The Great Learning

It's half term this week. For 30 years I enjoyed the Autumn break more than any other. This time I've been up to Glasgow to see Teenage Fanclub at the Barras with Ben; stunning as you'd expect. However, I'm back in to my new non-teaching job tomorrow and, as the responses to the questions I was asked recently about why I left education indicate, that is no problem for me.

What are your thoughts about the current education system?

Goodness. Where do I begin? Well, it’s important to point out all the opinions I’m about to express have been shaped by 30 years in teaching, the first decade in secondary schools and the past 20 years in Further Education. Importantly, it should be noted that throughout my entire career, I have been a union activist, initially for NASUWT and then UCU (as well as its predecessor NATFHE), so I’ve gained considerable insight into the evolving situation regarding education at both macro and micro levels. Additionally, I’m a parent who has overseen my son progress from Reception Class to the successful completion of a Master’s degree. Consequently, I feel I’m taking from an informed perspective.

Basically I’ve long held the belief that the only part of the education system that is fit for purpose in this country, despite the unnecessary and unwelcome meddling by moronic politicians, is the Primary sector. Until the age of 11, regardless of socio economic factors, our children are given a world class grounding in a broad and balanced curriculum which, despite the unnecessary preponderance of tests and league tables, is delivered by some of the finest and most dedicated professionals anywhere on the planet. Constantly I am in awe as to the quality of education passed down by these selfless, indefatigable heroes who spend their working lives trying to give every child a chance in life, though they are utterly powerless to stem the raging torrent of reality that is around the corner once secondary schools are in place.

Regardless of exam results, tables of achievement and whatever mountain of data they accumulate, secondary schools in England are an utter disgrace. Huge, shiny jails for the working classes. Many of the new builds are the size of airports, while almost all are obsessively regimented, quasi militaristic institutions, focussed almost exclusively on forcing young people to abandon any notions of intellectual curiosity or personal growth, instead expecting unquestioning obedience to a series of inflexible, petty and irrational rules that would not be out of place in Sandhurst or Wormwood Scrubs. Teachers, taking a lead from the blinkered orthodoxies of senior management, are forced to adopt unsmiling, military bearing, presumably insisting on silence as most of the curriculum for years 7 to 11 inclusive seems to consist of teach, test, correct, repeat in an attempt to instil the ability to pass GCSE at Grade 4 or above in a Pavlovian fashion, without ever questioning if such an approach is in the best interests of students or not. Thought, nurture and the opportunity to explore are all absent from secondary schools, and that is a crying shame. It means that good teachers, as opposed to social inadequates on a power trip, become marginalised and isolated; driven to jaded cynicism as a coping mechanism to deal with the forced conformity instilled from above.

Further Education used to be one of the great examples of positive social engineering that this country was blessed to share with the world. Leisure time education, together with self-improvement via higher qualifications, for continuing or returning learners, kept the minds of so many ordinary working class people stimulated. Sadly the laudable Blairite vision of the widening participation agenda that built upon this heritage was dashed upon the rocks of austerity after 2010. It no longer exists in any meaningful form. Since then, the chronic underfunding of colleges has resulted in the sector not being fit for purpose. Buildings are falling down and the teaching staff are on their knees; worn out by ever more unrealistic demands of monomaniacal senior managers and their simpering, camp guard underlings in middling roles.

Having spent 15 wonderful years teaching Access to Education, giving second chances to people whose lives and social circumstances had denied them a first one, I despair at the death of such courses. Colleges are on the educational equivalent of a life support machine, delivering an ever smaller array of BTEC courses at Levels 1, 2 and 3, where the sole motivation for getting each learner through is the bounty on each head. Consequently, bullying senior managers coerce weak and inadequate middle managers into begging overworked and disenchanted teaching staff to collude in widespread educational fraud. The number of learners who quit college in November, but still pass their BTEC in June would be laughable if it were not criminal. If learners don’t leave of their own volition, there’s no chance they’ll be kicked out. I’ve known of colleagues who’ve had learners throw tables and chairs at them, but not be kicked out because “it would reflect badly on our success rates.” It’s absolutely sickening.

Looking at Universities, it appears that the £9k a year each learner pays in fees means that they get superb support and genuinely concerned tutors. Unfortunately, the £5k it costs to do an MA means the lower fees sees an attendant drop in levels of concern by admittedly overworked tutors, who can appallingly still behind the mask of autonomous postgrads taking ownership of their own learning.

As a former teacher, what was the main reason for leaving the profession?

As I said, I’d spent 15 years teaching adults, but when that provision was almost entirely swept away by government austerity, I still needed to work to pay my son through his degree. After a decade and a half of discussing Shakespeare, T.S. Eliot, ee cummings, Alice Munro, James Joyce and Cormac McCarthy with some of the finest people I’ve ever had the pleasure to know, let alone teach, I was redeployed to teach Functional Skills literacy in the Department of Care, Sport and Leisure.  It was like putting a brain surgeon in charge of a box of sticking plasters. The government’s idiotic policy of making all learners under 19 continuously resit English and Maths until they passed GCSE (Grade C in the old system; level 4 in the new one) meant I had an inexhaustible torrent of serial failures to deal with.

Probably half of them were a bit miffed at having to do this qualification, but saw the value in getting a C if they wanted an apprenticeship or a place at university. About a quarter were so docile they just did what you asked them to do, albeit slowly and without enthusiasm. The remainder were feral lunatics; almost entirely Health and Social Care harridans of some stamp. Indulged and feared by the simpering, mendacious layabouts who were their tutors, these Beverley Allitts and Myra Hindleys in waiting were utterly unteachable. Often it wasn’t their fault; catastrophic family backgrounds and an almost obligatory medical condition involving foetal alcohol syndrome, ADD, ADHD and general, inborn shithousery combined to make them an absolute nightmare. I hated them and I held their weak, feckless, lying subject tutors in utter contempt. However, my deepest disgust was focussed on the evil senior managers and their quisling underlings I’d once called colleagues, who’d engineered their own cushy numbers at my expense; they were to blame for my talents being wasted. Once it became clear that voluntary redundancy was on offer, I grasped the opportunity with both hands. Despite being driven to the gig economy and Universal Credit to try and make ends meet, not to mention humiliating trips to the food bank, I’ve not regretted it for one single second since.

In recent years did you find there was ever more pressure on you inside and outside the classroom?

