I, Gig Economist

Today my bank sent me a text to say I was in excess of any arranged borrowing & that I needed to send them £74 by 3pm. I don't have that money. I don't actually have any money. I'm not quite destitute as yet, but I'm in the position of having to apply (again) for Universal Credit. This blog explains why....

As yet another of those endless, baking Saturday afternoons that characterized this summer, slipped effortlessly towards early evening, several of us were sat outside the pavilion, watching Tynemouth coast to victory against Sacriston. The obligatory cool cans of Red Stripe, bought for the purpose of nostalgic rehydration became the basis for our toasts of celebration as the Croons clinched an emphatic 70-run win. Without doubt, the combination of the very best of weather, company and cricket elevated the mood to something approaching euphoria. Who needs foreign holidays when this is on your doorstep for free? My summer home beyond the boundary on Preston Avenue was the only spot in the world I wanted to be after tea in late July, as a distant Angelus bell tolled with somnolent solemnity through the shimmering, pollinated haze.

Make no mistake; the mood I’ve just described is not uncommon. As I approach my 54^th birthday, I am the happiest I have been in years. I am surrounded by the most wonderful crowd of family and friends, who I love dearly and who love me in return. My beloved pair of Tynemouth Cricket Club and Benfield Football Club attends to my emotional need for belonging and support, while Monday six-a-side, recreational cricket with the Bad Boys and trips to Elite in Hoults Yard, not to mention my trusty bike, nourish my yearning for participatory sport and something approaching exercise. Of course, the explosion of microbreweries and the prevalence of quality real and craft ales at every corner fulfills a more fundamental urge and there is always music, ancient and modern, to help salve the aesthetic itch. Frankly, it’s a bloody good job I don’t work for a living as I don’t know how I’d find the time for it.

Listen, I must say this at the outset, I have not regretted my decision to take redundancy from Tyne Coast College just before Christmas 2017 for one single second. If I hadn’t walked out that main entrance for the last time on December 15^th past, I wouldn’t be alive now. That’s not being over dramatic either, because I would either have dropped dead with the stress of the place or done myself in, unable to cope with the Kafkaesque nightmare my role had become. Ultimately and unquestionably, taking my bit was the right thing to do, as I’d hit what marathon runners call the wall; I couldn’t go on, even one more step. If I’d continued in employment, the only way was down.

The sad thing is that my departure was out of key with the overwhelming majority of my time as a teacher and lecturer. Indeed, for most of my 30 years in education, it was an honour and a privilege to be part of the profession and I’ve never regretted the decision to train as a teacher after my degree. Not once. Sure, there’s always been the constant writing urge gnawing away, but there was never any money in it, even less than teaching. Consequently, my extra-curricular scribblings at odd times of the day and during those extensive, though absolutely necessary holidays have kept the muse alive and satiated throughout 3 decades and more of employment. To be honest, it was changing circumstances of what I was required to do for 37 hours a week that spurred my desire to escape, for if things had remained the way they were before 2015, I’d have happily stayed in post until I turned 60.

You see, in all honesty, I could never have imagined leaving teaching during the decade and a half I was blessed with the good fortune to teach in adult education. Initially this specialized vocation involved running GCSE English courses for adults at a community centre in South Tyneside, then 2 idyllic years working in Bratislava for Akademia Vzdelavania, imparting my particular take on British Culture and Society to timid, incredulous Felvidéks, before returning to the Cinderella sector of the domestic education market, by means of time spent as a hired hand in private language schools and summer study tours in Oxford, Bournemouth and York. Those were the hard schoolyards; lousy pay, short term contracts, ropey halls of residence digs, but I came through these privations with flying colours and my mettle intact.

The varied, extensive experience I gained in dealing exclusively with adults for those itinerant years made me almost marketable, as I was offered a job at Sunderland College. In truth it was a timetable no-one other than me would have wanted; split three ways between EFL to Asylum Seekers, Access to HE with adult returners and Foundation Year University students on an intensive language course. In retrospect the new vision and actual reality of the way learning was being marketed in the 21^st century was encapsulated by the competing elements of my role. The glorious, blessed widening participation agenda was trumpeted endlessly by Blair’s cronies; as such, Access to HE became a massive growth area for a dozen or so years. The responsibility of giving a second chance to those culturally and economically marginalized victims of the Thatcher years who’d never had a first one, was the greatest reward of all my years in teaching. I know, without a shadow of a doubt, my work helped possibly adult 2,000 learners raise their expectations and change their lives. Additionally, the exponential growth in Asylum Seekers and Refugees in the early years of the century, not to mention learners from the 2004 accession states entitled to free English tuition as part of the Maastricht Agreement, gave FE Colleges a socially responsible role in helping to integrate marginalized, disaffected and vulnerable people, thousands of miles from home, into their new surroundings. Again, I think back to literally hundreds of learners who worked with admirable dedication to improve their language skills, just so they could get a job, or talk to their child’s teacher.

Of course, it wasn’t all glittering prizes and unqualified success; Sunderland College, like every other FE provider, had learned the terrible beauty of avarice post 1994 incorporation. As businesses, FE colleges existed purely to turn a dollar and charging Chinese students the thick end of £5K a year cash money to learn irregular verbs by rote was a lucrative market. The students didn’t want to attend these classes; they wanted to sleep through the day and get on MSN Messenger to their pals at night. However, they’d paid up front, or their parents had, and the worthless diploma at the end of the year was the necessary evil required for entry into a full degree programme they assumed was the next step for them. Regardless of educational merit, the college obliged; they all passed and undoubtedly their degree would have followed a similar, lax pattern. It was the kind of educational fraud I felt glad to leave behind, for a brief while at least, when I got my next job, back this side of the river.

I was appointed by Tynemouth College in 2003, which became Tyne Met in 2005, which became Tyne Coast in 2017; each institution was progressively worse in terms of management, working conditions and staff morale. The old Tynemouth College was primarily a cheerfully eccentric combination of the world of Goodbye Mr Chips and the attitudes of Paris 1968; the oddball coastal Goths and gays who didn’t fit in at Tommy More or Whitley High came there to be taught by a wonderful collection of ageing, boozy, unconforming academic high flyers. I’d never seen so many lip piercings and Nirvana hoodies in my life. Despite having one of the 3 most evil people I’ve known in my entire life as my boss, I adored my job, teaching Access to HE, EFL and A Level Literature. Certainly, the first two parts of my job were the parts of the syllabus none of my dear old colleagues wanted anything to do with. Of course, despite succeeding superbly in its founding mission to send the cossetted and clever children of petit bourgeois coastal parents to Russell Group universities, Tynemouth College was deemed too small to be viable, and once the North Tyneside behemoth came calling, it was inevitable that Tyne Met would be established.

Frankly an account of what went on in the higher echelons of the successor institution between 2005 and 2009, which combined the economic acuity of the Weimar Republic with the moral code of an Elizabethan revenge tragedy, really ought to have been made into a Panorama special, if not the subject of a full scale investigation by Northumbria Police, but we’ll leave it there. Suffice to say, unlike just about every other ordinary member of the teaching staff, everything came up roses for me, as restructuring and repositioning meant my job from 2006 until 2015 was entirely dedicated to leading the Access to HE programme. Numbers were through the roof. Twice our learners won national awards. Twice I won teaching awards. Twice the department was honoured by Northumbria University and the college itself. Without a shadow of a doubt, this was the best decade of my working life, but the dread hand of the Tory cuts post 2010 started to chip away at the foundations of my socially inclusive Soviet.

