Crime & Deviance

I wanted to go to Newcastle Thunder's final game of the season (their record ever victory; 98-6 over West Wales Raiders) & the second day of Durham's final County Championship game of the season against Middlesex. Sadly, my financial situation prevents me from attending either, on account of being ripped off by someone I once thought of as a friend, as I shall explain -:

I suppose each and every regional dialect boasts its own particular and indeed peculiar foibles and idiosyncrasies, either in terms of usage, meaning or collocation, but a few of our local Tyneside phrases have really been making me take a step back and think just recently.  For example, why do we call shopping “messages?” It’s not as if we are told something when buying provisions. Also, in football why do teams win or lose, but “play a” draw; what possible reason do we have for changing a verb into a noun when the meaning remains exactly the same?

Lastly comes the question of location. I’ve always found it weird that Scotch people “stay” rather than “live” somewhere, as to me it emphasizes an almost transient quality to domesticity that probably goes back to the Highland Clearances. Or something. On Tyneside, we do the exact opposite by suggesting our home is not just a physical entity, but a concept akin to the German notion of heimat when we ask each other “where do you belong?” Whenever I’ve been asked such a question, I’ve not simply responded by saying High Heaton, where I’ve been a homeowner for over 20 years, but instead, voluntarily gone into tortuous detail about the shameful secret of my Gateshead upbringing, giving an answer along the lines that I was brought up in Felling, but haven’t lived there since I went to University and have never felt any sense of belonging to that place.   

Am I giving a truthful response? Geographically and chronologically yes. However, while I was undeniably born Southside, I do not feel any emotional or familial connection with the place or have the sense that is where my roots lie, probably because of the unimaginable hell that my childhood was. Frankly any thoughts about Felling or Gateshead inspire not affection, but a profound feeling of revulsion. Similarly, I’ve often said that questions about my national orientation, not just my ethnicity, must return to rural county Cork, which my grandfather and two of his brothers exchanged for Felling in the early 1930s. In the way that trans people have always instinctively known they were assigned the wrong gender at birth, so is it with my supposed nationality. I’ve never felt English, much less British; having always known my ethnicity was Irish. Certainly, when it comes to the choice between identifying with the birthplace of Paul Gascoigne or Roy Keane, I know that the Rebel County is where my allegiance would always lie, partly it must be said because of the discomfort I feel when exposed to some of the prevalent attitudes of this region.

I have written in exhaustive detail about the problems I have with Alpha male, testosterone fuelled, authoritarian populists, especially if they are bald. The True Geordie isn’t bald, but he is a tragic victim of the North East macho culture that he pitifully though unsuccessfully seeks to embrace. Yet, underneath all his bellicose bluster, he’s just a frightened little boy in a behemoth’s body. Rejected by his father, brought up by a constantly disapproving mother, he sought to adopt an ultra-aggressive persona from his early teens, which manifested itself as incessant, intimidating hatred towards women. Without doubt he is a misogynistic bully. His first stint at college ended with him being asked to leave after repeated incidents of threatening behaviour and homophobic language towards his openly Lesbian Sociology lecturer. Then he failed to complete an apprenticeship because he couldn’t cope with being given instructions and not being indulged. Back at College, he was thrown out after barely a term for aggressively browbeating and berating his petite and gentle Psychology tutor, as she’d failed his plagiarised assessment. God knows how he has ended up as an internet phenomenon, but whatever money he possesses will not insulate him from an all-pervasive sense of being a failure. He will not be happy, I guarantee that. I can only predict a bad ending for the lad. No loss if it comes to pass mind…

We already have too many angry, worthless, masculine bullies on Tyneside. The other week, returning from Monday 6 a side with my mate David 1, we saw a hideous example of macho misogynistic domestic violence up the West Road. Travelling down Silver Lonnen towards Cowgate, a 4x4 in front of us suddenly veered off the road and came to a halt on the pavement. The front passenger got out, went round the other side, wrenched the driver’s door open and began belabouring the person at the wheel with his fists. He was only stopped by another driver springing from his vehicle and knocking the thug down with a single blow. As good citizens, we came to a halt in front of the 4x4, by which time the bully and a young woman who emerged from the rear passenger seat had made off down Lanercost Drive and the avenging driver had also left the scene.

Checking the 4x4, we saw the victim was an elderly lady, who had suffered severe facial injuries at the fists of her attacker; two black eyes, numerous cuts and abrasions. Depressingly, the perpetrator was her son. The young woman with him was his partner, who he’d recently been in court for beating up. I phoned 999 and the reality of Police budgetary limitations became obvious as it took 10 minutes for my call to be answered and about 20 minutes for a PC in a van to arrive. The whole time we waited, I talked to the poor victim, calming her down. She was in both physical and emotional pain; nobody deserves to suffer in that way. The only positive from this event is that she has agreed to press charges against the evil thug she gave birth to; David 1 and I were happy to give statements to support any prosecution. I don’t care about being called a grass, if I’m removing scum from the streets. All my life I’ve stood up to bullies and so I’m not going to allow them a free pass any time soon. 

My main worry about the chances of success when attempting to eradicate the macho culture of violent heterosexual men in our region is not the inadequacy of the institutionally corrupt Northumbria Police Force, it is the abject quality of the so-called professionals who are supposed to monitor the criminals, specifically the standards of those employed by the Probation Service, especially when contrasted to those superb and selfless heroes who are Social Workers, such as my dear departed friend Ken Sproat. Can Probation Officers really be trusted to behave in an ethical and moral way in their professional lives if they have repeatedly struggled, or chosen not to do so, in their private life?

Back in January, another friend of mine called David 2 was at his lowest ebb. His reckless behaviour, specifically problem drinking and repeated emotional abuse of his partner who is a wonderful person and whom he claimed to adore, resulted in the self-inflicted disintegration of his life. Totally understandably, she threw him out after he’d gone on yet another mammoth drinking session, consuming 28 bottles of red wine over a 3-day period and having the kind of appalling on-line self-implosion that makes social media such a dark place at times. As well as repeatedly going on solo benders, at her expense and timed to coincide with her business trips abroad, he engaged in provocative, self-pitying, reckless social media behaviour, consciously or unconsciously designed to make her feel bad and him to appear as the victim, whenever she was away with work. Considering her job takes her to the likes of China, Sri Lanka, India and Thailand on a monthly basis, the very last thing she needed was another raft of his depressingly repetitive drunken, debauched mind games, spanning thousands of miles and many time zones, all intended to gain the attention he was sulking about being deprived of when she was off earning the money to keep him in the manner to which he’d quickly grown accustomed.