If pressure means volume of work then the answer is no. From the moment I started working in FE, I have spent a minimum of 50 hours a week attempting to keep on top of things. However, at first there was a sense of gratitude for what you’d done. If pressure means emotional blackmail, then the answer is a resounding yes. Initially, the pressure was on getting learners to achieve the results they needed for university and to demonstrate “distance travelled” in terms of exceeding expectations. This was particularly irritating between 2003-2005 when my boss was the single most loathsome individual I’ve ever encountered; to the extent I blocked her from sending me emails. However, with Access for Education, the pressure was mainly to retain learners, as well as the annual drive to enrol sufficient numbers. The endless bellyaching by senior management about retention was never something OFSTED or partner HE institutions were bothered about; adult students have more life changing events than teenagers. People move for jobs, have kids, end relationships, become ill and suffer bereavements; any of that happens and you’ll put things on hold to get through your day to day job. Anyone who isn’t a fucking moron, or a College Senior Manager, understands that.

Attendance issues were solved by managers filling out registers incorrectly, resulting in retention staying sky high. Success and pass rates were massaged by the fraudulent use of IV and EV procedures, photocopying model assignments from the past and bare faced lies. Slightly harder to manage when you’ve got external exams, but possible if you get Learner X to take his Level 1 Functional Skills exam 6 times in an academic year, all on-line, so he learns how to pass it by Pavlovian osmosis. Pressure was also ramped up with the kind of micromanagement and surveillance that would not have been out of place in 1960s Leipzig.

In 2017, 81% of teachers said they had considered leaving the profession; are you surprised by this statistic?

Not at all, but I often wonder at what stage in their careers those expressing thoughts of leaving were at. When I first started, I hated the job because I couldn’t do it well enough. After a couple of years, I loved it, because I’d learned how to do it properly. You see, back in the 80s, we didn’t do in school training the way they do now, we spent the first term debating Marxian educational theory, the second term on teaching practise and the third poncing around Leeds University gardens, acting out a third wave feminist interpretation of Taming of the Shrew when we weren’t sinking pints in The Fenton. Hence, you could say I wasn’t really prepared for the likes of Angela Bell, Shaun Porter and Colin Walker; the thought of who, thirty years on, still brings me out in a cold sweat.

If it is older teachers who express a desire to leave, then I’m even less surprised as I’ve long believed that almost all teachers, in marathon running parlance, hit the wall in their mid-50s. You simply can’t do it any longer and it’s almost a cruel and unusual punishment to expect someone to deal with the impossible workload of an FE teacher. Remember, the top of the FE pay scale is a minimum of £7k less than the same spot on the school scale, not to mention a working week that is (nominally) 2.5 hours longer and 10 less days holiday per annum. Of course, we shouldn’t forget the truism that almost every teacher you’ll ever meet is a moaning twat.

Science, Maths, MFL and IT are the subjects which have the most severe shortages of teachers; do you think there is any specific explanation why these subjects are struggling?

I don’t know enough about the specifics of secondary school staffing to be able to comment, but I’d imagine it is because graduates in those disciplines can make considerably more money in the private sector than in education, without such minor inconveniences as being told to fuck off several times a day by 11 year olds. As a Chemistry teacher in my first job told me; “schools would be wonderful places to work, if it weren’t for kids and managers.”

Working Class

Taken from issue #10 of View from the Allotment End, published on Non League Day, here's my take on my trip to Workington with Benfield and how it prompted thoughts of my dear, departed mate Ken Sproat -:

I’ve never liked my first name. Were I to have been given the choice, Joe is the appelation I’d have gone for. As it is, I’ve often used only the initial instead, hoping to hoodwink people into believing I was actually an Isembard, an Ichabod or an Ignatius. By contrast, I really like my surname, partly on account of its rarity value, meaning I’ve endured half a century of misspellings and inaccurate pronunciation, but mainly because every single Cusack in the south of Tyne area phone book while I was growing up, could be back traced to either Henry, Dan or Tom; my grandfather and his two brothers who arrived on Tyneside from County Cork in the early 1930s.

When broadband internet and smart phones changed our lives forever, one of the first things to be jettisoned were address books; those cumbersome, hardback, alphabetised volumes of scribblings, crossings-out and inaccurately recorded personal details. Instead, data harvested from the Royal Mail’s website provided a reliable source of post codes. Once, in search of a relative’s business address (builders if you’re asking; we’re Paddies remember), I accidentally discovered the existence of a Cusack Close in south west London. Further delving provided me with the useless but intriguing knowledge that another street to bear my surname was Cusack Crescent in Workington and this is where the story really begins.

In the 1970s, the local ITV station for our region was the clearly defined Tyne Tees organisation, covering an area from the Scottish border to North Yorkshire and as far inland as the Pennines, where the Border TV franchise took control of the airwaves. The Beeb did things differently, as BBC North East was a geographical misnomer, on account of Cumbria being part of our region as far as Auntie was concerned. Probably because the Auld Fella tried to be properly English and not an Arran sweater wearing yahoo belting out Clancy Brothers and Dubliners songs, except when in drink, we were a BBC news family. The result of this was I developed a degree of affection for Carlisle United and Workington football teams, as they got a mention during Friday and Monday sport bulletins. This didn’t happen among ITV families; mates at school who watched Tyne Tees (generally ones living in social housing) had no interest in the fortunes of Whitehaven or Workington Town rugby league sides either, because they’d never even heard of them. In many ways I wish I’d been a couple of years older, so I could have remembered if Barrow’s demotion from the football league in 1972 had received a mention on Look North; I suspect not, as the rugby league team were seemingly too far away even for BBC North East’s purposes.

Workington, like Alnwick in Northumberland and Sedgefield in Durham, continues to host an ancient free-for-all annual game of proto football, which is called “Uppies and Downies” in Cumbrian parlance. As Alnwick have, for the second time, been relegated from the Northern League and Sedgefield don’t have a senior team, it seems that these charmingly violent and anachronistic mass outdoor scrimmages each Shrove Tuesday are the natural sport for those three settlements. It would be hard to argue otherwise, especially after the events of 1977. Association football was introduced to Workington in the 1860s by economic migrants from Dronfield in Derbyshire, close to modern football’s Sheffield cradle, known as “Dronnies,” but the first Workington club went out of existence around 1910. The current outfit were formed in 1921 and joined the Football League in 1951, replacing New Brighton, being managed by such notable figures as Bill Shankly, Joe Harvey and Keith Burkinshaw, though the nearest the Reds had to glory years were under the stewardship of Ken Furphy. He led Workington to their only promotion to Division 3 in 1964, a League Cup quarter final the year after and their highest ever finishing position of 5^th in 1966. Sadly for the Reds, Furphy moved on to Watford that summer and the year after Workington plummeted back to the basement, where they were to spend their last decade as a league club, with the final 4 campaigns seeing them prop up the table.