First of all, fees became payable for all those over 23, regardless of their educational history or prior qualifications; even if you had barely a handful of GCSEs, age made you liable. The nostrum if you think education is expensive, try ignorance is undeniably true, but economically unhelpful in those circumstances. This debt was managed in the shape of a loan for £3k that the learners never even saw but would be liable for if they didn’t graduate 5 years after finishing their course, never mind ditching the Access course as many did when life’s impecunious pageant intervened. Those regulations put a lot of obstacles in the way of even the keenest learner. Next up, some bright spark decided Universities were no longer allowed to design Access courses; at a stroke destroying valuable partnerships and networks that had been built up over decades. Previously Universities had structured Access modules to ensure adult learners were briefed in what they actually needed for degree level study. In English this meant: academic writing, referencing, personal reflection and analyzing contrasting opinions; a skills-based course tailored to equipping undergraduates with the raw materials they needed to produce degree level work. It was ideal, which is probably why it was abolished. In its place, faceless regional exam boards designed generic, off the peg rather than bespoke courses, taught on strict, inflexible “pathways.” Then, the coup de grace; those bloody Tories did away with the nursing bursary, so instead of getting £8k a year to train, wannabe nurses had to fork out £9k fees instead.  This is just another of the catastrophic wounds our beloved NHS has had to endure in recent times. Consequently, applications to Access plummeted, the bottom dropped out of my professional world and, unable to play the career politics game like a couple of so-called colleagues who accepted the King’s shilling by moving into management like the Vichy academics they were, I was cast adrift. I could have taken VR then, but I chose not to.

As regular readers know, I was poorly in 2015, but I was determined to display my recovery by returning to work, in whatever capacity. There was an economic necessity for this as well; Ben was only in his second year at Uni and I couldn’t let him down. Therefore, I accepted the rancid hand I was dealt and played it with as much finesse as I could muster; a redeployment “opportunity,” attempting to instill a desire to pass re-sit GCSE English to swathes of bored, shiftless, lazy teenage sports duffers, dull, quasi-automated Uniformed Services squaddies in waiting and the diabolical daughters of Beverley Allitt and Myra Hindley in the shape of the terrifying Health and Social Care harridans.  Not only that, several times a week I descended like Orpheus in a nuclear powered bathoscope to plummet to the depths of academic Styx to teach Functional Skills Level 1 to those poor wretches who oscillated between barely sentient vacuity and profanity-spewing hyperactivity. It was education, but not as I knew it.

Actually, I’m gilding the lily here; most of the kids tried their best and were in those classes because they had generally been either poorly taught, were suffering with undiagnosed special needs or were victims of horrendous social deprivation. I tried my best and so did they in the most part; me for 2 academic years and so, sadly, did many of them as well. However, you simply can’t pretend to love what you do when you don’t, or I can’t and almost all of the time I felt I’d been comprehensively deskilled as a functioning human being. Drowning in a sea of branded polo shirts and leisure wear. Suffocating in an ionosphere of Lynx Africa. My mother’s death the weekend before classes started in September 2017 gave me a sense of perspective. I took bereavement leave and thought about handing my notice in, though reasoned this would have been financially idiotic. Instead, I resolved to return and see the academic year through.

What stopped me from completing this plan was my final and complete realization that Further Education is now completely unfit for purpose; it is so badly underfunded that the only way Colleges keep going is by widespread fraud, by waving through students who’ve either handed in inadequate work or left the place completely. The reasons for this are simple; money. Every pair of legs that remains on the books produces funding, which increases if these vile bodies pass and this is what keeps the place open. The dirigistic power imbalance, akin to the feudal pyramid structure of society or the Leninist model of Democratic Centralism means all policy decisions handed down by the elite corps of power-dressed preening narcissists on six figure salaries must be obeyed and carried out unquestioningly; if you are told no-one fails and no-one drops out, you make that happen. Otherwise, there is trouble. This means staff who have been physically attacked by students are forced to keep brooding thugs in their classes as the scrutiny afforded to retention figures if the yobbo in question is thrown out is almost intolerable. I’ve known of cases when a student quits at Christmas to take a job, but is kept on the register and somehow, miraculously, achieves the qualification on which they were enrolled, even without being near the place for more than 6 months.

What sort of culture allows this to happen? Dictatorial incompetence from the top down, basically. In my experience, senior managers are, without exception, psychopathic bullies who prey on the weak, inadequate and willingly dominated middle managers they have appointed as their patsies and errand boys. These simpering camp guards, who are only obeying orders, take their professional angst out on the already undervalued, underpaid, overworked and disaffected teaching staff, setting them more impossible tasks that either Alice or the Mad Hatter could manage before breakfast. Occasionally one of the shop floor cannon fodder goes feral; develops Stockholm Syndrome and becomes a management grass, while the rest become ever more disenchanted. As someone who had been the union rep for more than a decade, I had seen an endless litany of ordinary staff bullied, cajoled and intimidated into resigning or signing risible compromise agreements by evil managers, hell-bent on self-preservation, motivated as much by power as money. Almost without exception, trumped up, non-existent crimes and fabricated statements acted as the building blocks for another courtroom show trial, with the top brass acting as judge, jury and executioner. Faced with such impossible odds, even the strongest, most resilient and dedicated teacher would tell them to go fuck themselves. Who could blame them? Consequently, when the college sent round a general email asking for volunteers for redundancy that early December morning, I applied without hesitation.  I’d like to think they accepted with the same sense of alacrity and glee.

The terms of my departure remain confidential; suffice to say that when Easter arrived, the Beast from the East and other inclement weather fronts in the first part of 2018 had prevented me from getting the back garden in proper shape. However, I’d not been idle otherwise. You know about my healthy living kick; work would have prevented that. Deciding it was time to move on, I provisionally registered with 3 supply teaching agencies and set the wheels in motion to claim Universal Credit. Yes, it is hard to do so, as the complexity and length of the application form is clearly intended to put all but the most determined of potential claimants off. However, I stuck to my guns.

Bearing in mind I was required to sign on at Byker Job Centre, I was delighted to discover the building and ambience were agreeable. It wasn’t the whitewashed walls and bare stone flagging of Felling dole office where I’d graced with my signature once a fortnight at various times in early to mid-80s, both pre and post University. In fact, I’d signed on in July 1986 as Ian Cusack BA (Hons), much to the fury of the bloke behind the counter.  At Byker, the staff were remarkably kind, optimistic and helpful, even when I tried telling them I fancied being a poet; I William Blake. It didn’t get a laugh, but I did have a promise of being paid after 6 weeks if I hadn’t got a job.

Remarkably, or so I thought, they made absolutely no effort in trying to steer me towards any appropriate vacancies, relying on my knowledge of local teaching agencies to get some work. This I found depressing, as I wanted to work as soon as possible, doing whatever was possible, until I could get back into the education game. Obviously, the indeterminate waiting time for my Police Check to come back was the deciding factor before I could hope to do that, as without it I was uninsured. Despite attending 3 different meetings at Byker Job Centre, where I explained my situation in painstaking detail, nobody sought to help me find work. I’ll say again, and the fact I’m serving behind a bar for the first time since 1986 shows this, I’ll do anything within reason to earn a few quid. I am open to suggestions or offers.

In the midst of this, I was delighted to receive an interim bequest from my mother’s estate, to replace with the redundancy pay off I’d dispensed with by settling my mortgage. The money from my mam, Laura and I agreed, would buy her flat, under the new legislation enabling long term tenants to purchase Housing Association property; unethical I know, but what the hell? The fact is that Laura and I have been together for 12 and a half years, but because of a complex set of reasons, we’ve never lived together. Primarily, the fact she was in receipt of DLA because of her degenerative spinal condition until the Tories wrecked the benefit system and determined she was not eligible for PIP. We have been fighting this, at a funereal, bureaucratic pace for over a year now. During this time, Laura has not been given any money, so the outright purchase of her flat was actually the only way to guard against her being made homeless, appallingly enough.