Without getting too Freudian about this, David’s problems all stem from abandonment and rejection issues relating to his childhood that seem to manifest themselves in an inability to deal with being alone. Of course, he has not sought any therapy to deal with these problems, as he somehow believes that once he’s feeling better, the whole thing can safely be forgotten about, showing the kind of narrow, narcissistic view of the world he has, whereby other people’s feelings simply aren’t considered.  If this were the only sociopathic tendency he exhibits, things would be almost manageable; many people are thoughtless egomaniacs. However, there is more to his complex anti-social behaviour. Equally problematic is the fact he is an uncontrollable liar. He struggles to know what the truth is; he compulsively tells white lies, ostensibly to make the listener feel safe, but often to paint himself as the victim. Not only that, but he tells different stories to different people, meaning that reality is an elusive concept. Unfortunately for David 2, these compulsive, unconvincing lies all too often come back to haunt him.

At the time of his meltdown, he had recently started work as a Court Usher, a dull but cushy job, after approximately six months, indolently lazing about, happily living off his partner’s earnings in the house she’d paid £300k for. Somehow, amidst his alcohol-fuelled public disintegration, he resigned or was sacked from this sinecure; as his lies are so complex and detailed, it’s often difficult to know what the truth is with David, especially as he is able to convince himself that his lies are the truth. Whether he’d wanted to or not, he had comprehensively burned all his bridges and, aged 44, he was holding onto a place in society by his finger nails because of his own reckless, selfish, abusive behaviour. That, in a nutshell, was the irrefutable truth of his personal circumstances.

David 2 was my friend; a very close friend in fact. I couldn’t let him sink any lower, so with the usual vultures gathering, I offered him a roof over his head, so he moved his belongings and his 3 cats into mine in February. As I live at Laura’s 90% of the time, this was no real hassle for me and, or so I thought, the least I could do. I felt a duty of care to someone who was spinning out of control. Despite him leaving the heating on 24/7 and upgrading from Free View to the full Sky Sports package, I didn’t charge him a penny in rent or bills until he found temporary office work at the end of March. This hitherto undiscovered work ethic was a bone of contention with his ex-partner. She has a very high-powered, stressful executive job that requires worldwide travel.  In 2017 David quit his previous permanent post at North Shields Job Centre because he didn’t like it and basically lived off her for 6 months, without it bothering his conscience. Now, when he’s had her financial rug pulled from under him, he quickly finds work. She was understandably appalled by this, as it proved once again he’d been emotionally and financially abusing her. Of course, if you point this out to David, he will deny the reality of the situation as he has a basically inability to accept any responsibility for his actions.

Fair play to him though, he’s not had a drink since this business and he stuck at the temporary job, meaning he was able to pay his rent diligently each week in arrears, while looking for other work. He somehow managed to secure a position as a trainee Probation Officer, presumably by sending in a severely edited CV, starting in early July. As I was for his temp work, I acted as his personal referee and wrote about him in glowing terms, as that’s the person I knew him to be at that time. Suffice to say, his subsequent conduct has made me feel a fool for standing by him when everyone else had washed their hands of his tiresome conduct. Here’s what I said -:

I have known the applicant as a friend since 2005. Throughout that time, I have found him to be a tremendously gifted, articulate and uniquely compassionate person, who always embraced the opportunity to learn and develop his interpersonal skills with both hands. He has demonstrated a thirst for knowledge, a passion for debate and the natural ability to understand complex concepts with ease. Consequently, it is clear to me that David has the requisite intellectual ability to be a Probation Officer.

As regards his personal and inter personal skills, David’s unfailingly accurate written work and the precise and cogent way in which he is able to explain difficult ideas and concepts are of paramount importance for someone who wishes to go in to such a person-centered profession. Not only that, but his empathic nature, demonstrated in his private and working life among his peers, show he is ideally suited temperamentally and emotionally to the Probation Service. I wish him all the best and recommend him unreservedly to you.

It must have worked, as he began his new job on Monday 2^nd July, having paid me his last weekly amount on Friday 29^th June. I next received a payment on Friday 31^st July, which was clearly July’s rent in arrears, but since then I’ve had nothing from him; not a penny piece. He loved his new job, to the extent of, injudiciously sharing confidential paper work about his clients. Reflecting on this, I feel sure Sunderland Probation Services would be interested to know that David 2 is treating client confidentiality and the Data Protection Act with such reckless abandon, though I wouldn’t seek to inform on him.

Bearing in mind how happy he said he was, both with work and his domestic situation, having expressed a stated desire to remain at mine until the end of the year at least, it was something of a shock when he told me, by text, on Sunday 19^th August he was moving out almost immediately and he did so by the end of the month. Clearly, I didn’t expect a month’s rent in lieu of notice, just the money he owed me. I didn’t charge him for the Sky Sports package he’d ordered that I had to beg to cancel or the hole he’d smashed in the back door for the now useless cat flap he’d installed without my permission, as he’s taken his three moggies with him. As everyone knows, I’m skint and could desperately do with that money, so I sent him an email as I don’t have his new address -:

I’ve been through all my financial dealings with you, which I’ve attached as a PDF for your information. As far as I recall, you moved in on or around 19th February. The first payment you made to me was for £104 on 23rd March. I regarded that as payment, in arrears, for the week beginning 19th March. Every Friday from then until 29th June, you paid between £100 and £117. The total for this was £1,780, or £111.25 per week to include rent, all bills and a share of the Sky TV package.

On 2nd July you began your new job. As you were being paid monthly in arrears, we decided that the same arrangement would apply for you. Therefore, on 31st July, you paid £500 for July’s rent IN ARREARS. This is the last payment I received from you. Therefore, you still owe me August’s rent. I would be grateful if you settled this amount immediately.

To summarise, this is my understanding of the situation regarding your residence -:

19/02 – 18/03: No rent or bills charged

19/03 – 30/06: Rent paid weekly in arrears

01/07 – 31/07: Rent paid in arrears on last day of month

01/08 – 31/08: No rent paid, and property vacated 25/08

I look forward to your prompt payment of the £500 outstanding rent.