Back in the days before automatic promotion and relegation, the bottom 4 sides in Division 4 and any non-league club who fancied giving it a go, put themselves forward for election at the Football League’s AGM, generally held at the Café Royal the night before the FA Cup final. Generally, a kind of protective cartel maintained the status quo, but a definite bias against the inaccessible bits of the north west could be discerned. Firstly, Barrow were replaced by Hereford in 1972, then five years later, Workington were voted out of the league, to be replaced by Wimbledon, who are now known as MK Dons of course. In response to the fateful vote, Look North had a feature on the repercussions for Workington the following week, where it was revealed that the trophy cabinet at Borough Park held a replica of the Jules Rimet trophy, presented by FIFA to all 92 league clubs in 1966 and a runners-up snooker trophy won by the Supporters’ Club three years previous. It would have been hilarious if it hadn’t been so tragic.

The next year, 1978, Newcastle United suffered relegation and we went on a family holiday to Llandudno. I was 14. I didn’t want to be there. I was a monumental pain in the arse the whole time. In fact, only one thing, or one person actually, lifted my mood the entire time. Sharing the hotel was a cigar-smoking, wise-cracking, rubicund little boozer by the name of Tom Meldrum. He was an undertaker, strangely enough, but also the chairman of Workington AFC.  While he spent most nights in the bar, regaling the gathered crowd with his less than diplomatic comments about the football establishment who he felt had traduced his club, with especial ire visited upon former boss Keith Burkinshaw as Spurs, where he was manager, were Wimbledon’s main sponsors. While I’d guess Keith had the signings of Ardiles and Villa on his mind more than the fortunes of his isolated old team, I took the point. Tom Meldrum was great company, though strangely unattractive to mine eyes. He did have a stunningly beautiful blonde daughter called Anne, who I fell head over heels in love with and spent the week pitifully pursuing, until she administered the coup de grace on the last night of our respective vacations by being spotted in a passionate clinch on the promenade in the arms of the hotel dogsbody, Gareth; a six foot, muscular, sixth form rugby player who washed glasses and waited tables. Frankly, I can understand her choice…

Subsequently, Workington didn’t cross my mind until the early 1990s when, as a devoted and inveterate fanzine reader and contributor, I used to scour the columns of every issue of When Saturday Comes for new publications.  One time I saw a listing for Nothing Borough Park Team; hailing from the unlikely source of Bournville, Birmingham, it was a publication dedicated to Workington AFC. I bought the first issue, read it and, as is my wont to this day, submitted an article. It was entitled (Not The) Summer of Love, told the tale of my thwarted passion for fair Anne and appeared in issue #2. As I contributed to dozens of fanzines in those pre-internet days, it was hard to keep in touch without the convenience of electronic communication, though I did sit up and take notice when Blyth Spartans hosted Workington in April 1994, on one of those blank FA Cup weekends we fans of Newcastle United have got used to over the years. My mate Ken Sproat was the official club historian at Spartans, so I went to the game with him. Blyth won this Northern Premier League game quite comfortably 3-1 and I didn’t see any sign of the editorial board from NBPT. Of course, I didn’t let this no-show discourage me and I rapidly wrote another article for them, sent it off and duly received a copy of issue #3 a few months later in time for season 1994/1995. Sadly, during a recent campaign to declutter and catalogue my printed memorabilia, I was unable to locate NBPT #3 anywhere, though I do recall it was advertised as being the final edition. Undoubtedly this is why I sought to make no record of my next encounter with Workington.

Ken, as well as loving Spartans, had a soft spot for Bedlington Terriers from the Northern League, having bought his first property in the former pit village. Consequently, when Terriers went on a run to the second round of the FA in 1997/1998, including a 4-1 hammering of Colchester United at the magnificently titled Doctor Pit Welfare Ground, then claimed a place trip in the FA Vase final the year after. having bested a home quarter final with Workington, Ken deserted his post at Croft Park for some inverse glory hunting. Workington brought 600 fans. However, Terriers won 1-0 and eventually went to Wembley, where they lost the final 1-0 to holders Tiverton Town who’d seen off Tow Law Town, also of the Northern League, the year before, but no matter. These were Bedlington’s good times.

 Workington have had good, bad and indifferent times these past couple of decades. Certainly, they’ve started 2018/2019 slowly, which is why I was reasonably confident when my beloved Newcastle Benfield, having already disposed of fellow Northern League Division 1 sides, 2018 FA Vase runners-up Stockton Town and the original World Cup winners of 1909, West Auckland, drew the Reds in the First Qualifying Round of the FA Cup. The game took place on Saturday 8^th September at our Sam Smith’s Park in front of 301 punters. A tight game of few chances; we looked up against it when Niall Cowperthwaite fired in after a scramble on 57 minutes. However, Benfield never lie down, and we grabbed a vital equaliser on 77 minutes when Dale Pearson raced onto a Paul Brayson cross and lashed the loose ball home. We could have won it after that but didn’t and so it a long journey by coach on the Tuesday following was the order of the day.

In true step 6 style, a 53-seat coach of players, committee and fans set off westward at 3.30 in the afternoon, across the A69 and into the teeth of the Cumbrian rush hour on the A595, where it took longer from Carlisle to Workington than the rest of the journey. We parked up at 6.30. The players went to warm up. The fans went to the bar. The committee were royally entertained by a wonderful club in the jewel of their delightful old ground; The Shankly Lounge of Borough Park. It wasn’t just a cuppa and a biccy for hospitality; Workington provide visitors with a full cooked meal, recognising the distances that away teams have to travel. They’re great people as well; genuinely friendly, open and interested in our club.

Just before kick-off, we stepped out into the aged, atmospheric decaying grandeur of Borough Park, where almost 500 had gathered on scarlet hued, brick-built terraces, where 3 sides remain under cover. Our hosts ushered us to the away section of the Directors’ Box, behind the dug-out, then reminded us to pop in at half time for a hot drink; essential on a blustery Cumbrian night, where the early stages were played out to a cacophonous soundtrack of skeins of vituperative, migrating geese. As far as the game is concerned, we went 2-0 down in 9 minutes, steadied the ship, conceded a third just after the break, came back from the dead with 2 rapid goals on the hour, missed a gilt-edged chance to draw level, let in 2 calamities as we pushed forward and grabbed a final consolation in the last seconds to lose 5-3. It was a hell of a game and no disgrace to have lost it to a team 2 steps higher in the football pyramid. Certainly, it had been the sort of game that would have graced Non-League Day, though I remained strangely detached from the events that had unfolded.

Workington 5 Benfield 3 took place on Tuesday September 11^th, 2018; 17 years to the day since the horrific events at the World Trade Centre in New York. However, the date will forever resonate with me because of the tragic news I received the day before. You see, whenever I think of Workington AFC, I will always think of Ken, because he took his life on Monday 10^th September 2018, aged only 54, on what was designated World Suicide Prevention Day. There had been no signs, no warnings, nothing tangible. He’d been at Kidderminster to watch Spartans on the Saturday. I’d meant to text him on Sunday to mention I was finally off to Borough Park, but it was my partner’s birthday and we went for a few pints, watching Tynemouth CC 2nds winning a cup final, so I didn’t get around to it. Could I have prevented the tragic events on the Monday? Almost certainly not, but I’ll always take the time to contact friends in future, just to make sure.