Unlike my mortgage, this purchase required legal to-ing and fro-ing, so it took a while to sort out. The end result was that with the funds resting in my account, my savings meant I was no longer eligible for UC, even though they would disappear as soon as the purchase documentation was in place. As I’m an honest sort, I made this entire situation clear to them via the on-line portal which is the only acceptable form of communication with the UC regional centre in Middlesbrough. Within hours, my claim was rejected, and my account closed. The promised payment was also withdrawn. So much for Giro Johnny Cusack eh? Even more inconvenient was the fact I no longer had a work coach, for whatever good he did me, to advise me on the best way to find paid employment. All I could do was wait for my Police Clearance to come back, which it finally did in mid-May. Now, at last, I could leave the ranks of the idle poor. Well, that’s sort of what happened. We hear much talk in the media about the cashless society; I’d like to think I’m a living, breathing example of it. You see, I simply haven’t got any money, meaning I’ve slipped easily into the role of non-paying Metro passenger for economic reasons. I’ve been forced to curtail my expenditure on gig tickets; to the extent I was only able to see Michael Head because of the generous provision of a guest list place.

Once I’d settled the purchase of Laura’s place, my ISA contained the grand total of 1p. Each month I need to find approximately £500 to pay for my outgoings: Council Tax, utilities, home insurance, contact lenses, gym membership, mobile phone, TV and Broadband. It is a battle and it’s one I’m losing pretty comprehensively. Since the start of this financial year, or June 1 to be precise as that’s when I got my first pay packets from my two casual jobs, I have earned precisely £677.98. This comprises £443.98 from stints behind the bar at Tynemouth Cricket Club, which is a job that I got for myself and has given me far more satisfaction than teaching did in my last role and £234 for GCSE invigilation at Walker Technology College and Whitley Bay High School.

I get £25 per session generally but made the princely sum of £34 for one paper in which I acted as a scribe for a lad who’d broken his arm the week before his exams started. I had hoped, nay expected, to get more work than this, but for whatever reason, the phone doesn’t ring, and my inbox doesn’t ping. The other 2 agencies have not provided me with any work; one of them actually required me to provide a signed letter from my GP to say I was fit for work, after learning about the time I had off for bereavement leave. As well as being incredibly insulting, it was also financially beyond my reach because of the price doctors charge for producing such a document.

The situation is this; as I have no savings and have been denied benefits, all I can do is dip into the large overdraft facility my bank provided, when such easy credit seemed proportionate to my £32k salary when I still worked. Each month I get more overdrawn. Each month I get hammered with yet more bank charges; £40 for this month alone. The only possible savings I could make from the monthly total expenditure, would involve cancelling my TV and Broadband package. This would save me £70 a month; a drop in the ocean. Yes, I am lucky; I have an uncomplicated lifestyle devoted to cricket, football and writing. Yes, I have a roof over my head; in fact, I have two, which is why I’ve put my house up for sale, but that might take another 6 months at least to come to fruition. Yes, I have my occupational pension that I can access at 55, losing a quarter of its value, or at 60, even though finishing teaching early means it won’t be as comforting as it could have been. Most of all, I need a job soon.

Being a casually employed bar man is not lucrative and I’d love the chance of a proper job, but I’ve not filled out an application form since 2003. I really don’t know where to look or what to look for. I’d be happy to do anything, within reason. I’d work nights, weekends, whenever. All I need to do is take home about £600 a month and I’d be in the pink, as well as in the black. Giz a job eh? Of course, things could be worse; I could still be the dead hamster, broken on the wheel of misfortune at Tyne Met. Every day when I wake up and remember I don’t have to spend any time in that place, I feel rich as Croesus.  

 

Summer Nights

My last cultural iterations were published back in April, so we’ve a bit to catch up on. Not really in terms of reading; Irvine Welsh’s Dead Man’s Trousers still sits unopened on the nightstand, while the only 2 published documents I’ve made my way through are the independent poetry chapbooks Crust by PJ Carmichael and A Life Like This Ain’t for the Faint Hearted by Bradford Middleton. Both collections are from the tattered margins of the literary world and society in general, specifically Boston, Massachussets and Brighton respectively. The two writers tackle the role of the outsider poet in different ways; Middleton opts for the Bukowski-inspired autobiographical, prosaic style of anecdotal retelling, whereas Carmichael communicates the breakdown of ordinary life in jagged, barbed, depersonalised fragments of anger. Both approaches work well, but it is Carmichael who has the wider appeal by eschewing the first-person narrator in the hope of telling truths to a wider audience.

 Being a little hard up these days (see next week’s blog for more details), I’ve not got a lot of new stuff, but I did make a few modest purchases after Record Store Day; two to be precise. Mark Perry has reanimated Alternative TV and released the 12” EP Dark Places. Four and a bit decades since Sniffin Glue was a thing, Perry remains as vital and innovative as ever, with four prime slices of miserable, doom-mongering despair. Opener The System is an anarchistic call to arms that could be from Action Time Vision, while Verlust is a tough homage to the last days of Krautrock. Flipping the disc over, we get the angry, spooky, spoken word diatribe Like A Tomb, which could claim a place on The Good Missionaries’ Vibing up the Senile Man and nobody would bat an eyelid. Closing number, the thrashy, minor chord feast of Her Dark Places pays tribute to UK Decay and the early days of Killing Joke. A top-quality recording and a delight to have Mark back again.

I was delighted that Mogwai’s Ten Rapid, an essential compilation of tracks from their early days, giving insight and context to their sound, as well as showing the band at their most raw, was made available again. How joyous it is to hear the plaintive riffing and deadpan vocals of Angels Versus Aliens and A Place for Parks, then the wheezing noise of I Am Not Batman and Helicon 1.  Through it all, the band’s unmistakable power and grace oozes through the tracks. Ten Rapid captures the band before they’d honed their craft, and is possibly their most honest, revealing record of all. On top of that, Helicon 2 might be the most unashamedly beautiful thing they have ever recorded.

I recently obtained a split 7” 33rpm by the Philadelphia thrash outfit Bandit and New Jersey powerviolence practitioners Ground. It’s a bloody tough listen; Bandit play at about 200 mph and a similar number of decibels, while Ground are very loud and very slow. I dislike Bandit’s style of music entirely; sorry. Ground are more to my taste but seem a little too testosterone-charged for me. Apologies everyone.

 No apologies needed for the recent live attractions I’ve been privileged to see. When The Wedding Present, or specifically David Gedge, announced that Tommy had been chosen as the next album to be toured, I wasn’t surprised. Gedge’s seemingly obsessive attitude to detail always suggested he’d take compilation albums as integral parts of the band’s CV and thus they needed playing, then archiving. I did have a sense of unease though, as for every Felicity to celebrate, there is an inferior My Favourite Dress to be endured. Seems like I wasn’t the only one with misgivings as the crowd was very disappointing; less than half of the turnout for George Best last year. In the end, it was a good gig, but not a great one. Part of the problem is that the very early material can seem weak and unchallenging for a band as brilliant as the current line-up. Certainly, Charles Layton could play this stuff in his sleep, while Danielle Wadey has grown into the band and is an integral member, who needs a tougher set list to truly challenge her. She certainly had that with the absolutely blinding take on Boo Boo and a storming closer of Take Me! As ever, it was worth attending and I’m already looking forward to next year, which will no doubt be goodnight Bizarro.

There are those bands you build up such a rapport with over the years that they become friends as well as sources of musical pleasure. Two such outfits are the Band of Holy Joy and Trembling Bells; the former I’ve seen 13 times over a period of 31 years and the latter 10 times in 8 years. However, I do feel able to dispassionately discuss their work without sounding gushing or nepotistic, especially as they are both at the very top of their game.

