta blockers or say goodbye.

One final thing to recall is the Press Summit the night after the transfer window closed;  a mass whinge in a social club lounge, involving some local football journalists and Luke Edwards, talked up by some as if it had the import of the Congress of Vienna. The wise ones opted for Mogwai that night instead. Finally; Amanda Staveley? Anyone remember her? Precisely…

Honest Endeavours

Looking forward to the start of the new cricket season? For some of us, it's already here....

One of the best things about being a resting academic, is the chance to keep late winter hours, absorbed in cricket matches taking place thousands of miles away, rather than being tucked up by ten on a theoretical school night. This employee-friendly freedom affords one the opportunity to take advantage of Sky’s loss-leader attempts to inveigle potential subscribers in to signing up and signing away £100 a month for their product, as the free to view Sky Sports Mix channel disgorges tempting titbits normally only available to those foolish enough to willingly engage in media-friendly modern slavery. Although the recondite appeal of many of the events may be entirely in the eye of the willing beholder. On whiteout Saturday during the Beast from the East interregnum, I watched with growing amusement and no little contempt, Allardyce’s Everton produce as spineless a second half showing that could be imagined, outwith the tactical fiascos Pards has long been noted for. I’ve not got anything against Everton; it’s Allardyce I reserve my contempt for and the 2-1 defeat at Turf Moor was as shameful as anything Benitez has cooked up. Allardyce, like Pards, Benitez and all the other tactical dinosaur bullshit artists still stealing a living in the dugouts of the top flight, was at pains afterwards to blame the team and not himself for the shameful display that had wrested defeat from the jaws of victory.

As I see it, one of the most pronounced differences between football and cricket, is the question of ultimate, personal responsibility when the wheels come off. In football, it’s the manager; justifiably I suppose, as he’s the one who trains, selects, coaches and generally, signs the chuckleheads whose incompetence drops their club in the clarts. In cricket, despite the autonomous and almost singular role of the players, it seems to be the captain who stops the buck. Unlike blaming the manager, I am ambivalent regarding this approach to the apportioning of error.

With this in mind, I watched the fourth one day international between New Zealand and England, at the University Oval in Dunedin, initially with admiration, then annoyance, contempt and finally amusement, as England heroically strove to lose the thing, despite batting first and being 267/1 after 38 overs. Once Bairstow had departed after a thrilling, bellicose 138, those sent out to partner Root batted with contemptuous, contemptible, vainglorious disdain for the Black Caps’ attack. Captain Eoin Morgan, Ireland’s cricketing response to Sir Roger Casement, must accept responsibility for enabling a patina of arrogance that permitted repeated frightful shot selection which saw Buttler, Morgan, Stokes, Moeen and to a lesser extent Woakes, perish abysmally for a combined contribution of a less than stellar 12 runs, while Stokes lost his momentum, becalmed at the non-striker’s end. He made a century, but his last 20 runs were all singles as England posted 335/9, partly thanks to last over heroics by Curran. A reasonable total, but perhaps 80 less than they ought to have got if they’d played the game properly and judged each ball on its merits. At first it didn’t seem to matter, as Wood and Woakes had NZ 0/2, but as the cold night drew on, the Black Caps doggedly chased the total down. Taylor, hobbling grotesquely on one leg like an amateur theatrical attempting Richard III in fancy dress, bludgeoned 181 and I rose to gently applaud him, before retiring amidst lightening skies at 6.15 am once New Zealand had completed an unlikely 5 wicket win.