Best wishes,

Not only did David refuse to discuss the matter, having already claimed he’d paid this rent, though he clearly has not, he then blocked me on Facebook and WhatsApp, as well as ignoring all calls and texts. As I didn’t know his new address, this meant I was effectively up the creek without a paddle and seriously out of pocket. The worst thing, even more than the £500 down the shitter that I would give my eye teeth to have at this moment, is having lost a friend I’ve known for a decade and a half; someone who I kept off the streets when he was at his lowest ever ebb, as I saw his welfare as my moral responsibility. He himself decided that he had been the wronged party in this whole sorry narrative, with me now being cast in the role of bad guy by the narcissistic Walter Mitty style character who has scammed me for five hundred quid.

To bring us up to date, when I was cycling up to the cricket club for work on Sunday 16^th September, I saw David 2’s parked car on Princes Street in North Shields; as it’s a leaf-green Skoda it tends to stand out. I took two photos of it and emailed them to him saying that as I’d serendipitously discovered his general location, perhaps he could sensibly talk to me about his debt. Sadly, he was unable to act like an adult and accept responsibility for his actions by agreeing to do this. Instead he phoned the Cops to say he was intimidated by my conduct. Ludicrous enough, but even worse he told his ex-partner that I had vandalised his car and that Northumbria Police forensics were examining it for finger prints to enable them to identify me as the culprit. This is the same Northumbria Police who are so short of resources they leave someone dialing 999 on hold for 10 minutes. Now, seriously, what kind of nutter comes up with a story like that? Who did he think would swallow such an incredible tissue of horse shit? The really disturbing thing is that he has probably convinced himself this actually happened.

I like to think I’m a good citizen; for instance, following the Silver Lonnen incident, David 1 and I had cause to stop on Jesmond Road at the end of the Central Motorway, to help a young lady who’d come off her moped in the wet conditions. No fuss, no drama; we just helped out and went on our way like a modern day Starsky and Hutch on a far from typical Monday evening. We’d solved those problems ourselves, without recourse to the 5-0, but the dodgy lodger’s fairy story was something else. I was furious with him when I learned of his stupid lies, so off I went to Middle Engine Lane to talk to the Poliss about David 2’s conduct. This young flatty was dealing with it and explained, very calmly, that the unpaid rent was a civil matter; I knew this and we both know I can’t afford to take him to court to recover the debt, even if I go down the route of Malfeasance or Misfeasance in a Public Office. At least the copper promised he would warn David 2 as to the consequences of telling further lies about me vandalising his car, or any other story he makes up. In all seriousness, such inveterate lying, especially from someone in the Probation Service, does not auger well for his future professional life, never mind the chaotic wreckage of his personal life.

Obviously, I’m going to write the money David has effectively stolen from me off to experience, even if I’m so short of cash at the present time I won’t be able to pay any of my bills on Monday 1^st October. My monthly outgoings are over £500, while my income is around £400; my new middle name is poverty. I must say that looking at the situation quite dispassionately, I truly feel I am as much of a victim of crime as the woman beaten up by her son on Silver Lonnen. The irony is, David 2 could well find himself in the role of moral guide for that violent thug, and that can’t be right.

Then again; I don’t think this tale I’m about to tell you is right either. I’ve said on numerous occasions I have little or no faith in Northumbria Police, either individually or collectively; I think they’re fundamentally corrupt, hideously incompetent, staffed by cretins on the bottom rungs and infested with aggressive, mendacious bullies from middle management upwards, with a few shining exceptions it must be said. They’re used as a political tool to maintain order and social compliance rather than seeking to uphold justice and the rule of law. Worst of all, they collude with ultra-right-wing vigilantes to bring about questionable convictions.

As a victim of child sexual abuse myself, I know exactly how devastating the consequences can be for an innocent child tortured and humiliated for a sordid pervert’s gratification. Northumbria Police didn’t exactly cover themselves in glory when the appalling catalogue of abuse Operation Sanctuary uncovered was almost compromised by the force’s willingness to use a self-confessed paedophile as a paid informer. That said, unlike the questionable tactics and dubious motivation of organisations such as Dark Justice or Guardians of the North, at least Babylon have some legal justification for their actions.

Vigilantes attract the highest levels of approval from those supporters of authoritarian populism who parade their depressing list of reactionary opinions like badges of honour; anti Islam, pro Brexit, vehemently militaristic, Royalist, instinctively transphobic and conspicuously patriotic. They tend to be white, middle aged, poorly educated, living in current or former social housing and alienated from the contemporary social milieu. In the past, such “conservative with a small c” sectors of society would write into Points of View or gossip on buses about the decline of modern society and harking back to a mythic golden age of Empire. Technology, specifically the internet and social media, has changed that; right-wing crackpots are given as much credence as any other journalists. The lumpenproletariat all have smart phones these days. Witness the hysterical, and utterly incorrect, response to the jailing of convicted football hooligan and mortgage fraudster Stephen Yaxley-Lennon earlier this year. It is of no surprise that Yaxley-Lennon was jailed for a contempt of court that was ostensibly about protecting victims of child sexual abuse, but was actually unadulterated Islamophobia.

The big surprise about authoritarian populists is that they have one major exception to their slavish worship of figures of social control; they almost all hate the police. Undoubtedly, the class interests that the police serve are those of the bourgeois who seek to exploit and oppress the working and underclass. Despite their excessive shows of patriotism, the working and underclasses are held in contempt by their masters, who use the police as the first response attack dogs of social control. At this point, the principle of divide and conquer comes into play; authoritarian populists hate the police and by definition and extension, the CPS and judiciary, who are seen as protecting the interests of a Venn diagram hydra which consists of asylum seekers, refugees, Muslims, terrorists and paedophiles. In such circumstances, opportunist vigilantism, as practised by Dark Justice and Guardians of the North, is seen as doing the work that a hostile police force won’t. Interesting, the lumpenproletariat, hamstrung by the poverty of their aspiration, do not accuse immigrants and asylum seekers of stealing their jobs, but of stealing their benefits; the workless are also the thoughtless.