 The Band of Holy Joy’s appearance at Tynemouth CIU Club was the seventh different venue they’d played since they came back into my consciousness in 2009. Inventive gigs at the Star & Shadow, Bede’s World and The Cluny 2 have been complemented by sweaty, intimate performances at The Cumberland and Surf Café of late. Here, on a baking, airless night, with the village awash with 3 stripe dadsuals insensible from the heat, the drink, England’s World Cup QF win and the sounds of the hideous Paul Heaton at The Priory, Johny Brown and the lads owned the Fringe Festival. I’d last been in the club in March 1983; even then it was only to play snooker. I didn’t even know there was an upstairs, but it’s a delight and I sincerely hope that a Coastal gig circuit can be established on the back of this. From the opening bars of the glorious Revivalist Impulse, it was clear Johny, surrounded by the best musicians he’s ever worked with in the 40 plus years I’ve watched from the sidelines, was coming home with a vengeance and in triumph. His glistening, clean white shirt gave him the aura of a matinee idol in surroundings that were ideal for those of us who remember and love Tactless. This was surely The Land of Holy Joy and a classic hour of modern and unreleased numbers was topped off with a stunning encore involving a climactic Fishwives. Just brilliant.

 The term “brilliant” is inadequate to describe the magisterial, regal glories of Trembling Bells. Dungeness will be the album of 2018; of that there can be no doubt. Last year they did a 50^th anniversary of the Summer of Love with Mike Heron, who was curiously absent tonight; it was great, but I adore seeing them on their own terms in the intimate surroundings of The Cumberland. In fact, the first place Laura and I saw them that evening was in The Bake, Byker’s best Lebanese restaurant. A serious great spot for a bit of scoff if you’re in the area, it used to be a pub called The Plough, where falling letters suggested it was actually called The PLO; hence the nickname Arafat’s. Unfortunately, and I doubt it was to do with the bait, Alex started to look distinctly unwell at the end of the meal. Within an hour it had become a full-blown dose of the shits and the gig looked likely to be pulled; much to the chagrin of two lads who’d driven down from Coldstream to see them. Alex is an amazing songwriter, performer and all-round polymath; he’s also a brave bastard and deserves a medal for going on stage. From out of nowhere, the gang pulled a brilliant rabbit out of the hat, with a stormy set. Derived mainly from Dungeness, classics such as The Prophet Distances Himself From His Prophecy and Christ’s Entry Into Govan with characteristic, psychedelic flair. What I found most encouraging was the closing new number; a bass-driven glam grind called I Am The King. Stick sax or a clarinet over the top of this and it’s Roxy meets Bowie circa 72 or 73. Stunning. As ever, a wonderful evening’s entertainment with wonderful people, especially Marco Rea of The Wellgreen and Euros’ Roogie Boogie Band, who is Lavinia’s blissfully happy fiancé. Congratulations and all our love to both of them. All of our love and thanks to the rest of the band as well.

 When Michael Head formed The Pale Fountains, I was listening to the likes of Einsturzende Neubauten, The Gun Club and Dinosaur Jr; there wasn’t a lot of space in my musical world for melodic, summery pop. They completely passed me by, though I did prick up my ears when Shack arrived, especially the fin de siècle masterpiece HMS Fable, though I’ll hold my hands up and admit I didn’t feel compelled to search out the rest of Head’s oeuvre, until last year’s Adios Senor Pussycat. There are many critics of Twitter, but I’m delighted that contacts through this social media platform helped me catch hold of the buzz surrounding Head’s latest, drug-free renaissance. It’s a gorgeous album, full of warmth, love and optimism. Live, after a great set of anthemic glamorous, psychedelic jangling by the immensely promising Peach Fuzz, Michael Head is a rare treat; a life-affirming, positive, quasi spiritual experience. 

Bearing in mind the sub culture tangentially and loosely associated with the cultural milieu that celebrates Shack and other projects, I had worried this would be a tough, hard-faced crowd of 3 stripe scowlers in chunky knitwear. It couldn’t have been further than the sock and roll dadsual nightmare I’d feared, other than one lad melting in his Baslager MA.Strum rig-out. Head bears the scars of his lifestyle choices on a prematurely aged face, but it is one that remains wreathed in smiles of genuine gratitude at the acclamation he receives. He appears genuinely abashed and rendered shyly inarticulate by the adoration of the crowd. All he can do is what he does best; glorious, effortlessly-constructed pure pop from the tradition of Big Star, The Byrds and many other classic influences from the canon of melodic grace. In an extensive set, ranging backwards and forwards across the years, many numbers both old and new stand out and sure-fire classics, but none more so than the iconic, anthemic Streets of Kenny. Perhaps the grandest and saddest song about buying heroin since Waiting for the Man; a baroque, melancholy eulogy to all those wasted lives and wasted years. But, let’s stay optimistic; Michael Head is back and in the best form of his life. Love him; he loves you.

Jewles Remain Still Cleaming

I’d promised myself I wasn’t going to watch this World Cup. Ireland hadn’t qualified, the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea hadn’t qualified, and Russia is a squalid, corrupt, testosterone dictatorship, so I wasn’t going to be suckered in by the quadrennial carnival of the demotic. As a music lover and aestheticist, I despise that bloody Lightning Seeds song with those malignant frauds Baddield and Skinner, especially when some clown on Facebook renders the lyrics in the way that gives this piece its title. While as a Socialist, I try to adopt an internationalist perspective that allows me to rise above petty chauvinistic nationalism, though I do side with oppressed nations in their struggles against imperialism.

Also, terrestrial television coverage is teeth-grindingly terrible. Martin Keown and Danny Murphy are two of the most ponderous, portentous, doom-laden trash talkers imaginable, while Lawrenson is a pompous, whinging bullshit artist and the patently unhinged historical revisionist Glenn Hoddle should be under lock and key in a secure unit with 24-hour supervision. However, I am a weak person and the opportunity to take on the role of disputatious, sniping cultural contrarian was just too tempting. One modification I intended to make to the usual sofa and pub tournament experience was to look at each individual game from a political and moral angle, trying to support the least evil country in each instance, rather than selecting a country to cheer for from the outset. The only way to do this efficiently was to rank the countries in order of moral rectitude and get stuck into the TV listings, unless there was something better to do with my time of course. Anyway, this is how I classified the 32 countries in terms of moral rectitude or otherwise -:

1.      Costa Rica; stable parliamentary democracy

2.      Sweden; socially progressive, though a nominal monarchy

3.      Iceland; inclusive and progressive, undermined by seedy bankers

4.      Denmark; the philosophy of hygge permeates the whole country

5.      Nigeria; secular democracy and a strong economy, despite Boko Haram’s presence

6.      Morocco; a monarchy, but a tolerant one

7.      Portugal; left wing military coup brought down dictatorship on the day Dennis Law’s backheel relegated Man United. Nice beer

8.      Senegal; quasi democratic, but John the Postman named a song about it

9.      Peru; Nobby Solano and Paddington Bear call it home. Ace strip

10.  Croatia; not Serbia, which is a good thing. Lovely place for a holiday

11.  Australia; beastly to their indigenous population, but pretty sound on the whole

12.  Panama; steamy banana republic

13.  Mexico; extensive banana republic

14.  Spain; would be higher but for the continuing treatment of those striving for self-determination in Catalunya and Euskal Herria

15.  France; pretty bad before 1789, pretty bad after 1794, right downhill after 1870, downright rotten after 1940, but not bad since 1968

16.  Poland; homophobic happy clappers

17.  Tunisia; dodgy military intervention on a regular basis

18.  Uruguay; safe haven for Nazi war criminals

19.  Switzerland; safe haven for ill-gotten Nazi gold

20.  Colombia; gang warfare as domestic economic policy

21.  Egypt; dangerously close to fundamentalism

22.  Argentina; the era of the Generals is a stain on their history

23.  Belgium; vile imperialist bloodshed in late C19 Africa

24.  Brazil; genocidal attitude to Amazonian indigenous population

25.  Germany; nobody should ever deny the Holocaust

26.  South Korea; running dog lackeys of US imperialism from below the 38^th Parallel

27.  Iran; hysterical fundamentalists

28.  Serbia; murderous butchers

29.  Japan; strange and terrible torture integral to their history

30.  England; 850 years of oppression in Ireland

31.  Russia; gangsterism as bad as Leninism

32.  Saudi Arabia; medieval despots

Day 1: Russia 5 Saudi Arabia 0

So, the Tournament began with a clash of two of the world’s great democracies. In the battle between the worst human rights abusers on the planet, ideologically Russia just shaded things, having adopted the kind of despotic moral code that went out of fashion with the Age of Enlightenment as opposed to the draconian pre-Medieval penal system so beloved in Riyadh. On the pitch, Russia absolutely battered the Saudis and I saw the first half before heading off to play cricket for Tynemouth Bad Boys against Bates Cottages. Had them 12/5, bowled them out for 87, progressed to 40 without loss in reply, collapsed to 84 all out. Personally, I sent down 2 overs for 28 and was caught and bowled for a single. Poor.