The game received little publicity, with zero evident support in the media for my castigation of England’s Redmondite Jackeen captain I might add. However, I’m used to minority opinions on marginal sports. Take for instance, the Northumberland CCC AGM at Jesmond on Monday 26^th February. Literally, this was the calm before the storm; a temperate, almost balmy night, mild enough to persuade me to walk home afterwards. Of course, the next morning the whole landscape had changed, with half a foot of pure white snow carpeting the region. Similarly, the shape of Northumberland cricket was altered; a small measurement on the Richter scale perhaps, but a decisive and irrevocable difference, whereby the old order changeth, yielding place to? Well, time will tell us…

In total, there were 20 people shivering in their overcoats and, in my case, nursing vending machine coffee, in the austere function room at Jesmond Cricket Club, where I’d last been for my ex-wife’s 50^th birthday party before Christmas. Having held Northumberland membership for 4 years, this was the first time I’d managed to get to an AGM, which might have been the case for a few others, as presiding and retiring Chairman Alan McKenna expressed his surprise at the size of the gathering. Harry Pearson once memorably compared the average Northern League attendance to the faithful at Church of England evensong; not many there and those present being elderly. Compared to Minor Counties membership gatherings, non-league football crowds are akin to a Metro station teenage grime festival.

Obviously, I’ve not been a lifelong Northumberland member, but even during the short period I’ve followed the county, I have been lucky enough to enjoy priceless memories; the run to the final at Wormsley in the 50 over competition in 2015 and the agonising failure by a single bonus point, to claim the 2016 Minor Counties 3-day title. Admittedly last year was a disaster, without a single victory in either competition, but the core problem that clearly and repeatedly manifested itself was the inability to turn out a settled team. All esprit de corps was absent. Contrast two losses to Cumberland at South North; the 2015 3-day game, where with Adam Cragg absent, Mickey Allan and Conor Harvey came within 2 balls of a heroic draw and the 2017 50-over contest, where 72/1 ended up as 123 all out and a thumping defeat. Such stinking capitulations were the signature scent of summer 2017. In a sense, they were unavoidable with so many changes because of unavailability, late call offs and a myriad of other problems and excuses, leaving the county adrift at the foot of the table. However, from my perspective, the solution was clear; concentrate on getting back to a core squad of players who appreciated the chance of playing for the county. Perhaps that’s a naïve hope and indicative that I don’t know what I’m talking about. Sorry if that’s the case, but surely stability is better than revolutionary change on a whim?

The first and most shocking change is the departure of Jacques Du Toit. Captain Nicotine, the man whose batting could light up the darkest of days (just ask Chester le Street) was not only the captain and the pro, but also the very reason why you’d want to watch Minor Counties Cricket, for the style and panache of his hitting, which just shades Oli McGee’s inventive use of profanity as the top attraction the county had to offer. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve seen JDT flaying the bowling; balls ending up lost in the graveyard or rolling off down Manor House Road and Shortridge Terrace, no doubt ending up in the Dene.  From now on, if I want to see JDT bat, it’ll either mean watching Newcastle in the NEPL or attending Jesmond for the game against Cumberland on August 19^th. Having been relieved of the captaincy, Jacques has opted not to continue as Northumberland’s professional, but to head the opposite way down the A69 from his rural bolthole towards Carlisle, Workington, Furness and Penrith.

I’m no expert, but I feel this leaves the county immeasurably weaker in both batting and bowling, though I wish new captain Tommy Cant, who plays for Tynedale in the Northumberland and Tyneside Cricket League, rather than in the NEPL, all the very best. Another departure sees coach Russell Tiffin relinquish his role, with John Tindale, from Newcastle, stepping into the breach. Again, good luck to John and his son Sean who has left Newcastle for South North. Finally, Alan McKenna has stepped down after 17 years and Gordon Halliday from South North (a gentleman I cannot speak too highly of, following certain dealings I had with him last summer) has taken the chair.

The meeting was over in 30 minutes, with the last part being given over to a presentation for Alan. This was well deserved, but I did wonder why votes of thanks for the sterling efforts of the absent Messrs Du Toit and Tiffin were not recorded. Perhaps it was an oversight. Perhaps it isn’t the done thing. I don’t know, but I do think it should have happened. While I’ll still support Northumberland, I do feel slightly less enthusiastic about them now that Jacques has gone.