Regardless of whether it’s 9/11, Non-League Day, World Suicide Prevention Day, whether Spartans, Bedlington or Workington are playing or not, I’ll always take time out to think of my mate Ken Sproat, as well as his widow Janine and daughter Bethan. He was a great bloke. You’d have loved him.

Supper's Ready

I’m sure many of you will have seen my recent posts about the dire financial situation I found myself in at the end of September. This cashflow crisis was caused partly by Barclays suddenly withdrawing all my borrowing facilities as I was claiming Universal Credit and partly as a result of the cumulative effect of the DSS suspending Laura’s ESA in August 2017 after unilaterally declaring her fit for work, meaning she had zero income for 14 months, though thankfully she won her appeal and will get backdated benefits. However, the most compelling reason we were left so financially bereft is the conduct of my former friend, the sociopathic trainee probation officer David Caisley. As many of you may know from his insistence on living out all of his life’s domestic and professional failures on social media, when his ex-partner finally threw him out, once she could no longer tolerate his binge drinking and compulsive lying, as well as the attendant financial and emotional abuse that is his signature sociopathic conduct, back in February, I gave him a roof over his head when he was effectively homeless. While he wasn’t working, I never charged him a penny for bills or rent, until he started work. He always paid in arrears and so the last money I had from him was on 31^st July. He moved out, giving no notice, at the end of August, owing me over £500.  I’m not saying the money would have kept Laura and I on easy street, but life would not have been as hard with it as without it. Most of all I’m saddened that I’ve been taken for a fool by someone who I helped at his lowest ebb and have lost someone I used to regard as a very close friend. If ever you consider helping him out, remember the man is a liar, a fraud, a narcissist and a sociopath, who thinks only of his own needs and not of the consequences of his actions or the subsequent, enduring impact on victims. It’s a short memory he’s been cursed with; back at the turn of the year when he’d done 28 bottles of red wine in 3 days, we turned up with both a full English breakfast and steak pie and chips to ensure he ate something for the first time in 72 hours. Still, as the Irish proverb states, eaten bread is soon forgotten.

As a result of this series of unfortunate events, I was left with effectively no cash or access to any. Lacking any other viable options, I threw myself on the mercy of the dole and was relieved, though deeply humiliated, to be referred to the Newcastle East Food Bank. Having collected my big, red voucher from Byker Job Centre, I headed for the collection point at the Happy Clappy Church at the bottom of Heaton Road that used to be the bingo. Taking my place in the queue behind a desperate, newly homeless family, a recently displaced single mother from the South East (judging by her accent) and a Byker granny with a pair of grandbairns in a push chair, I had my credentials checked by one of the zealous volunteers from the Elim New Life Mission. All of us cowed by his radiant, unquestioning faith and united by our collective crime of being poor, we accepted our gifts of shower gel and toothpaste, before heading upstairs to collect our food parcels.

Luckily, I’d brought my rucksack and, on entering the room and accepting a free coffee with a slice of homemade date and walnut cake, I handed it over to be filled with tinned and dried goods. I took a seat and one of the volunteers, who was not a religious zealot, took time out to check how I was doing. Frankly I was feeling very emotional and this superficial chat put me at my ease. Certainly, I could see how this brief segment of social interaction would be a great help to some of the more vulnerable clients, though I’d hope the religious nutters aren’t unscrupulous enough to use such circumstances as a way to groom those at their lowest ebb, in the way the Leninist loonies in SPEW used to do outside dole offices in the 80s. That said, once my fortunes are restored, this is exactly the sort of community enterprise I’d love to get involved with as a volunteer. It’s absolutely appalling that Caisley’s conduct forced me there as a one-off, but it’s even more of a disgrace that ordinary, normal people are required to use such services in this day and age. Mind, if that bastard Michael Gove thinks scavenging on the council dump is an appropriate way for ordinary people to find furniture and clothes, we’ve probably not hit rock bottom as yet.

After around 10 minutes my rucksack was returned, clearly full to the brim with foodstuffs. I gave my thanks and headed home. Once back in the house, I emptied the goods on the kitchen table and took stock -:

Radox shower gel

Colgate toothpaste

1 litre semi-skimmed UHT milk

1 litre dilutable orange

Box of plain Oats so simple

Packet of custard creams

Microwavable Bulgar rice

Packet of mixed nuts

3 chocolate biscuits

2 packets of crisps

Packet of spaghetti

Packet of macaroni

Jar of Bolognese sauce

2 tins of baked beans

2 tins of chopped tomatoes

Tin of peaches

Tin of new potatoes

Tin of butter beans

Tin of chicken and mushroom soup

Tin of beef and vegetable soup

Tin of sardines

Tin of hot dogs

Tin of chopped pork

Perhaps not the most exciting of weekly shops, redolent either of the kind of stuff people used to take on camping holidays in the early 80s or what I’d buy as a student, without the accompanying trays of bevvy of course, but solid and filling. Frankly, if I’d known what was in store I’d have opted for the vegetarian option as there’s no way, on grounds of personal taste, I could eat any of those 3 final items. I didn’t get to sample the custard creams either, as Ben spirited them away. What I did make with some of the ingredients, perhaps predictably, was a vat of veggy pasta slop, adding olives, onions, garlic, mushrooms and far too much black pepper I had kicking around the cupboard. Close your eyes, breathe in and you could be in Sambuca’s, or Rialto in Ponteland, enjoying a spag bol ordinaire and two pints of cooking lager with Mike Ashley and 43 close personal friends.

Ah Newcastle United; what act has the tragicomic pantomime reached in this international break? Well, on the pitch events continue to demonstrate that Benitez is the Noel Gallagher of football management; washed-up, hopeless, irrelevant and turning into an embarrassment. Indeed, his refusal to allow the likes of Freddy Woodman to go out on loan is more akin to something from Josef Ftizl’s parenting manual. A grand total of 1 point, courtesy of an unconvincing non-display at Selhurst Park where Palace spurned half a dozen gilt-edged chances, was harvested from the latest set of fixtures which included timid and predictable home losses to Arsenal and Leicester, where the ponderous sicknote Rondon (aka Slimani II) was hors de combat with some mysterious ailment that really ought to have precluded his signing in the first place, not to mention the five goal tragedy at Old Trafford. Sels, Lazaar, Games, Manquillo, Slimani and now Rondon; with that kind of record in the transfer market you can understand why Ashley keeps his friends close and his wallet closer.