It should be a matter of surprise to absolutely nobody with an ounce of understanding of the concepts of false consciousness and hegemony, that almost the entire adult population has less comprehension of the English legal system than Josef K had of his prosecution. These days, if a complaint is made of a non-violent nature, the police will investigate it in an almost bureaucratic fashion. This means rather than battering down front doors at 6am, except to lift the odd slumbering smack dealer for the benefit of local ITV news cameras, the police will generally contact the person alleged to have done wrong, interview them, perhaps under caution but generally not, then let them go. After this, they may take more statements, examine evidence brought to their attention or decide no further action is necessary. Only if they think a crime has been committed will they then get the person under investigation back in and take a full statement. The whole lot then goes to the Crown Prosecution Service who decide if it will go to court on the basis that a prosecution has a reasonable chance of success (there’s enough evidence and the witnesses are reliable) and is in the public interest (it isn’t a dementia victim swearing in the local shopping centre, for instance). 

In short, police don’t prosecute people and arrests tend not to happen until the end of any investigation, providing the person under investigation is somewhere between compliant and cooperative. Standing up for yourself is a real no no, as most ordinary bobbies I’ve had dealings with are as thick as pig shit and go off the deep end if anyone gives them any lip. Any kind of assertive behaviour will get you hoyed in a cell and subject to the full Charles Bronson meets Hannibal Lecter treatment. Returning to the mechanics of case management and potential prosecution, it is the case that most people have never been taught, or gone out their way to learn, about this full process. Of course, the Bourgeois State has evolved and held on to power by propagating a conscious policy of misinformation and miseducation towards the working classes. Once you understand how things operate, you will want to change the social order; that truth is self-evident. The real reason the police don’t arrest every person who commits a crime is partly the lack of resources, because of the cuts foisted upon us during a decade of neoliberal austerity, but mainly because they don’t actually know that many crimes are happening.

Someone I know vaguely, an acquaintance but no more, David 3, is currently under investigation following a sting by Dark Justice and Guardians of the North. The allegation is that he had been communicating with who he believed to be a 13 year old girl in an internet chat room, but who was actually one of the self-styled paedophile hunters assuming this role for whatever gratification they get from it. The conversation turned sexual and he is alleged to have forwarded an obscene picture and agreed to meet up for some sordid assignation. However, he perhaps thought better of this and didn’t keep his promise. You’ll have seen on the news a whole litany of these depressing tales before; shaky camera phone footage of lonely inadequate men hiding their faces in train stations when confronted by the ones who’ve lured them into this trap or marginalised, unkempt loners crying on their grimy front step when they learn vigilantes not 15 year old boys wanting sex have chapped the door. Those cases are dealt with quickly; jail time and pitiful mugshots on local newspaper websites accompanied by lurid Press Association reports.

You know I speak here as someone who knows what it is like to be digitally penetrated and genitally stimulated without permission by adults thirty years older than me. I am a real person; a real, actual, physical victim of sexual abuse. Someone who lived with the guilt, shame and self-loathing caused by sexual abuse for more than 40 years. Those sexual and social deviants entrapped by vigilantes who have almost groomed them, haven’t abused any living person in these instances. Yes they may have acted on their urges and fantasies before and they may be likely to do so in the future, but that is because their instinctive sexual response, as encoded in their DNA, is to find young, possibly pre-pubescent children to be sexually arousing. This is wrong; it is malign and it is deviant. It is a defect in their genetic make-up, personality and thought processes. They must be treated to ensure they do not abuse children; the cure may be drugs, it may be therapy and, in the case of inveterate or unapologetic abusers, it may be incarceration. All courses of treatment should work towards rehabilitation and the protection of children as first principles.

In the case of David 3, he was traced by the vigilante hunters, presumably through his phone number and the vagaries of the dark web or a helpful insider from a mobile network, which seems a disproportionate response to standing a date up, but there you go. The police were present when he was confronted. He voluntarily attended the station and gave a statement. After this he was released and the investigation remains on-going. He has denied the allegations and volunteered an explanation. Whether guilty or innocent, his life has been torn apart; nobody else’s has. There isn’t, as far as we know, a young and vulnerable victim who has been used and abused by a vile, predatory monster. And surely that is crucial?

As someone who has suffered at the hands of paedophiles, it does not seem right to me that as a society we seek to punish people for their private sexual urges and fantasies. Similarly, we should not tolerate such desires; not only is it illegal, but it is wrong on every level and damaging to the victim beyond words. We should, in my opinion, seek to learn from these sexually dysfunctional beings exactly what it is that provides their motivation and mind-set, then use the knowledge to firstly prevent further abuse and secondly treat actual or potential offenders. Only if the case is discontinued will David 3 have the opportunity to piece his life back together. If he is innocent, I will shake his hand. If he is guilty, I will try to forgive and try to understand what motivated him to behave in this way, but only if he shows contrition and a clear wish to undertake treatment to modify his thought processes and negate such sexual fantasies.

When reading the Facebook pages of both Guardians of the North and Dark Justice, the chorus of dreadful spellings and worse grammar by those who have acted as cyber judge, jury and executioner for someone who has not been charged with anything, I feel sickened. Violated by the hatred and bloodlust of those who seek vengeance served ice cold.  It truly leaves me in despair at our world that such terrible responses to potentially terrible crimes are seen as proportionate. There is no sense of how justice must be seen to be done and I guess that’s a whole lot worse than a former pal conning me out of half a grand.

What really worries me though is whether devious sexual predators should be chaperoned by those whose own sociopathic tendencies are as equally pronounced, though directed in different ways. At the end of the day, it seems both criminal and Probation Officer are interested only in their own personal needs, wants and desires. That frightens me.

In Memoriam; Ken Sproat (1963-2018)

My very dear friend Ken Sproat died on Monday 10th September. His funeral is this Friday 21st September. I've penned a few words to talk about his passing. I will miss him terribly.

I first met Ken in March 1997. At the time I was moonlighting as a researcher for Radio 5 Live on a freelance basis and Liverpudlian broadcaster Rogan Taylor, one of the prime movers behind the Hillsborough Justice Campaign in its early days, was making a 4-part oral documentary series called “The Death of Football” about the sport’s gentrification and the loosening of the emotional bonds that tied clubs to their community. He wanted to record one episode in the North East and so I set about rounding up likely suspects associated with all the region’s clubs to be interviewed. I’d long been an avid writer for and consumer of football fanzines, so I knew Ken’s name from When Saturday Comes, where he and I took a similar role in contributing musings from the ideological position of disenchanted Newcastle United followers, so he was the shoo-in for Magpie miserabilism.