That said, I feel ever more enthusiastic about supporting Tynemouth, especially because of the indoor adventures in the 6 a side tournament I’ve witnessed this winter. Having twice seen them in action at South North, progressing through the Northumberland competition and then seeing off the challenge of Whickham at Durham in the North East final, I was immensely keen to travel to Old Trafford and support them in the Northern final. Win two games there and the National final at Lords on March 25^th was the next stop. Exciting stuff; almost as hair-raising as Fanta’s driving on the way down. With the team in 2 cars, the travelling support consisted of the Hallams and us two big lads. Suffice to say, we weren’t outnumbered by the massed ranks following the other 3 sides, lucky enough to have qualified.

Rather charmingly, when discussing this event prior to departure, Laura had got a little confused at the difference between Old Trafford (football) and Old Trafford (cricket), inquiring whether the Man Utd v Liverpool game had been played early on Saturday, to avoid the crowds getting mixed up. Surveying the vast acres of virgin tarmac in the car park and estimated that, despite the presence of 4 cricket teams, supporters and various Lancashire CCC employees, there were approximately 74,800 less here than the day before’s game up the road, you’d have to conclude that police probably insisted the two events didn’t clash.

Tynemouth had been drawn against Woodlands from Bradford in the second semi-final, with Derby Congregational versus Shrewsbury Grasshoppers first up. One significant difference to both South North and Durham was the size of the playing area, especially in terms of length. Not only did it make scoring a 6 very unlikely, but it allowed fast bowlers an appreciable run up, which helped the quick lad from Woodlands no end. One problem was the malfunctioning scoreboard, which meant we didn’t really know how close the first game was, until it was announced Derby needed 1 to win. The ruddy-cheeked, large-limbed Salopians had batted first and, aided by a plethora of wides and no-balls, reached 102. Local knowledge, in the shape of a garrulous third umpire, stated that somewhere around 130 was a good score, so it seemed the Asian lads of Derby Congs were favourites to go through, which they did by 2 wickets, augmented by some truly woeful, ill-disciplined bowling from Grasshoppers who also had the shame of a 5 run deduction for dissent.

For the avoidance of doubt, we made our way down to the side of the playing area by the scorers’ table to keep abreast of developments in our game. Tynemouth were fielding the strongest team possible: captain Martin Pollard, the Sams Dinning and Robson, Chris Fairley, Finn Longberg and MVP Andrew Smith. Polly won the toss and Tynemouth batted. As is always the case, Smithy and Sam Dinning got off to a great start and both were required to retire having reached 25. Chris Fairley gave good support, but Sam Robson didn’t do as well and Finn, who may need to visit an optician, confessed he simply didn’t see the 4 balls he faced from Woodlands’ fast bowler. Frankly the tigerish, ginger mopped Yorkshireman looked scary from where we were sat on the other side of the net, never mind facing him. Polly had a smashing cameo of 23, which we speculated may have been more than he scored in the whole of 2017, though Fanta claimed it was actually higher than the rest of his career put together. In the end, we made 116 all out, which was competitive at least.

Agonisingly, it was just too few as we lost off the last ball. This was despite Smithy taking 2 wickets in his first over. Woodlands just kept plugging away and were aided by a couple of unfortunate fielding aberrations that yielded a 5 and then a 6. After those two calamities, you could see by the body language that we just didn’t believe we’d get through. The lads were very down afterwards; especially Polly who was devastated to lose. However, half an hour later, after digging in to a rather impressive buffet, a more philosophical attitude prevailed. It was better to fall one game from Lords rather than to lose on the last ball of the final. Also, it meant we could leave early enough for Fanta to get back in time for Endeavour.

In the final, Woodlands beat Derby Congs by the small matter of 72 runs and will now face Hagley from Stourbridge in the first National semi-final, while the University of Exeter take on Broadstairs in the other. Best of luck to all 4 teams, but I really wish we could have been there. However, let’s be honest about this, for Tynemouth to have made it so far was a great achievement for the club and the NEPL. All the blokes who turned out were an absolute credit to the game, the club and themselves. Hopefully, this will make them all even more keen for the start of the 2018 season; April 14^th, snow permitting…