Having widely been predicted as being an unwatchable mess, Mourinho’s Evening of Rehabilitation turned into the game of the season so far, while Liverpool versus Man City stunk the place out. Newcastle enjoyed 70 minutes of untroubled dominance, but a 2-0 lead turned into a desperate late loss as Mourinho kept his job, which is almost as farcical a state of affairs as Benitez keeping his.  At any normal club, things really ought to be hotting up for Benitez, as the newly slimline and frankly rather handsome Mike Ashley has been attending games of late to see El Rey de la Mierda de Toro’s tactical masterclass at first hand.

Without question, Ashley has been a devastatingly malign influence on Newcastle United, but the dinosaur tactics, miserable demeanour, rank incompetence in the transfer market and utter inability to accept any responsibility for the dire situation the team is in must all count against Benitez. The owner saw the abject failure in front of goal against Palace and Leicester; no goals scored, and, in the case of the latter game, a defeat assured the moment the team sheet was submitted. Don’t forget the storm of booing that greeted Benitez’s decision to withdraw Matt Ritchie at that game and the vastly increased numbers of fans who are starting to question the way the manager is going about his job. Many more are starting to see the validity in the “If Rafa stays I go” anti bullshit standpoint.

Contrast the emerging dissatisfaction with Benitez with the rapturous applause Kevin Keegan earned at the Sage on 2^nd October. Alright so Kev has a new autobiography to sell and, regardless of the atrocious treatment he endured at the hands of Ashley and his loathsome henchman, it’s a fairly open secret he only took the NUFC job for the second time as he needed the cash to dig him out of a Soccer Circus sized hole. That said, self-awareness has kicked in at last. He knows he’s a tactical relic and has no aspirations to take a seat in the dug out again. However, and this is important, once Newcastle United are free of the Ashley dictatorship, there is only one viable candidate for the role of club president or ambassador; step forward Joseph Kevin Keegan. Let’s not make the same mistake we did with Bobby Robson; let’s keep our own sort within the family circle.

Now, as regards the queasy-looking Premier League table, I have to tell you there are grounds for minimal optimism. I’ve seen Fulham and Southampton on the telly of late and they are both rubbish, in the same way Huddersfield, Newcastle and the ale house kung fu squad from Cardiff are rubbish. There doesn’t seem to be any conceivable way other relegation candidates will emerge from outwith these 5 and with Newcastle’s games before the next transfer window consisting of Brighton (H), Southampton (A), Watford (H) and Bournemouth (H), any manager worthy of the name should be looking forward to a minimum of 10 points from those games, which should see even a half competent team putting a considerable distance between themselves and the drop zone. Then again, the tactical mastermind that is Benitez oversaw a grand harvest of 2 points from those respective games last year. If we get something similarly modest this time around, start preparing for Saturday evenings sat in front of Quest TV in 2019.

Of course, the real story about Newcastle United has very little to do with the team on the pitch and everything about the politics and personalities away from the ground. Back on 5^th September, The Magpie Group held an open meeting in The Labour Club, which drew a crowd significantly smaller than Benfield against Whitley Bay on the same night. A surprisingly chummy Martin Hardy managed to do both events, joining his bosom pal Angry Mike Bolam, the ferocious fence-sitting CEO of nufc.com, at Sam Smith’s Park for the second half. This time around, the latest Magpie Group summit on 3^rd October attracted less of an audience than made it to Blue Flames for the Under 21s the night after, or indeed the meek entourage who were breaking bread with Ashley and Benitez at the Ponteland Diners Club. Fair play to the Fenham educated Flying Column who countermanded the 11 potential courses of action being voted on at the Labour Club, which would probably have put up more of a fight against Leicester at SJP than the shower Benitez sent out, raising the protest stakes by incoherently shouting clichés at a restaurant rather than a shop. I doubt those who’ve paid north of £350k for a gaffe in Newcastle’s answer to Bel Air appreciated having a load of scruffs from Jesmond Vale shouting and bawling until yon time on a school night. To be honest, the Spaghetti House Siege got better coverage and caused less hilarity than footage of that bladdered Mackem berating the Jimmy Hill statue outside the Ricoh Arena. Let’s be clear about this though; many, if not all, blocks of basalt deserve a good telling off for their recalcitrance.

Ashley, despite being unmercifully hectored during his tea, was painted as the bad guy for sticking 2 fingers up at the stormy petrels from Strawberry Place, through the back window of his departing limousine. Personally, I think it’s fair enough to react like that if you’ve been jostled in an intimidatory fashion after a night out. The way that Ashley disappointed me was because he didn’t act decisively to make this Benitez’s Last Supper by giving him a P45 for his just desserts. Of course, it could simply be it isn’t ready to hand out yet, as the content has been decided on, rather like the minutes of the latest Fans’ Forum.

NUST are up in arms about these minutes, as they apparently had someone record the meeting surreptitiously and what was said on the night supposedly doesn’t fit with the published version. According to the latest co-ordinated, ad hominem social media onslaught, which is starting to resemble a cyber Lord of the Flies, this is somehow all the fault of the ludicrously over promoted Lee Marshall, decent bloke that he is. The poor lad probably has nowt to do with this whole affair, as the timorous, cowering Charnley is probably passing all this sort of stuff up the line to Keith Bishop’s Ministry of Information for Ashley approved Stalinist rewrites. Of course, truth is the first casualty of a cyber war and the fact Lee Marshall is wholly innocent of the spurious accusations thrown at him makes no difference to the angry brigade. I did notice in the minutes that Peter Fanning of NUST had tendered his apologies for the meeting in question, which is what probably caused the delay as he was the bright lad who broke the embargo on the minutes of the inaugural FF meeting all those years ago and consequently had an unapologetic NUST expelled,  profoundly damaging fan relations and relationships with each other and the club.

True Faith organised another one of those ten quid a pop press pow wows at the Irish Club for Thursday 11^th October, with the money going to the West End Food Bank, in the wake of the most vicious of the Twitter blitzkrieg against Lee Marshall. Unbelievably, it seems that, despite the utter disgust of several senior members of the Magpie Group, there is no public acceptance of misconduct or wrongdoing in the campaign against Lee Marshall. Being frank,  it is more than a crying shame that Wallace Wilson, chair of the Magpie Group and seemingly a glove puppet for True Faith, has neither apologised to Lee nor distanced himself from the actions of a few mindless morons. Unless he does, he should be compelled to resign or be forcibly removed from his position in the Magpie Group, lest it fall victim to the ideological bombast of True Faith. 

Meanwhile, after last Saturday’s Non-League Day undoubtedly passed by the consciousness of 99% of those who regularly rock up to SJP to pay tribute to Ashley’s Empire of the Senseless, the lasting legacy of his and Benitez’s incompetence is that the coming game against returning hero Chris Hughton’s Brighton is the lower profile and less appealing game on Tyneside this Saturday, lagging far behind the Dunston versus Gateshead FA Cup clash that the BBC are showing on the red button. I said after last December’s dire 0-0 when Brighton were last in town that I’d not be returning to SJP while Benitez remained in charge. I’d imagine a significant number of others will have come round to my way of thinking if the result goes against Newcastle this weekend. It’s just a shame that the umbrella organisation to harness all displeasure and frustration among NUFC fans has been hijacked by True Faith for their own ends.