Somewhere in my loft, amidst the chaotic detritus of half a century’s football memorabilia, I still have those programmes on a pair of C90s; I must dig them out, for nostalgia’s sake. However, I gained a much more tangible memory of that day; Ken’s friendship. We hit it off immediately. Not only were we both sick of Premier League football (with Ken ahead of the game on that score, having packed in Newcastle United when SJP went all seater in favour of returning to his beloved Blyth Spartans), but we were politically on the extreme left, with Ken being almost a Stalinist and me a subscriber to the impossibilist position of the Socialist Party of Great Britain, proud but gauche fathers of infants (my lad Ben was born in 1995 and Ken’s daughter Bethan a year after) and obsessive devotees of The Fall. Strangely, we’d both contributed to a newly formed music fanzine dedicated to Mark E Smith’s band, entitled The Biggest Library Yet that was published literally days after the first meeting. Even though we only drank coffee at that day, we talked earnestly about our love of Real Ale. For the next 21 years Non-League Football, music, politics, beer and proud parenthood (Bethan still supports Spartans and Ben adores The Fall) were the foundation stones on which we built a friendship.

Since 2003, my team has been Newcastle Benfield of Northern League Division 1. However, back in the late 90s, we were a glorified pub team, until we got a ground and moved up the leagues. Therefore, I was a rootless wanderer and Ken often accompanied me; not so much groundhopping, but psychogeographically wandering through North Tyneside and South East Northumberland. Whims took us to Ashington, who I held an affection for, Bedlington Terriers, with whom Ken flirted as he’d bought his first property in that village, Whitley Bay, West Allotment Celtic, Percy Main Amateurs, Stobswood Welfare and a dozen other places. Before they’d started nursery, Ben and Bethan, bribed with pop and sweets, knew what it was like to play and explore on the deserted terraces of decaying colliery welfare grounds at steps 6 and 7 on the non-league pyramid on blustery afternoons, while Ken and I kept a solicitous eye on both bairns and the travails on the pitch, simultaneously sipping unspeakably foul instant coffee and chicory blends. Obviously, Spartans for him and Newcastle United (then Benfield) for me took precedence on Saturdays; as a result, we’d probably only do about a dozen games a season when inaccessible away games, Sky schedules or life responsibilities intervened.

Mind, we also had gigs to attend. At first it was almost exclusively trips to see The Fall, but we didn’t just see them round Newcastle. As Ken was prepared to drive, nights were spent in Edinburgh, Harrogate and Middlesbrough. In later years, Ken finally managed to persuade his wife Janine to accompany him to see The Fall; a York gig in August 2014 had been preceded by a dour 0-0 at Bootham Crescent against Wycombe Wanderers. Ken’s other particular musical favourites included the most uncommercial and obscure post punk acts. I shared his tastes and so we met up for nights out to see the likes of Vic Godard, Wire, The Slits and The Television Personalities, not to mention that legend of dub Lee “Scratch” Perry. Whether it was on the terrace, at a gig or even in a classroom, it was a pleasure to be in Ken’s company.

To expand on that last point, Ken’s work since his A levels had been a desk job in the Civil Service. He hated it with a passion and took redundancy after 25 years in 2008, with a vague wish to work in the care sector. One Friday night in November 2008, we met at West Allotment Celtic 2 Penrith 2; he told me of his plans and as my day job was the Co-ordinator of Adult Education at a local college, I enrolled him there and then. He did brilliantly, of course, secured a place at Northumbria University on a Social Work degree and graduated with a first, before embarking on a career with disenfranchised young offenders. Putting the wrongs of the world right appealed to his passionate Socialist principles and he was brilliant at his new role.

Our last chat was in July; about cricket of all things. Having finally retired from 11 a side football (we were both goalkeepers incidentally; he was taller, but I had better reflexes) in the veterans’ league, I’d taken to throwing down dismal leg spinners in for the social side Tynemouth Old Boys. Ken had once been a medium pacer for New Hartley and fancied playing again in 2019, so we talked vaguely about winter nets. Sadly, with the local season ending on September 9^th and Ken leaving us the day after, that will never happen. It is another regret among a million others at the passing of a wonderful bloke and someone I was proud to call a friend. I simply can’t imagine how Janine and Bethan must feel.

Goodbye Ken. I’ll miss you forever. You saw the madness in our area.

Flag Day

When I moved to Slovakia it was long before it joined the EU; as a result, I had to carry an alien ID card with me everywhere I went, plus a photocopy of my passport. Where I lived, worked and accessed medical services was controlled by the state. I felt overwhelmed by this but fell in love with the country as everyone hated the bureaucracy. What I loved about going back to Slovakia in 2005 to watch Newcastle United play ZTS Dubnica in the Inter Toto Cup was being able to introduce some of my friends to the country I’d fallen in love with, as equals under EU law following the 2004 Accession. Now, with Brexit, what seemed so natural has gone out the window. Anyone remember “Waving Flags” by British Sea Power?

Anthropologists, Geneticists and Physiologists would argue long into the night as to which of the fight or flight impulses is the human body’s natural response to a perceived threat. Please don’t use me as a test case, as so cowardly is my disposition that I recently changed gyms to avoid compulsory boxercise. When the going gets tough, the Cusack slopes off. This was the case in the last year of the 20^th century. Having quit a job I hated, my potential career as a freelance writer had failed to pay a single bill and, on seeing my marriage crumble in the face of my inability to face up to the responsibilities commensurate to my role as the mid-30s father of a pre-school son, all I could do was run and hide.

I arrived in Bratislava, capital of Slovakia, on 19^th September 1999. This was the day of Newcastle United’s biggest home win since the 13-0 triumph over Newport County in 1946. We thumped Sheffield Wednesday 8-0, with Alan Shearer grabbing 5, in Bobby Robson’s first home game as manager. My boss, who collected me from the airport, was an Owls fan. I’m amazed he didn’t send me back to Tyneside there and then. In fact, I was to stay in Slovakia for almost two years. While my son and soon-to-be ex-wife got on with their lives as normally as possible, without the otiose spectre of the failed fool at the computer in the spare room, I managed to rebuild mine.