Hopelessly Romantic Football Fans

Apparently the magazine Hopeless Football Romantic is coming out of hibernation with a new issue fairly soon. That's good news as I penned the following piece for it about 18 months ago. When HFR went into abeyance, I revisited this article & it was used in a shortened form in View From The Allotment End #5, as well as Benfield's programme v Washington this season. However, I'd like to reproduce it now for a couple of reasons; firstly because the Northern League really ought to be emerging from this recent enforced lay off & secondly because the lad Dougie I refer to is getting hitched next week, on St. Patrick's Day, to the very lovely Niamh, in the quintessentially Irish setting of Corpus Christie College Chapel in Oxford. I'm not invited like, but they have my best wishes & this as a tribute. Next week, we'll be back to normal -:

Twenty two years ago, Newcastle United versus Manchester United could have justifiably laid 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 enduring, de facto 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; Keegan was gone by mid-January 1997.  Ferguson, as ever, held the upper hand; a double over the Magpies saw the Reds dismantle a seemingly impregnable lead or unsurmountable deficit, depending on your allegiances, to win the title. Newcastle had the best team, but Man United had the best players in Schmeichel and Cantona; in the crucial game at SJP, the former performed heroics and the latter scored the only goal. 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 20^th October, at 4pm. Tickets were as rare as rocking horse excrement, but back then I treasured my season ticket more than anything else in the world, bar the bairn and my then missus, so I was alright. Indeed, so were two of my mates from Dublin; Declan and Dougie were on the committee of the Newcastle United Irish Supporters Club and they secured a couple of seats for this one through Declan’s links with John Hall, the subsequently reviled but previously adored Magpie chairman. Flying in first thing on Saturday morning, the lads made it down to our house in Spital Tongues, literally a decent goal kick away from St James’ Park and learned that the plans for the day were not a 12 pint shift on the gargle, but a Northern League Division 2 game instead.

Looking back on my connections with Newcastle United, I can sense the slackening of the emotional bonds from the start of 1994/1995 onwards. From the moment I moved back to the area after finishing University in 1988, I never missed a home game and, despite playing a couple of seasons on Saturday afternoon football in the nether regions of the North East Amateur League, I was also 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.  I suppose 1992/1993, the Keegan promotion campaign and 1993/1994, the debut season in The Premier League, were the high points of my travelling days. I got to almost every Saturday game I could, but one thing that had already begun to irk me was the number of spare Saturdays, caused by television moving games, ITV before promotion and Sky afterwards, not to mention the interminable international breaks; in 1992/1993 we had 12 spare Saturdays and 13 the year after. This wasn’t to my liking; the NUFC season ticket was sacrosanct, but in August 1994, when I turned 30, we decided to try for kids. At that point I grew up, or tried to, and stopped going to away games, mainly to save money. Instead, utterly independent of the almost contemporaneous publication of the finest ever sporting book, Harry Pearson’s love letter to NE football and the Northern League in particular, The Far Corner, I resolved to have zero spare Saturdays in future, because I was going to watch non-league whenever possible.

On Saturday 3^rd September 1994, with the Premier League on an international break, I consulted the day’s local football fixtures in The Journal and plumped for Blue Star against Shildon, as I could get the Metro straight there. Also, as a fanzine devotee, I’d enjoyed a couple of issues of South West Durham Dadaism in the shape of Shildon’s Far From a Madding Crowd and hoped to meet legendary eccentric editor Frank Smith. I didn’t. He was having a sofa delivered, apparently. Instead, I sat and 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 entry and the programme was 50p, so the financial investment was negligible. However what struck me, apart from the fact hot drinks were served in mugs that you were entrusted with bringing back yourself 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, as I waited for my train at Callerton Parkway, 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 League or at SJP, where I remember the announcement of the crowd on the scoreboard, along with the phrase “the board thanks you for your support,” being met with a mass outbreak of two fingered gestures and profane language. In non-league, clubs are genuinely pleased to have people show up and visit them.