Day 2: Uruguay 1 Egypt 0, Iran 1 Morocco 0, Portugal 3 Spain 3

Rather appropriately, Eid fell on a day when 1 former and 3 current Muslim countries took their bow. I missed the first game entirely, as it was the early kick-off and I was doing some work at Whitley Bay High. Perhaps the most socially progressive teenage conversation I’ve ever heard took place in front of me in the coffee bar on Monkseaton station, post-game, post-graft. Having just completed an arduous Physics exam, a gang of about 6 lads were queuing for muffins and cookies ahead of me. One of the lads was Muslim and, religiously compelled to break his fast, was chowing down on sweet and chewy goodies. His mates, with genuine interest and warmth, were inquiring whether Eid was like Christmas for him; “sort of, but without the shit telly” was the young fella’s reply. The friendship and humour between the boys-to-blokes really shows that ignorance and fear is easily broken down by a simple act of conversation. I almost blubbered into my latte. Mind if Iran v Morocoo was Eid, then I’m agitating for the return of Ramadan. A truly atrocious game that had nothing to recommend it. On the flip side, Portugal v Spain was surely, on paper and in reality, the most compelling of all the group stage games. Shame I only got to see it from 88.34 onwards, having been required to officiate at the Tyneside Amateur League AGM. When duty calls you have to answer.

Day 3: France 2 Australia 1, Peru 0 Denmark 1, Argentina 1 Iceland 1, Croatia 2 Nigeria 0

After an hour’s punishing boxercise (the kind of workout that a lifelong pacifist and soft shite like me has little aptitude for), I flopped down on the sofa and caught sight of Australia gamely trying to keep it together in the shape of endless body blows from the true masters of the noble art. I’m talking about 50 overs cricket here, where the Aussies were suffering the second of the 5 successive hammerings from England. The baggy green sandpaper set may be loathsome cheats, but at least they don’t have the deplorable Tim Cahill in the side, which was good enough reason for me to opt for cricket. Meanwhile, France were completing a squeaky win over the Socceroos, courtesy of some VAR machine machinations. When a spot of rain took the players off in Cardiff, with England 168/2, I got on the bike and headed for Tynemouth, where the seconds were hosting Gateshead Fell. Strange to say during this baked Saharan summer, but lots of rain was forecast, so I’d opted not to watch the firsts at Stockton. Good choice in the end as that was washed out, while the seconds won, helped in no small way by 15-year-old Evan Hull Denholm getting among the wickets. Typically enough, I got roped into working behind the bar and missed all of Peru v Denmark (though to be fair the South Africa v England rugby international was being shown instead), most of Argentina v Iceland and parts of the cricket. Luckily, the evening shift arrived to relieve me, and I sat on a warm and remarkably sunny evening, enjoying Davo and Sam steering the seconds to a 3-wicket win, before cycling home and catching the second half of Croatia’s less than compelling stroll over a game but limited Nigeria.

Day 4: Serbia 1 Costa Rica 0, Mexico 1 Germany 0, Brazil 1 Switzerland 1

Back on bartending duties at the cricket club, I took in Serbia against Costa Rica, which reminded me I’d not been paying enough attention to the moral side of the World Cup. Clearly any state that produced Slobodan Milošević and Aleksandar Mitrović as two of its most famous sons isn’t deserving of any support. In contrast, Costa Rica is Central America’s most stable and harmonious democratic republic; unfortunately, they had a shit World Cup, despite the presence of NUFC legend Brian Ruiz, and the Serbs beat them easily enough. Full time saw the arrival of a pre-arranged a christening party at the club and I had to work for my money, so the silent images of the landmark Mexico against Germany fixture largely passed me by. Despite the fact that Germany are no longer the pantomime villains of international football, any defeat endured by Die Mannschaft is a cause of great amusement. Indeed, I’d rather have seen that game than watching Brazil, all silky skills, dazzling footwork and theatrical cryarsing, stumble to a draw with a Swiss side so anonymous that they’d fail a personality test.

Day 5: Sweden 1 South Korea 0, Belgium 3 Panama 0, England 2 Tunisia 1

Being objective, Sweden are almost certainly challenging for top spot in the democratic pops among the 32 competing nations, despite being some form of titular monarchy. Unfortunately, a trip to the gym and a need to get the messages in at Sainsbury’s meant I was unable to see their victory over the running dog lackeys of Yankee imperialism from below the 38^th parallel. Similarly, Belgium v Panama clashed with my weekly 6-a-side up the West Road. We’ve been playing there on a Monday tea time for a decade and a half and the small matter of a World Cup wasn’t going to throw us off our stride. Admittedly 6-a-side became 5-a-side and we kicked off a good bit earlier than usual, but the game still took place. On the way back, I passed by the aftermath of a crash between a 4 x 4, no doubt piloted by someone anxious to see kick off in the England game, a 38 bus and a traffic island. The bus was in rude health anyway. I hope the dodgy driver learned the error of his ways; less haste, more speed. A similarly calm approach did the business for England; a humble side, refreshingly free of the avarice and arrogance of the discredited “golden generation,” their collective ethos and sense of both perspective  and common purpose saw them win it at the death. It was no more than they deserved for a great first half and to repay the faith in Gareth Southgate; alright so he still looks like a careers master at a minor public school, but this quiet, sincere grafter deserves a lot of slack and praise. Incidentally, the pudgy Tunisia manager’s Sports Direct gilet and red trainer combo made him look like a takeaway delivery driver.

Day 6: Japan 2 Colombia 1, Senegal 2 Poland 1, Russia 3 Egypt 1

A sunny Tuesday and the first day I was aware this World Cup had truly hooked me in. Rather than going out on the bike or taking a walk, I flopped like a slob on the sofa and tried to fake interest in a dull game. I failed, preferring instead to engage on an internal debate regarding the depths of evil and human depravity plumbed by the Japanese in World War 2, in contrast to the venal criminality of Colombian drug lords. If this first game was dull, then I’m unable to find an appropriate epithet for the sterile banality of the fare served up by the final two teams to compete in this tournament. Other than the Senegal manager’s immaculate dress sense, there was little to commend a game I left behind in order to play cricket. While England were racking up 481 versus the Aussies, we compiled 190 against Whitley Bay, restricting them to 105 in reply. I didn’t bat, but I bowled 2 overs for 15, having a catch dropped at mid-wicket. Not a bad effort for a supposed leggy with a bar of soap to contend with as an unexpected torrential shower failed to dampen our sporting ardour. Mind, it put us off going to the pub and I got home, drenched, in injury time as the hosts qualified for the next round and Egypt became the first team to bow out of the competition.