The first time I’d left home, I was 19 and an idealistic, youthful pseudo intellectual; excited by the challenges and opportunities of University life in County Derry. It took me 5 years to get back home, with 2 degrees and a career to look forward to. This time, I was 35 and a jaded, ageing pseudo intellectual, terrified of the challenges of life as an EFL teacher for Akademia Vzdelavania, the state-operated adult education authority. Looking back now, the things that were the same about the two utterly contrasting experiences were the number of lifelong friends I made in both places, where companionship and camaraderie were sealed during drunken debates about bands, books, politics and, you’ve guessed it, football. I’d imagine that if I packed my bags and headed for some arcane destination for whatever reason, the conversation starters would remain the same; it’s the universal masculine language.

Just less than 2 weeks after arriving, I saw my first game of football in Slovakia when a deflected 63^rd minute strike by full back Martin Baliak gave visitors Petržalka victory away to Slovan.  The last game I saw in this country was on 20^th July 2005 when Petržalka overcame a 2-0 first leg loss to defeat Kairat Almaty 4-1 after extra time at Senec’s ground. The fact that both contests were momentous victories away from the traditional, historic and incredibly beautiful home ground of the Slovak side I fell in love with at first sight, makes me despair even more that my beloved Stary Most stadium is no more. The club also endured insolvency and forced relegation but are now stable in the Slovak second division. However, I am led to believe that there is reason for optimism, in the shape of the club’s new ground south of the Danube, back in Petržalka.

It was not the quality of play that attracted me to support Petržalka; rather typically, that 1-0 triumph over Slovan was followed by a thoroughly terrible 4-0 humiliation by Košice the week after. However, that particular game was my first visit to Stary Most and, despite the worst efforts of players of the questionable standards of Martin Kuna or Tomas Medved, it was the beauty and atmosphere of the stadium that immediately held me in thrall; though the black and white strips didn’t dampen my ardour very much it has to be said. The fences at Slovan and running track (as well as utter absence of either crowd or atmosphere) at Inter’s Pasienka home did not appeal, despite their relative proximity to where I lived. Instead, I opted to take bus 50 to Stary Most, where the green seats that came to cover 3 sides of the ground were then only on one side, with small covered sections behind each goal and a bizarre building that contained changing facilities, offices and what else I do not know, that always resembled a Mississippi riverboat steamer to me. In front of this white, concrete structure which boasted an unfeasible number of balconies to watch the game from, towards the goal furthest from the river, half a dozen assorted English teachers from Akademia Vzdelavania and the British Council made it our home.

We came to call this section Swearers’ Corner as the most dominant voice among the crowd was the incredible, incessant obscenity of Petržalka’s most loyal fan, Laco and his equally profane daughter, who both kept up a continuous stream of invective throughout the entire game, which could be directed at officials, opposition players or, on one memorable occasion after selecting the utterly immobile Martin Kuna in central midfield, manager Vladimir Weiss. However, amidst the endless utterances of debil, hajzel, kokot and many other more extreme insults that would undoubtedly result in arrest for anyone uttering them on a street corner, Laco was a source of deep and profound football knowledge and insight. He also, unknown to him, taught me 99% of the Slovak I ever learned. Between October 1999 and June 2001, I did not miss a single Petržalka home game. My return to England coincided with an upturn in Petržalka’s fortunes; the Inter Toto Cup was reached the season I left and in 2004 the Slovak Cup was won, causing me to fly back to see the club’s first UEFA Cup tie against FC Dudelange of Luxembourg, as well as the small matter of a 3-0 home win over Slovan a few days later, which was of more than equal importance I must admit.

During the two seasons our group, which consisted of disparate English teaching expatriates aged from early 20s to late 30s and who were followers of Chelsea, Leeds, Liverpool, Newcastle and Spurs to name but a few, watched Petržalka from Swearers’ Corner or indeed from any other part of the ground, we did not once encounter any hostility, aggression or indeed curiosity from Petržalka fans. Once a fortnight we turned up, paid our 15Skk entry, bought klobasa and either Pivo or Kofola depending on the severity of our hangovers and stood in our usual place. I suppose it helped that we mastered the two songs (both of which consisted of the same 3 words Petržalka Do Toho chanted at a slightly different tempo), but other than that we made no real attempt to either hide our nationality or our native language. It was not necessary to do so, as we felt under no threat at any time. The day we played Puchov, Laco really came in to his own; as a former employee of Matador in Petržalka, he was deeply scornful of his ex-bosses sponsoring our opposition and was even more relentless than usual in his abuse. Never have I heard the adjective gumové used so often, nor spat out with such derision as Laco did that afternoon.

If Petržalka hadn’t claimed a 94th minute equaliser, I genuinely fear Laco would have exploded. Never mind the fact we could have been watching Liverpool versus Arsenal in the FA Cup Final in The Dubliner that afternoon, Stary Most was the only place for true football action on a sunny May Saturday in 2001. It was my final home game as a Petržalka fan, though we did win away to Inter the following Friday. I came back to England on the Sunday; relieved to be reuniting with my son and optimistic about my future career prospects, but sad I’d never hosted any of my Newcastle friends and shown them the sights of Stary Most.

I carried the hope that one day I’d be able to watch Newcastle United in Slovakia, though this seemed unlikely as the club were flying under Bobby Robson. Perhaps the only positive to Robson’s sacking in 2004, and it is an entirely personal one, was it set in motion a chain of events that made my dream come true. Under Robson’s successor, the appalling Souness, we’d lost a UEFA Cup quarter final, an FA Cup semi-final and finished thirteenth in the League.  Bizarrely, we actually qualified for the Inter Toto Cup; mainly because England was awarded a Fair Play place and none of the eligible clubs above us were interested in taking it. Given a bye to the third round, I was ecstatic when we drew ZTS Dubnica. While many people would query the appeal of a mid-July weekend in an industrial city in the Vah region of Western Slovakia, I was elated to be going back to my adopted home country, with my team.

Interest levels in this trip, despite my proselytising, were low among my associates; frankly, this wasn’t Barcelona, Bruges or Benfica. Indeed, the grand total of 83 Newcastle fans eventually made the trip, including the heroic Glenn Wallace who travelled, as he does to every Euro away, by train. Opting to fly from Manchester to Bratislava, I pitched up in the Slovak capital Friday afternoon, 48 hours before kick-off. It was fair to say I was the advance party, as there wasn’t another Geordie in town, though there was a Mackem; my former work colleague Steve, who put me up but steadfastly refused to go to the game.