Subsequent free Saturdays in the run up to Christmas 1994 saw me visit 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. Indeed, the enduring love I bear for my team Benfield didn’t begin until almost a decade later, in 2003 when they joined the Northern League. I know I’ll follow them until I die, but I’ll always look back on my formative experiences of the local game as a spectator with enormous fondness. Of course progress towards completing the Northern League “set” was painfully slow in those early days; there were Newcastle games to factor in, bad weather postponements and trips to other clubs when on weekends down at the in-laws in Yorkshire. Also, the demographics of the league have changed in the past two decades; a whole raft of teams in East Durham have disappeared (Peterlee, Horden, Murton and Shotton Comrades), as well as a similar set from the West of the county (Evenwood Town, Ferryhill Athletic and Spennymoor, though at least the reborn latter lot have gone up the pyramid).

All things considered, I was utterly determined to pursue a full house, as well as spreading the gospel of non-league to the unconverted. Consequently, half an hour after Declan and Dougie had dropped their bags off at ours, we were on our way to Albany Park on the evocatively named Spout Lane, to see Washington against Ashington.  I’d taken Declan up to Portland Park in March 1996, to see the Colliers beat Alnwick Town 3-2 in a Northumbrian derby, so he was happy to see the home town team of Jackie Milburn in action again. Dougie just liked the fact the two club names rhymed. These days Ashington play at the impressive Hirst Welfare and Washington are at the functional Nissan complex. While both teams are a division higher, their fortunes have fluctuated, with both teams enjoying highs and lows, though their heart and spirit remains undiminished.

That day, Ashington must have taken 50 fans; daft, drunken lads enjoying their day out. They sang incessantly about their club, 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. However, let’s be frank about this; 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. Those poor sods on Arsenal TV on You Tube might want to consider that before loosing off another bile-spattered rant about what a disgrace their club is.

When the game was over, we followed the rest and made our way straight across the pitch to the clubhouse. The Washington supporters were gracious in defeat and genuinely intrigued as to why 2 Irish lads had pitched up; pints were bought and complimentary post-match bait 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, a personal data assistant the size of a DVD case. Somewhere, somehow, he’d misplaced it; bad move that one.  It was considered very hi tech and valuable, especially by his employers, who’d be furious with him if he didn’t return to work with it on the Tuesday. 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. BOOM! Peacock header; 1-0. BOOM! Ginola volley; 2-0. BOOM! Ferdinand header from a Shearer cross; 3-0. BOOM! Shearer taps in after Schmeichel had saved from Beardsley; 4-0. BOOM! Albert puts the cherry on the top with a lob so precise and so beautiful I will never tire of seeing it; 5-0.  Full time and the city centre’s in full on Mardi Gras mode, though word of mouth talks about a lock in at the Belle Grove to watch a full rerun of the game. We sit through it with unnecessary late night bevvies and crawl home around 1.00. This is when I remember I’ve been out the house for 12 hours, leaving my wife and 15 month old son to cope. We’ll park the guilt there as she was genuinely delighted with the result.

She was also delighted with a phone call she’d taken around 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 Paddy 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 and Dougie had been sensible in booking the Monday off work and an evening flight home. They slept late, long and loud. Luckily, being in education, the missus and I were both on half term, enabling us to make the trip to Washington to collect Declan’s Psion. We met the groundsman at the Washington FC clubhouse. He’d already made a pot of tea which, as lifelong coffee drinker, I realised the importance of forcing down to show gratitude. He gave the Palm Pilot a quick wipe with a duster, 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 the club; again, no interest. Finally I suggested a charitable donation. To which he assented. On the bar was a collection box for Age UK; this septuagenarian groundsman, a former player and lifelong supporter, gratefully pushed my money into the slot saying, “it’s always good to help the old folk.”

We shook hands and took our leave, with his final imprecation being “come and see us again.” It took me more than 3 years, but I did, returning in September 2000 for another Washington v Ashington game, which ended 3-3. As I paid in, I saw him resting against the pitch rail, survey his handiwork over a well-earned brew; “hello son,” he said, “nice to see you back again.” I never did learn his name, but I’ll always be thankful to him for saving my friend’s neck with his boss. 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. Given the choice between Newcastle against Man United or Washington v Ashington, I know that on the whole, I’d much rather be on the bus to Philadelphia.