Ashley OUT! Benitez OUT! Wilson OUT!

The Anxious Men

While it is tempting to write another article about the debacle that is Newcastle United, it pays to be patient. Instead, here's my article about Premier League keepers from the latest issue of Stand AMF -:

Did you get much reading done over the summer then? Personally, I was pleased to revisit a couple of well-thumbed tomes from my bibliophilic past that burst forth from the shelves while I essayed a bout of late spring cleaning that consisted mainly of moving carpeted dust from the bookshelves to the mote-choked, rarefied air in the study. Kurt Vonnegut’s satirical treasury of fantastical speculative short fiction, Welcome to the Monkey House was one, while Peter Handke’s taut, passionless account of a disturbing murder, The Goalie's Anxiety at the Penalty Kick (I have to admit my German isn’t anywhere near adequate enough to read Die Angst des Tormanns beim Elfmeter in the original) was the other. Rather surprisingly I found both works apposite to any convincing analysis of the start of the 2018/2019 Premier League.

As you’d imagine, my attitude towards the highest echelons of the domestic game remains as scornfully contemptuous as ever, but my residual love for Newcastle United means I must, however painfully, take notice of the public relations and sporting fiasco that is Rafa Benitez’s farewell stadium tour whereby, once a week or so, he sends out a team of half decent players he has brainwashed into believing they are useless, to choke the life out of any game, regardless of opposition or location, only to fall to a late, calamitous error, having spent the previous 90 minutes with the handbrake on, scared to cross the halfway line. Of course, such heroic failure enables the master media manipulator to perpetuate the same old screed of hokum in each and every press conference that “we must try but sometimes it is hard, or not possible, to compete,” while the fans grumble impotently about the indifferent, wilfully obstinate owner before handing him the thick end of £700 for a season ticket and £65 for the division’s most expensive replica shirt. Compared to this reality, Vonnegut’s dystopian vision of America in the near future is positively pastoral.

Harrison Bergeron is the stand out story from Welcome to the Monkey House, though I must admit the science fiction elements that seemed so apparent when I first read it about 30 years ago, have been relocated somewhere on the continuum between the plausible and the actual during the intervening period. Frankly, this isn’t a good thing. The story’s set in 2081, when laws dictate that all citizens are fully equal, and nobody is allowed to be smarter, better-looking, or more physically able than anyone else. Diana Moon Glampers, The Handicapper General, and her agents enforce the equality laws, forcing citizens to wear "handicaps" consisting of masks for those who are too beautiful, loud radios that disrupt thoughts inside the ears of intelligent people, and heavy weights for the strong or athletic. Our eponymous hero Harrison Bergeron, an intelligent and athletic teenager, is taken away from his parents by the government.  However Harrison, who is seven feet tall and supremely strong, despite being burdened by three hundred pounds of handicaps, escapes his captors and storms the state-run TV studio, to start a rebellion against the incompetence of uniformity. He declares himself Emperor and rips off all his handicaps.  At this point, Diana Moon Glampers enters the studio and kills Harrison with a ten-gauge double-barrelled shotgun. The television screen goes dark.

Vonnegut, the irascible old nihilist, was initially figured to be poking fun at the loony left concept of to each according to their needs, but he wasn’t. Wreathed in the fug of 80 untipped Camels a day, Kurt was as ever standing up for the odd and eccentric misfits at the margins of our society, who get ground underfoot by the jackboot of compulsory conformity. It’s a resonating image and a hell of an important point to make, especially in the here and now. To me, the story also seems a useful analogy for the Premier League’s bizarre and contrary decision to voluntarily close the transfer window before the season started, despite the fact no other European countries joined in with this supposedly principled stance. We’ve made ourselves equal, by limiting our clubs’ potential for progress and possibly success.

Now you may just remember there was a World Cup this summer, which went on until mid-July, meaning the 2017/2018 season ended after the 2018/2019 one had already started. The real impact of this, other than preventing teams playing friendlies before July 1^st, was that the intensive period of transfer business was squashed into a couple of weeks, like a late booked all-inclusive to Falaraki or some such, resulting in the kind of collective madness that spread like a raging bacterial infection through the guts of the Premier League. There can be no other explanation for deals such as Richarlison being flogged for £50m, which really could be the 21^st Century Steve Daley moment. I’m delighted to say Newcastle United maintained a dignified distance from all this avaricious brouhaha, opting instead to sign the kind of landfill loan signings your average fan wouldn’t recognise if they were begging outside Sports Direct on Northumberland Street.

Meanwhile, The Goalie's Anxiety at the Penalty Kick documents the journey of Josef Bloch as he slowly transitions from a professional goalkeeper to a peripatetic madman. After being sent off for angrily reacting to the award of a penalty kick, Bloch, as you do, leaves the ground and takes a bus to the pictures.  When the film, a Western, is over, he stands in a dark alley opposite, waiting for the cashier to leave. He follows her onto a bus. She appears not to notice him, but when they both get off at the same stop, she allows him to accompany her home where they then have sex. That night, while she sleeps, Bloch inexplicably chokes her to death.

Later, Bloch boards a bus and embarks on a long journey through the countryside. He rides until arriving at the bus terminus, then finds a room at a hotel. The next morning, Bloch takes a newspaper and finds that the mysterious murder of a female cinema cashier is front page news. A cop car drives by, and Bloch becomes visibly worried.

He heads to the local football club and watches a game. Bloch reflects on how hard it is to focus on anything but the ball during a game, and how strange it is to see a goalie running around without the ball involved. A penalty is awarded, and Bloch contemplates the anxiety which runs through a goalie's head before the kick is taken. In this instance, the player gently lobs the penalty straight into the keeper’s hands. The match continues. Bloch watches in silence. The book ends.

When I first read Handke’s book in second year at university, it completely and utterly baffled me and three and a bit decades later it doesn’t make a great deal more sense. Though, as Thibaut Courtois points out, standing between those metal posts can be one hell of a stressful experience, especially when you’ve got a multi-million quid transfer to Real Madrid to orchestrate. I’m sure David De Gea can empathise as well, even if this transfer window was the first one in the entire history of professional football he wasn’t linked with a move to the Bernabeu. In fact, ruinously expensive goalkeepers are the latest go-to bling accessory for football clubs, freshly minted and newly ennobled by the latest TV deal, designed to make everyone in top flight as rich as Croesus and twice as happy as Midas.