We took Friday night easy, with loads of leisurely beers in the Stary Mesto (Old Town). Unlike England’s difficult away in October 2002, there didn’t seem to be anything aggressive brewing. Saturday was different though; I took myself out for a noon constitutional down by the Danube, just as the bus from Budapest Airport arrived, disgorging about 60 thirsty Geordies who’d been on the dawn Easyjet. A day on the gargle ensued, involving several of us doorstepping then NUFC chairman Freddy Shepherd as he sat down to eat with assorted lackeys in Bratislava’s poshest restaurant. From nowhere Northumbria Constabulary coppers emerged from the shadows and ushered us away; they even bought half a dozen of us a beer in The Dubliner before the self-preservation klaxon told me it was time to split.

Match day saw about 30 of us on the noon train to Dubnica; the rest had opted for the much cheaper and far slower bus. As we executive travellers sat in the restaurant car sucking on 500ml bottles of Pilsner Urquell while nibbling on restorative cheese and salami for less than a quid a plateful, I reckon we’d the better deal. In Dubnica, the first person we saw was Glenn Wallace, who described his Saturday night as the only English speaker in Dubnica as “like finally being famous.” We soon learned what he meant as locals, in assorted Champions’ League replica tops, bought us beer and shook our hands; in 30-degree heat, this was a happy and hot special occasion.

The game itself happened in slow motion; Michael Chopra scored after 5 minutes, then there was an own goal, before they pulled one back. James Milner grabbed a third in a quarter speed second half; I drank 6 beers during the game, while my mate Davey Faichen fell asleep at half time and snoozed on the terraces until we woke him up for the train at full time. We enjoyed a leisurely trundle back to Bratislava, including changing trains in Trencin where I bought the station buffet’s supply of the best bottled Slovak beer Smadny Mnich for the thirsty Mags on platform 3, then a crazy drunken night in The Dubliner with a load of Dutch tennis fans, in town for a Davis Cup tie versus Slovakia. They’d lost, but what the hell. I’m no specialist on Euro aways, having only done Eindhoven (twice) before Dubnica, but Slovakia was a fine, fine weekend; 13 years later, those who were there still speak warmly of it.

One brief cameo provided the best advert for summer football and the Inter Toto Cup in particular I could ever imagine, while I mooched around the three quarters deserted train on the way back to Bratislava. Somewhere just south of Piestany, as the sun slowly set over the Bílé Karpaty Mountains, one of the Prudhoe Mags, happy, sunburned and half cut, was on the phone to his girlfriend. The noise of the rattler drowned out his voice as I weaved down the corridor, but as I passed him, he ended the call with a smile and a heartfelt I love you too pet. A thousand miles from home, semi-surrounded by a few knots of tired, contented and gently boozed NUFC fans, I knew just how he felt; I loved all of humanity that warm Sunday evening.

And now, less than a decade and a half later, Mike Ashley’s harsh patronage has destroyed any pretension the club or supporters have of a competitive trip into Europe, just in time for the Brexit nightmare to turn into reality. Maybe it’s just the heat of this long, baking summer, but I’ve a whiff of unrest and civil disobedience in the air. Things just aren’t as good as they were.

The Narcissism of Small Differences

Thursday 6^th September promises to be a red letter day for connoisseurs of sporting administration in the North East.  Firstly, the Northern League Management Committee are meeting to discuss the ramifications of Blyth AFC’s resignation on the rest of the first division, which is now down to 18 teams with potentially 2 of those idle each weekend. There are fines to be handed down and fixture rearrangements to be considered. Additionally, the NEPL convenes to discuss the situation for 2019, whereby there are 3 vacancies to fill; Seaham Harbour’s demise over the winter, Durham County Cricket Club’s decision to mothball their Academy side, possibly for reasons of cost or the paucity of emerging talent, and the expulsion of Brandon from NEPL 1 for failing to attain Clubmark status, which is basically the cricketing equivalent of FA Charter Status, have caused this situation. As it stands, the clubs ready to fill the vacancies are Crook from the DCL, as well as Shotley Bridge and Ashington from the NTCL. These neophytes, as well as a proposal to dispense with relegation from the Premier Division, meaning Burnopfield will simply replace Durham Academy, need to be voted through by the clubs. In essence the Management Committee are proposing the bottom side in the Premier Division is given a free pass to avoid relegation, much in the way the clubs decided to dispense with relegation from Division 1 once Seaham Harbour had left the league. Ambitious Division 1 clubs may not be so understanding this time. Finally, there’s the question of Stockton’s oft-stated desire to move to the NYSD league, though they missed the 31^st July resignation date.  There’s undoubtedly a recipe for hot air and hot tempers.

Meanwhile, the North East Midweek Cricket League holds its AGM at Blue Flames, with awards and a buffet following the main business of the meeting. With Captain Mark playing on the trains and Hot Les in Germany for a wedding, it looks like I’ll get the gig as Bad Boys representative on the night we have our promotion to Division 2 rubber stamped. Full speed ahead for games against Civil Service, Cramlington, Genetics, The Main and Merz & McClellan, as well as renewing rivalries with Bates Cottages and Sparta who were promoted with us.  More about this in the end of season cricket blog, which will be next week’s job of work, written through floods of tears at the passing of another summer.

Never mind Thursday, there’s also the small matter of Wednesday 5^th to discuss. Remember back to February 1^st when True Faith ran a night at the Irish Club where a load of journalists, and Martin Hardy, pontificated about the fortunes of Newcastle United after another transfer window of inactivity? Obviously, I didn’t go; Mogwai were on at Northumbria and that’s where the cool kids were. On September 5^th, they’ll be at the clash of the North Tyneside non-league titans when Benfield host Whitley Bay. The alternative is hunkering down for another evening of righteous chest-thrashing and charity shop demagoguery as the creaking edifice of the Magpie Group has called a public meeting to discuss the next steps forward in their faltering campaign to save Newcastle United. As they believe Ashley is to blame for the current plight of the club and not Benitez, I won’t be with them in spirit either; unless they adopt a policy of boycotting games, when I’ll stand with them, giving critical support. I said last time around that the only stances I could admire were the absolutists practising absenteeism and the apoliticals still attending. I mentioned NUFC.com as principled examples of the latter; perhaps it didn’t go down too well with Friends of Martin Hardy, as Mike Bolam pointedly blanked me outside Platform 2 in Tynemouth Station (if you’ve not been; go immediately as the beer’s brilliant) last Thursday. Who can tell? 