Day 7: Portugal 1 Morocco 0, Uruguay 1 Saudi Arabia 0, Spain 1 Iran 0

After the first round of games had been completed, what seemed most noteworthy to me about the opening week of the World Cup was the transformation of Ally McLeod from rapidly expanding, tragicomic fall guy for the Sevco fiasco into a rounded, articulate amateur historian, whose thirst for culture and desire for knowledge was worn lightly as all good scholarship should be. Full marks to ITV for pulling this unlikely rabbit out of a hat. Meanwhile over on BBC, Phil Neville exemplified how the brains in that family had not been divided equally; while Tracy is thoughtful and engaging and Gary is deep and pugnacious, Phil is the Ralph Wiggum of football pundits. His utter inability to grasp the role, purpose and terms of reference of VAR in the France v Australia game was car crash punditry of the worst kind. He serves as the ideal rebuttal for those Neanderthal gammons who bemoaned the presence of women, such as the excellent Vicki Sparkes, in the commentary box or on the panel. Presumably they would rather have the asinine bore Lawrenson, or the equally shallow and pompous Keown and Murphy, accompanied by Stephen Yaxley-Lennon or Nigel Farage instead. The main problem with that is, unlike football, there was no chance of the former coming home this summer. However, three more nations did have their bags packed after Day 7’s games; Morocco, Saudi Arabia and Iran were all headed for the departure lounge after a trio of pedestrian games. When football is as bland as this, it seems almost facile to try and put an intellectual sheen on the competition, by assessing the moral and social legitimacy of the participating nations, especially in the absence of the Great Satan. Then again, to even think about football in such exalted philosophical terms on the day America quit the United Nations Commission on Human Rights in a fit of pique at global condemnation of their treatment of refugees, is shameful. However, the Portugal game beguiled me. Cristiano Ronaldo, a person I should hate, is capable of sublime skill and abhorrent shithousery, often simultaneously; much to the chagrin of the tousled lounge lizard in charge of Morocco, who looked like a seedy, louche, priapic pisspot, touring the tables in search of discarded prosecco and vulnerable women at the end of a wedding reception.

Day 8: Australia 1 Denmark 1, France 1 Peru 0, Croatia 3 Argentina 0

Missed the first two games entirely as I was engaged in the purchase of Laura’s house. What a nice person I am; buying her property and giving a secure home for the cats. Shame I’ve made her homeless, but that’s how it goes when you embrace landlordism. In all seriousness, spending the day shuttling between bank and solicitors was preferable to a pair of fairly dull games. I was glad to be back in position to see Croatia absolutely pummel Argentina. Their collapse was as amusing as their manager’s bizarre attire of expensive suit and crew neck t shirt.

Day 9: Brazil 2 Costa Rica 0, Nigeria 2 Iceland 0, Switzerland 2 Serbia 1

The first inkling that the Brazilians perhaps weren’t as emotionally intelligent as they thought they were came in the first game. Despite dazzling footwork and incredible technique, too often they sought to hit the deck after zero to minimal contact, rather than score the amount of goals they were capable of. Alright, two dazzling breakaways and unerring finishes saw them through and sent Costa Rica home, but to me it showed a collective weakness to their psyche. It was the kind of manufactured play acting that irritated strong-willed officials. Incidentally, how come FIFA managed to staff this tournament entirely with male officials? Opting to watch Sunderland v South Northumberland in the NEPL 20/20 quarter final, I missed the whole of Nigeria against Iceland and most of Switzerland versus Serbia. The highlights I saw cheered me considerably; not only did the Serbs lose, but Mitrovic was denied the most blatant penalty of the whole tournament.

Day 10: Belgium 5 Tunisia 2, Mexico 2 South Korea 1, Germany 2 Sweden 1

Apparently, I missed a treat with the Belgium game; it showed their class and put England’s result against Tunisia in context. Fair point, but seeing Ben Debnam and Nick Armstrong compiling a staggering 265/0 was a reasonable alternative. Similarly, seeing Eppleton skittled for 130, with Wesley Bedja getting 6/35, knocked spots off Mexico’s win over South Korea. However, the loudest cheer of the day at Tynemouth Cricket Club was for Germany’s late and undeserved winner, as the resident betting syndicate had placed a more than modest wager on such an outcome.

Day 11: England 6 Panama 1, Japan 2 Senegal 2, Colombia 3 Poland 0

You know I often think I should just take a sleeping bag with me to the cricket club as I was back in position less than 12 hours after draining my last pint. A sizeable squad turned out for the simply surreal England game. Obviously they played well, dismissing the opposition with the minimum of fuss, but what the hell were Panama about? I’ve seen bottom division Alliance teams show more guile and resilience in defence than the Canalistas. The two penalties for wrestling were possibly the most amateur thing I’ve ever seen in a major tournament. Fair’s fair though, their goal was a decent finish and I couldn’t get why so many commentators were furious about it. You’ve got to be vindictively cruel to begrudge a side in their first ever finals a late goal when they’ve been obliterated for the previous 85 minutes. That said, I think Poland were arguably worse against Colombia than Panama’s efforts versus England. The Japan v Senegal game didn’t even cross my consciousness as the cricket club telly flicked straight on to the final one dayer between England and Australia after the Panama game. Indeed, I don’t think I could imagine a game I could have less interest in that Japan against Senegal. Sorry lads; I’m sure the 2-2 draw was a decent watch, but it just didn’t appeal to me.

Day 12: Uruguay 3 Russia 0, Saudi Arabia 2 Egypt 1, Iran 1 Portugal 1, Spain 2 Morocco 2

The final round of group games meant the tournament was at the half way point. One interesting statistic was than the first 32 games had produced 85 goals, which was exactly the same amount as the final 32 would include, interestingly enough. The other thing to bear in mind was the simultaneous timings of final group games, to avoid the risk of contrived results. I still recall the universal sense of revulsion at the 1982 Anschluss between Germany and Austria that ensured both sides progressed. No chance of that here. The simultaneous kick offs did mean a choice of viewing; in this instance, I went with Uruguay v Russia, eschewing the chance of seeing Egypt’s 45-year-old keeper in action. Uruguay, in becoming the first side to complete the group stage with a 100% success record, absolutely humped a bedraggled and disorganised home nation in a game so one sided I actually fell asleep in the baking afternoon heat and missed the final goal. I was awake again in time to see the tournament’s biggest ego against the tournament’s biggest nose. Honestly, the Iran keeper’s bugle was like a vacuum cleaner adaptor. It was even more intriguing than the latest VAR influenced chicanery that eventually saw Portugal and Spain advance to the next phase, as everyone had expected them to, though not perhaps in such tense circumstances.

Day 13: Denmark 0 France 0, Peru 2 Australia 0, Argentina 2 Nigeria 1, Croatia 2 Iceland 1

Having spent a fraught day with Laura in the Freeman Hospital, which ultimately ended in a highly positive fashion, it was a relief to sit down in front of the France against Denmark game. Until kick off that is, as this was a bland, sterile, uncontested non-event; on account of a blank score line being mutually beneficial. I watched with a growing sense of contempt, eschewing the pleasures of the dead rubber between Peru and Australia on the other side, as I wished to stoke my contemptuous ire. Nice to see Peru win, even if meant little in the scheme of things.  A game of cricket (dropped a catch; had two dropped off me in successive balls, but we won by 80 runs) in the evening meant I only returned for the last 15 minutes of the astonishing Argentina v Nigeria game. While Croatia effortlessly cruised past a desperately disappointing Iceland who had nothing to commend them in comparison to their Euro 2016 heroics, Diego Maradona managed, as ever, to make it all about him. His emotional histrionics on the touchline, like an ageing club singer aspiring to be a synthesis of James Brown and GG Allin, provided some of the iconic images of this tournament. He remains the antithesis to Messi; a pantomime villain with a messiah complex who at least can show he stamped his genius all over World Cup finals, rather than being a pale imitation of his club form, apparently only there to make up the numbers.

Day 14: South Korea 2 Germany 0, Sweden 3 Mexico 0, Brazil 2 Serbia 0, Switzerland 2 Costa Rica 2

In retrospect, anyone who chose Sweden v Mexico as their first game of choice must be kicking themselves still. Don’t worry; I am, though in my defence, I chose that game to avoid the supercharged, deafening meteorite shower of asinine waffle that Jonathan Pearce brings to every game he reports on. Sweden were reliable, honest and humble; like the Mega City 4 or Super Furry Animals in the late 80s, they are nearly always on the bill, totally inoffensive and utterly unmemorable. Mexico were bloody terrible like. Once their game was over, I flicked across to see the disintegration of Die Mannschaft; not so much the death of a thousand-year Reich, more like a run on the Weimar Republic’s savings bank. It is strange to see Low’s side, so magisterial at the last tournament, turn to ineffective shite, but it’s somehow reassuring to know that, despite these tribulations, he’s been awarded an extended contract by the DFB. In the later game, I learned with satisfaction that NUFC legend Bryan Ruiz had scored a late equaliser to earn Costa Rica a point, though I’d opted for the other side. It wasn’t Brazil I was interested in, more the chance to laugh at the loathsome Shitrovic. He didn’t disappoint; missed a sitter, made the error than caused the second goal, got booked and was then subbed off in tears. Don’t let the exit door at SJP bang your arse pal.