So who are wearing the gloves round here? Well, apparently Jurgen Klopp is a massive fan of The Lemonheads and Elvis Costello, which explains why he shelled out £70m on a new keeper whose aim is true. Already it’s clear that Alisson’s starting to happen, though it is a shame about Karius, shipped out to Besiktas after a couple of little episodes in the Champions’ League final. Spurs don’t sign players, as we know, so the retention of the proven or indeed overproof talents of World Cup winner Hugo Lloris is a breathalyser of fresh air; best check what’s in his drinks bottle though.

Meanwhile Chelsea, whose manager Maurizio Sarri has followed Felipe Scolari’s lead by dressing like he drinks in Wetherspoons at 10.00 on a Tuesday morning, have signed a keeper from Athletic Club for £72 called Kepa, which is a little easier to pronounce than Arrizabalaga I’ll admit. Watford change their manager as often as most people change their socks, though the fabulously entertaining antics of Heurelho Gomes between the sticks has had them giggling in the aisles at Vicarage road for half a decade now. He’s even been made vice-captain, though it looks like Javi Gracia is taking things seriously now, by signing the imposing, matinee-idol figure of the statuesque Ben Foster. Unbelievably, he’s 35 now. Who knows where the time goes?

Man City have finally managed to rid themselves of Joe Hart. After a couple of less than stellar years at Torino and West Ham, who decided Łukasz Fabiański, relegated with Swansea last season, would make a better bet, Hart’s made the move to Burnley. He may be head and shoulders (geddit?) below the injured duo of Tom Heaton and Nick Pope, but he’s probably a step up from Adam Legzdins and Anders Lindegaard, who also make up the Clarets’ 5-pronged keeping options. City are happy with Ederson, who gained plaudits for being able to lace the ball 80 yards down field to Aguero against Huddersfield, when the real story was Jonas Lössl having a nervous breakdown in nets and conceding half a dozen soft ones as The Terriers had their pants taken down. Not nice to watch.

Bournemouth still have the unhinged clericofascist headbanger Artur Boruc on the books, locked up in Dean Court’s attic, but stalking the playing squad like Mr Rochester’s insane first wife in Jane Eyre. Thankfully that awfully nice Young Mr Howe plays the considerably more competent Asomir Begovic instead. Leicester still have Kasper Schmeichel (he’s 32 in November you realise?), but they’ve also shelled out £12.5m on someone called Danny Ward who has apparently been on Liverpool’s books for about six years. Never heard of him. I’ve heard of Jordan Pickford and the podgy, shortarsed Mackem with more than a passing resemblance to disgraced Sheffield MP Jared O’Mara, is now the bee’s knees, apparently, after an adequate world cup. Oh whoopee; for £30m Everton would expect someone who could catch the ball as a bare minimum. 

Elsewhere, Arsenal have installed flaxen haired Unai Emery as boss, spending £22m on Bernd Leno as a welcome present, though Petr Cech still gets to be first choice. Down Selhurst way, they respect a loyal custodian; John Jackson was the only keeper the Glaziers had during my boyhood. Julian Speroni finally beat his appearance record last season and, at 39, is happy to be third choice behind Wayne Hennessey and Vicente Guaita, who’s just arrived from Getafe on a free. Fulham no longer have Jim Stannard dropping the ball between his legs or punching it into the net; instead Marcus Bettinelli is first choice. As you’ll no doubt have gathered, he’s an England Under 21 international, but more importantly his old man is the Cottagers’ keeper coach. Bettinelli displaced David Button who is Brighton’s back up for Matt Ryan. Thankfully Chris Hughton saw sense and jettisoned terrible Tim Krul, the Dutch flapper from Tyneside, as third choice. However, he’s brought in Jason Steele who did so well last season at…. Sunderland!!

Southampton have Alex McCarthy as first choice, but Angus (son of Bryan) Gunn has arrived to give back up. Fraser Foster’s still there mind. He doesn’t seem to play anymore. Newly promoted Wolves and Cardiff have differing stories to tell. At Molineux, Portuguese international Rui Patrício is supported by reliable John Ruddy, while in the principality Neil Etheridge, 59 times a Filipino international, is the one making waves and saving pens, while Alex Smithies looks on from the bench.  Finally, Newcastle United have the impressive Slovak Martin Dubravka for league duty, with the agile but nervous Karl Darlow for the two cup games Ashley allows the Magpies to play each year. Perhaps the squad can use up those spare Carabo midweeks and FA Cup Saturdays by getting a few books read themselves…

The Songs of Incoherence & Expedience

October. Summer is over and autumn is here, signified not so much by the presence of Keatsean mists and mellow fruitfulness as the central heating clicking into action to take the chill from mornings that nip and nights when the temperature plummets in the absence of cloud cover. The sun continues to shine, sometimes vigorously, but there is a sombre tinge to the days. The 2018 cricket season is over and will not return; its final act saw Essex (477/8 dec & 134/9) squeeze home at The Oval against champions Surrey (67 & 541) in the kind of breathless, 4-day tragicomedy that enthralled the specific audience who get just what beauty and drama the first class game encapsulates. Obviously this demographic doesn’t include the ECB, who insist on ploughing ahead with the farcical Luddism of this 100 ball franchise fiasco, despite the outright hostility of all who love the game, presumably to satisfy the kind of binge-drinking, dumbed down subcultural morass who find beer snakes and fancy dress to be somehow compatible with domestic and international limited overs games.  Anyway…

2018 saw me attend 48 games, the vast majority at my beloved Tynemouth CC, as well as participate (“play” would be gilding the lily a fraction) in 14 others for my equally beloved, promotion-winning Tynemouth Bad Boys CC. Counting up, I was only able to visit 7 NEPL grounds this year, with Burnopfield my only new one, though I also ticked off nearby Lintz, watching Tynemouth 2nds in the James Bell Cup, not to mention appearing at Heaton Medicals, Bates Cottages, Mitford and Beamish and East Stanley on Bad Boys duty. Next season the NEPL will see 3 new teams, following the resignations of Durham Academy and Seaham Harbour, as well as the expulsion of Brandon for failing to attain the required Clubmark standard. The new arrivals are Ashington, Crook and Shotley Bridge, who join Castle Eden and Willington as places I’ve yet to visit. As regards the midweek league, Tynemouth Bad Boys will be presented with an itinerary that includes trips to Cochrane Park, Cramlington and Percy Main, where I’ve seen football but not cricket and Ulgham.

The final action I experienced at the fag end of the season was on Tuesday September 25^th, after the Southward Equinox had signified the Pagan changing of the seasons, when I took in the second day of Durham’s home game with Middlesex. It seemed a logical way to bookend the last couple of years, as the 2017 season had started with me watching Durham at home to Notts on Good Friday. That game had marked the beginning of Durham’s first campaign back down in the second division after the ECB’s deplorable and vindictive actions of the previous winter. It saw the start of a familiar narrative for the two succeeding seasons; a Durham side that, on paper, should have been able to compete with their marginally stronger opponents, instead weakly capitulate and fall to another supine and unnecessary defeat. This despite the fact day 1 had seen Durham skittle the visitors for 121 and then begin to assemble a useful lead, reaching 278/6 at stumps.