As far as the Magpie Group is concerned, it appears that in their wish to serve the wishes and agenda of all their constituent parts, they are suffering what Freud and Lacan referred to as the narcissism of small differences. Freud initially posited that the collective narcissism of those involved in what is ostensibly a group task or relationship, will inevitably result in manifestations of aggression. Lacan refined this theory to include the presence of envy, essentially defining passive aggression, as well as suggesting this can be measured on an intragroup conflict scale.

Certainly, Lacan’s thinking explains why these boys made a hell of a mess when trying to organise a demonstration outside Sports Direct and a flag waving march from The North Terrace, three hours and one hour respectively, before the Chelsea game. A fortnight before, the demonstration before the Spurs game had been loud, well-attended and impressive, despite the presence of the usual half dozen Leninist headcases from Taaffe’s SPEW Vanguard trying to organise some sort of mass workers’ movement. Unfortunately, Walter Benjamin’s prophecy in Das Kunstwerk im Zeitalter seiner technischen Reproduzierbarkeit came true on a soaking Sunday, when an accurate reproduction of the initial experience before Spurs failed spectacularly, as Guy De Bord would no doubt agree.  The fact it lashed it down all day is probably why Newcastle fans showed themselves to be Fairweather Revolutionaries and conspicuously blanked the event. The failed protest wasn’t the worst thing about that day, neither was Yedlin’s unfortunate own goal that snatched a precious point away. The very worst thing was the absolute low life who stole the “Pavel is a Geordie” flag at full time. I’m no particular lover of flags, but that banner was one of the very few things every NUFC bought into, as it remembered a late, lamented terrace hero. Whoever stole it ought to be absolutely ashamed of their conduct. Thank goodness it has been returned.

Now I’m not saying the calamitous decrease in protestors on Northumberland Street when compared to the Spurs game was comparable to the fact the Pope’s simultaneous Phoenix Park gig attracted a million less Holy Joes, devout cripples and clericofascist nutters than the 1979 tour had, but there are similarities. While accepting that, of course, Leeds and Everton would have taken more, the smaller than anticipated showing of Holy Sight Seers at Phoenix Park wasn’t because of a fear of encountering Emmett Stagg in the Jax, but because the Catholic Church hasn’t had a great last 40 years in Ireland, to be frank. The situation, as a result of the 26 counties pretty much abandoning the Mother Church has resulted in a society that is considerably more tolerant, inclusive and multi-ethnic than the 6 counties, can’t be ignored. Religion, except among the culchies, is dying. Observance and obsequiousness are gone; they have been replaced by the great symphony of indifference. While 200K delusional taigs assembled to hear Pope Francis blether on, about 30,000 assembled to protest about historical sexual abuse by the Catholic Church and the Tuam Baby Home scandal. This is not an inconsiderable number of those seeking to finally gain justice for the appalling crimes of the church, which were compounded by organisational indifference and obfuscation, but the cold, hard fact is far, far more Irish citizens sat on their backsides and watched it on the telly than worshipped or demonstrated. The Magpie Group would do well to note this and not assume the presence of a definite majority of unquestioning opposition to Ashley’s ownership among the support as a whole.

This week is a brief period of respite for those concerned with Newcastle United. In the Premier League, the team sit in 18^th, the final relegation spot that they last occupied at New Year. After 4 games, the team have lost 2-1 on three separate occasions, scoring brilliant consolation goals in each game and doing their very best to ensure damage limitation. To an extent, it has worked. There have been few grumbles about the losses to Spurs, Chelsea and Manchester City; this tolerance will be tested if the visit of Arsenal, who appear to be managed by Dave Vanian’s body double, results in a defeat on 15^th September. At least that game won’t be on television, unlike the 5 winless performances before the international break.

While losing to the stellar trio by a single goal is excusable, the more significant debacles were the ones at Cardiff and Nottingham Forest. In South Wales, the whole rancid afternoon could have been saved if Kenedy had scored the penalty, but his miss summed up a catastrophic 90 minutes that preceded it. The Forest game saw a stonewall penalty waved away in the last seconds, but even if it had been awarded and scored, the shameful way Karanka’s side outperformed even NUFC player apart from the superb Sean Longstaff needs to be recognised. In both games, an utter lack of any attacking intent or pattern of play resulted in a furious response on social media. Most angry hot heads somehow extrapolated that Ashley was to blame for the team’s inadequate displays, though finally the penny seems to have dropped among a growing section of the support that Benitez’s dinosaur tactics may just be a factor to why we’re doing so badly. Of course, any criticism of Benitez was shouted down in immoderate language.

Jacques Derrida called this one best; his theory of “phallogocentrism,” a theory that combined the dual concepts of “logocentrism” and “phallocentrism,” refers to the privileging of the masculine (phallus) in the construction of meaning. Derrida’s phallogocentric argument is premised on the claim that modern Western culture has been culturally and intellectually subjugated by logocentrism, the philosophy of determinateness, while phallocentrism is the way logocentrism itself has been genderised by a phallic and patriarchal agenda.

In the current time, this means the narrative of blame regarding Newcastle United has been railroaded by loud, male voices to apportion all responsibility to Mike Ashley. As an aside, David Ryle’s photos of the degeneration of SJP that went viral on social media point to a clear lack of investment in the club’s infrastructure, where responsibility must be Ashley’s. This is apodictic or determinate knowledge; the visual evidence is compelling and could not be contradicted. In short, this is truth.

Unfortunately, in matters of interpretation, the situation is more complex as the spectre of indeterminateness becomes relevant. According to Derrida indeterminate or aporetic knowledge is "based on contradictory ideas ("aporias") that make it impossible to determine matters of truth with any degree of certitude, because the “facts,” such as they are, are open to contradictory interpretations.  In short, blaming Mike Ashley for Newcastle United’s current position in the table is as logical an interpretation of “facts” as blaming Benitez. “Truth,” as far as it can be defined in aporetic terms, is based on opinion when it is indeterminate.

Returning to apodictic analysis; it is clear that Newcastle United’s current situation may get even worse unless Benitez can put his own agenda to one side and attempt to fashion a decent team out of the constituent parts of his squad.