Day 15: Colombia 1 Senegal 0, Poland 1 Japan 0, Belgium 1 England 0, Tunisia 2 Panama 1

Senegal’s tame loss meant that every African qualifier went out in the first round. This was a statistic that startled me and I’ll not pretend I have any knowledge or insight into the root causes of just why African football appears to be in such a rut, but I’d be delighted in anyone can point me towards a cogent, erudite explanation of this state of affairs; providing it’s not in The Blizzard of course. Incidentally Poland v Japan was an utter non-event and I don’t know anything about Tunisia against Panama. I think they played it in the departure lounge at the airport. England against Belgium looked like neither side wanted to win it. Looking at the broader picture, thankfully Belgium did when Jared O’Mara’s body double, Jordan Pickford, arms like a Jeremy Beadle tribute act, was beaten by a shot by Adnan Januzaj. The latter never did that for the Mackems, while the former always did. Elsewhere, we learned that Jamie Vardy is as much of an international striker as I am a concert pianist.

Day 16: Bohemian 1 St Patrick’s Athletic 0

In deference to the Greatest League in the World, FIFA avoided scheduling any games on a Friday night to give the League of Ireland its usual spot in the sporting pantheon. Da Boez did everyone proud with a hard fought win over the Pride of Inchicore.

Day 17: France 4 Argentina 3, Uruguay 2 Portugal 1

With the original 32 competitors now whittled down to 16, the knock out phase began with one of the solid gold World Cup classics of all time. The relentless waves of attacking play, the endless ebb and flow of fortunes and the nail-biting drama were all lost on me as Durham Academy skittled Tynemouth for 131. At least they knocked off the runs, for the loss of 2 wickets, in quick time, allowing me to see the superb goals in the following game. Edison Cavani’s winner was as sweet a strike as you’ll ever see and made all the more important as it broke Ronaldo’s heart.

Day 18: Russia 1 Spain 1 (4-3 pens), Croatia 1 Denmark 1 (3-2 pens)

Without seeking to denigrate the host nation, this was almost as big a shock as South Korea doing a number on Germany. Being honest, Spain really ought to have won this at a canter, but the usual disinclination to shoot when well placed, the endless search for the perfect pass and a refusal to deviate from their game plan saw the spirited Russians win on penalties. It was certainly a better game than the Croatia v Denmark contest that only truly came alive once it went to penalties. Fair play to both keepers; they performed heroics, but the side with a degree more flair and panache made it through in the end.

Day 19: Brazil 2 Mexico 0, Belgium 3 Japan 2

Having spent the morning working at Walker School, a quick check of my phone when emerging into normal society told me I’d need to spend a good few hours chasing my tail as regards financial issues. I’ll return to this in my blog for the week commencing July 30^th but suffice to say it was the second half before I got sat down in front of the first game. Good choice as well, as apparently it had been cautious and cagey until then. Brazil didn’t exactly play expansively, but they did enough to show they’re still blessed with exceptional talent, though Neymar’s theatrics seem to get worse by the second. Has the bloke got Munchausen’s Syndrome I wonder? Anyway, it was Monday, so we had the usual hour of 6-a-side, meaning I also didn’t get sat down until the second half of the Belgium v Japan game.  It was a solid gold classic; up there with Spain v Portugal and France v Argentina. There were several other games that went to penalties, but this had the most drama associated with any contest that ended in regulation time. While marvelling at Belgium’s breakaway winner, you had to feel sorry for a gallant and adventurous Japan team who’d done their best to win it in 90 minutes, only to lose it in 93.

Day 20: Sweden 1 Switzerland 0, England 1 Colombia 1 (4-3 pens)

Didn’t see the first game as I was at the gym but watched the second with Ben. The last time I’d watched an England knockout game with him was the defeat to Iceland at Euro 2016 on his 21^st birthday; a farcical evening that we watched with mounting horror that transformed into incredulous hilarity. Tonight was so much better than that. England deserved to be well ahead in the first half, looked a bit ragged after conceding an equaliser, seemed vulnerable to Colombian shithousery in extra time and we all seemed to know what was in store after 120 minutes. However, the good guys prevailed, and I found myself in the strange position of punching the air to celebrate an England win. I hope The Lads don’t get to hear about that, if you know what I mean…

Day 21: Tynemouth Bad Boys 128/9 lost to North East Tamils 132/1

The first rest day between the last 16 and quarter finals saw the Bad Boys go out of the Midweek Plate at the quarter final stage. I didn’t get a bowl, but I was required to bat. Somehow managed to squirt my second ball out to deep point for a couple, then got a thin edge down the leg side next ball for a single to finish 3 not out. My highest score of the season.  We were well beaten in the end, but it was more disappointing they didn’t pitch up until half an hour after the agreed starting time.

Day 22: Tynemouth Bad Boys 205/4 beat Mitford Boars 125/8

An away day in the wilds north of Morpeth. Lovely rural setting and a tiny ground. Thankfully, I wasn’t required to bat, but I got a bowl and justified our captain’s faith in me by taking a wicket, when their captain attempted to hit me out the ground and failed to realise just how slow I bowled. By the time the ball reached him he was halfway through his shot and he skied it, allowing Jack to take a catch at long on. Almost certainly, you won’t believe me when I tell you I had set the trap for him and he fell right into it. You may be more likely to accept my word when I tell you taking wickets is the best feeling in the world.

Day 23: France 2 Uruguay 0, Belgium 2 Brazil 1

Having failed to see any of France’s win in the previous round over Argentina, I was able to maintain this tradition of ignoring Les Bleus as Ben and I went out for a few Ouseburn pints on a glorious Friday afternoon. A couple in each of the Tyne Bank Brewery, Free Trade and Cumberland were enjoyed in brilliant sunshine. When the beer’s this good and Cavani has failed a fitness test, you don’t need to see the game. Sensibly, with the accompaniment of a Champion Beer carry out of Loka Polly and Cloudwater, I was back indoors for Belgium against Brazil. The chickens came home to roost for Brazil, as Neymar’s rap sheet for excessive diving all tournament long, allowed him to fit the role of the unconvincing fall guy who cried wolf.  Throw yourself to ground with zero to minimal contact every time someone breathes near you and you’ll put a referee’s back up; when you do get fouled, he may not be so inclined as to give you the spot kick you actually deserve according to the laws of the game. Tough. If that means your team goes out of the World Cup after dominating a quarter final you ought to have won, then you’ll need to learn from this. Well played Belgium.

Day 24: England 2 Sweden 0, Croatia 2 Russia 2 (4-3 pens)

As every person from the civilised part of our society knows, this is the cricket season. Accordingly, the NEPL were not in the mood for any fripperies or concessions to the winter game. A strongly worded statement by league secretary Gordon Halliday left none of us in any doubt where all of our sporting priorities should lie on the first Saturday in July -:

The League Management Committee has unanimously decided to keep to the scheduled programme and timings of matches on Saturday. There are several reasons for this. It would be necessary to plan for the worst-case scenario of the England v Sweden match lasting 3 hours as did the England v Colombia match, meaning that a 3-hour break might be required from 3pm till 6pm. The length of this break, disrupting the flow of the game is considered unacceptable. This season some Saturday League matches have finished after 8pm. So even if we considered it acceptable for NEPL matches to continue till 8.30pm this would mean that NEPL matches would need to start at 10.00am. Such an early start is considered unacceptable. Whilst the LMC does not denigrate the importance of the England v Sweden match, it gives great weight to the fact that we are a cricket league, indeed the top cricket league in the region, this is the cricket season, and also that the football match is a quarter-final not the World Cup Final.

