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.