I was in total agreement with Gordon, who is Scottish incidentally. Hence, having forsworn Benfield’s opening friendly at 11.00 on 4G against Jesmond, I was grateful for a lift from Di and Peter Brown to the idyllic Village Ground in Whitburn, where Tynemouth made a less than stellar 164 all out and lost by 8 wickets to a highly impressive home side. England’s 2 goals were greeted by ferocious cheering from the pavilion bar, replicated on the pitch by all bar Leith’s solitary left-arm orthodox Jambo, Mark Watt and the historic Mr Polly, whose dad chose to play cricket on July 30^th, 1966. It was almost surreal to lose so heavily in beautiful surroundings and for it not really to matter in the context of the day. Afterwards, I got back to Tynemouth and met Laura, as we were going to see the Band of Holy Joy in Tynemouth Club. I’ll write about that next week and not to spoil things, they were great, but Front Street was awash with drink sodden casual dadsuals; hors de combat from all day drinking in 35-degree heat during the football and giddy at the thought of the pop music equivalent of a well-dressed Free Tommy protest at the Priory, with the loathsome Paul Heaton headlining. I’m glad we were watching Johny Brown and the gang in a place I’d last set foot inside over 35 years ago and then only to play snooker. Croatia’s win on penalties didn’t even cross my radar until I got home and saw the highlights on the lap top.

Day 25: Buckinghamshire 440/9 (innings closed) v Northumberland 93/3

The gap between quarter finals and semi finals coincided with Northumberland’s latest Minor Counties game at Jesmond. Indeed, it marked 100 years of participation in the Minor Counties Championship. To mark the occasion, all members were invited to take tea in the pavilion, which was a lovely gesture and one that I appreciated. Unfortunately, it was Buckinghamshire doing the celebrating as they’d effectively won the game by the time we were tucking into sandwiches and gateau mid-afternoon of the first day by racking up such a massive score. Northumberland fought back gamely but losing 2 wickets in the last over of the day wasn’t ideal.

Day 26: Northumberland 189 all and 185 all out lost by an innings and 76 runs

It seems hard to credit that only 3 years ago Northumberland reached the Minor Counties Unicorns Trophy final at Wormsley, losing to local rivals Cornwall (it’s a joke, right?). Even more astonishingly, they were only denied the Minor Counties East Championship on net run rate in 2016. Now, they’ve reimagined themselves as a cricketing Barnstoneworth United. The inevitability of defeat was handled stoically by the players, committee and supporters; I always enjoy a good chat with those who regularly attend county games, as it almost makes up for the dire struggles on the pitch. However, I couldn’t bring myself to accept the role of a cricketing tricoteuse and consequently stole sadly away before le coup de grace was administered after tea.

Day 27: France 1 Belgium 0

Having eschewed Benfield’s first friendly, I felt compelled to take in the second; Wallsend Boys Club Seniors on the 4G at Coach Lane. It seemed an ironic choice of venue on the day our closest Northern League rivals Team Northumbria announced they were folding, but what can you do? In our case, grab our second successive 7-0 win, though you’d expect nothing less with the quality of the squad we’ve assembled. Without being arrogant, we could have scored 20. At full time, I headed to Sainsbury’s for a bit shopping, taking the opportunity to watch the dying seconds of France’s win on the screens of displays models in the electrical goods department.

Day 28: Croatia 2 England 1

Ah, what can you say? Croatia are no mugs and even if Kane had squared it to Sterling to make it 2-0, I’m sure they’d have come back and won, in a more heart-breaking fashion than you could imagine. Let’s try and be rational about this; England did well to get that far. Par may well have been quarter finals, but expectations were as low as last 16, bearing in mind recent tournament disasters. Nerves, a lack of experience, natural limitations and the unforgiving nature of a world class side with a relentless pressing game all took their toll. The players gave everything, as did the manager, displaying grace in victory and dignity in defeat, but the squad aren’t Brazil 70 and Southgate isn’t Rinus Michels, Helenio Herrera or Vincente del Bosque. What is most important is that the efforts of all in Russia managed to reconnect the most disaffected, antagonistic and hostile former England fans with the country. Being humble and decent goes a long way. That said, now they’ve got back in the good books, it’s time for the players, managers and all associated with the national side to step it up for Euro 2020. Expectations will increase and simply doing your best won’t be good enough next time around.

Day 29: Tynemouth 2nds (128/6) beat Chester le Street 2nds (126/7) by 4 wickets

This NEPL 2^nd XI 20/20 quarter final at Preston Avenue, on a quiet day that had the air of national contemplation rather than mourning or oath-edged recrimination, was possibly one of the most enjoyable games of cricket I’ve seen all season. Andrew Davison’s seconds are top of the league and still going in all the cups. However, a rash of unavailability meant 13-year-old Patrick Hallam came in to make his debut. He didn’t just make up the numbers either, taking a wicket with his first ball and returning figures of 3/15, which was even more impressive as he bowled overs 18 and 20. They didn’t ask him to bat though, which was probably fair after those efforts. Now the seconds are through to Finals Day on August 12^th. I’ll be there.

Day 30: Ryton & Crawcrook Albion 0 Benfield 5

The second game of 2018/2019, with 2 games of 2017/2018 still to come in Russia. A beautiful night in the Tyne Valley at one of the most scenic grounds around saw the Lions ease their way past my former student Tony Fawcett’s side. Mackenzie Heaney and Dean Holmes are quality against any opponents, but at this level they’re simply unplayable. Some lovely pints as well.

Day 31: Belgium 2 England 0

Shearer’s right; it’s the game that nobody wants to be part of. Belgium met England for the second time in the tournament, with the result irrelevant on either occasion. The meaningless quasi bronze medal play-off took place to general disinterest; half a dozen watching it in the cricket club, with nigh on a hundred concerned with events outdoors. I’d sponsored the match ball, so I knew where my interest lay. Tynemouth skittled Newcastle for 118, with Mark Watt grabbing 6 wickets. In return, we stumbled to 90/6, with Oli McGee bowling beautifully. Unfortunately for Newcastle, he ran out of overs and we squeezed across the line by 4 wickets, courtesy of some brave late hitting by Barry Stewart.

Day 32: France 4 Croatia 2

The final was the best one I’ve seen. While it was an amazing atmosphere to watch Spain beat Holland in Gasteiz; the only pro-Spanish city in Euskal Herria, that game, along with every final since 1986 onwards, showed that cautious, safety-first football is the keynote when stakes get so high at the business end of tournaments. Teams are generally scared to lose, so I was thankful for a pair of sides who were more concerned with winning the bloody thing. Frankly, this final was nuts; Croatia were deeply unfortunate to turn around a goal behind, after a fluke OG and a soft penalty to their superb strike. Then, after an hour, France scored two absolute blinding strikes before Hugo Lloris debuted his Lorus Karius tribute act and handed Croatia a comedy consolation. France may have stuttered in the opening contest against Australia, served up the worst 90 minutes of the whole competition against Denmark, but against Argentina, Uruguay, Belgium and Croatia, they showed themselves to be a cut above every other competing nation. In the final analysis, they had clearly learned from their shock loss to Portugal at Euro 16 and were worthy winners of a thoroughly enjoyable World Cup that somehow managed, despite the marvellous Pussy Riot flashmob in the final, to keep politics out of sport.

Will the dead bodies of migrants buried where they fell, in the foundations of white elephant stadia in Qatar that reek of corruption and bribery, be so acquiescent in 4 years? Or will the ghosts of those construction workers whose lives were ended by greed’s triumph over poverty haunt Blatter’s loathsome legacy?