With 10.30 starts and the usual skeleton Northern Rail service, it was an early alarm call that got this Giro Johnny out of his pit and down to the station with a bowl of porridge inside me and a modest thermos of café con leche to combat the climactic intransigence of Ice Station Riverside. The 10.10 train contained the usual smattering of aged county championship eccentrics; either stooped, rake thin and phlegmatic or podgy, rubicund and garrulous, they purposefully wore their rucksacks and fleeces as indicators of their proud involvement in this splendid congregation. We all engaged in our respective slow lopes or comical scurrying to the ground, arriving at 10.43 and being relieved of £15 for the pleasure of seeing the home side dismissed for 310. Typically I’d arrived too late to see Stuart Poynter bat, though I’d also missed his single innings of 145 for Tynemouth against Stockton at the start of September as well. Gareth Harte compiled a pleasing 112, with the seamers Wood, McCarthy and Salisbury all adding support by reaching double figures. The innings ended an over before lunch with a splendid first-baller for Chris Rushworth, who appeared to have closed his eyes and thrown the bat before Tim Murtagh had even delivered the ball, resulting in the 2019 beneficiary gloving it gently to keeper White.

During the interval, I walked the outer perimeter of a ground that remains large, impressive, beautifully maintained (certainly in comparison to the shabby condition of the two major football grounds in our area), susceptible to ferocious, gusting winds and still both far too large and inappropriately located for its purpose. Approximately 1,000 folk, mainly retired, shivered in Spartan conditions and made the best of it. The overwhelming majority seemed to be in possession of membership and so the crowd listlessly swelled and subsided, courtesy of an osmotic flow of late arrivals and early departures. Frankly, we all should have gone home at lunch, as Durham contrived to blow a first innings lead of 190 to the extent that by the time I left at 4.45 to catch the train, it was clear the home side would lose. Chris Rushworth, of course, bowled with the kind of hostility, aggression and purpose that has always been associated with his approach. However Mark Wood and Matthew Salisbury, the latter so effective in the first innings, offered little and Barry McCarthy, in his final game for the club, appeared to have already cleared his locker and called a cab to the airport for the next Ryan Air departure to Atha Cliath. After 19 overs, the captain was left with little option but to introduce a fifth bowler; himself. In his final first class game, Paul Collingwood took the only Middlesex wicket I saw fall, by removing Sam Robson’s off stump with his third ball. There was a joyful chorus of celebration in the middle and a slow, carefully executed, arthritic standing ovation among the crowd. The man who had signified all that was good about the county he served with pride and distinction for over two decades richly deserved the acclaim afforded him. How he must have wished his final seasons had seen him surrounded by players of similar fortitude, if not calibre. Still, it’ll be nice to see Keaton Jennings back at the Riverside in 2019…

Sadly, Collingwood’s cameo was the last moment of enjoyment for the shivering home crowd as Middlesex, in the shape of Nick Gubbins and Steve Eskinazi, progressed to 215 without further mishap. The visitors eventually made 355 and skittled Durham for 109 by tea on Day 3, with the last 5 wickets falling for 12 runs, to win by 57. Durham finished the season 8^th in Division 2. It simply isn’t good enough, but with Geoff Cook also retiring and Marcus North coming in as Director of Cricket, which presumably means he is no longer eligible to play for Roseworth Bulls in the Midweek League, there may be hope for the future. Ben Raine is a welcome return to the attack and Cameron Bancroft will surely do more than sandpaper over the cracks in the batting…

One interesting statistic is that my trip to Chester le Street was the only game I paid cash to watch all season.  Of course I did have my Northumberland membership and, despite an awful lot of encouraging fun in the Minor Counties 20/20 games, the East Championship was again something of an ordeal. Tommy Cant’s first season as captain saw a marginal improvement in performances, with fighting draws away to Bedfordshire and home to Cumberland worthy of mentions in dispatches. Sadly, the last day of the season at South North in early September against Staffordshire saw the side unable to bat out the final two sessions for a draw, succumbing for 140 in 46 overs and accordingly finishing bottom for the second season in a row. Never mind; the young lads will be a year older in 2019 and hopefully fortunes can change.

In the NEPL, South North retained their title, going through the whole season unbeaten, as well as winning the 20/20 competition. In the Banks Salver, Chester le Street came out on top against Benwell Hill in a game played very late in the season on September 15^th. With Durham Academy leaving, the spare place in the Premier Division will be taken by Division 1 champions Burnopfield. Frankly next year, I can’t see beyond South North for the title again, as they’ve brought in Jacques du Toit and Olly McGee from Newcastle, making a difficult to beat side nearly impregnable. For next year, I worry about Newcastle, as they’ve also lost Callum Harding to Benwell Hill. Of course typing that will result in a whole series of aggrieved tweets by Phil Hudson, but there you go.  That said, Stockton apparently remain keen on a switch to the NYSD league and so the matter may be resolved by resignation, rather than on-field performances, although Stockton could easily trail in last of course.

Another brilliant thing about NEPL and other local cricket is that it is free; no wonder I spend so much in the bar these days. Then again, I’m often working behind Tynemouth’s bar, which was why I missed most of the last two games of the season, a pair of 2^nd team cup finals against Washington, serving up the remnants of the beer festival on September 9^th and presiding over a Christening Party on September 16^th. The games were of differing standards; the first was the day after Tynemouth and Washington had both been crowned champions of their respective divisions, meaning the two sides arrived in terrible states of intoxication. While Tynemouth were sober the next week, Washington had been on their end of season jamboree to Doncaster Races the day before and were clearly struggling. Consequently, it was an easy win by 7 wickets with 6 overs to spare, having also claimed the James Bell Cup the week before and the Second Division Championship, on the day captain Andrew Davison’s beloved sunderland AFC heroically claimed a point at home to the mighty Fleetwood. It was a really great season for them, the 2s not the Mackems, as they also reached the 2nds 20/20 finals day, only to lose to South Northumberland and the Banks semi-final, where Chester le Street proved too strong. Hence, for us all, the final club action of the 2018 season was Sam Robson (not the one Paul Collingwood bowled, but Walker’s only Tory) hitting the one ball he faced to the boundary to win the Roseworth Bowl.

Those of us who’d spent so much of the summer watching Tynemouth exchanged handshakes, farewell valedictions and left, casting sentimental glances over the shoulder at the receding square and pavilion. It had been a good year and, while washing the remaining glasses, emptying the bins and affecting a modest tidy-up of the dressing rooms, I reflected on what had passed over a season that began with a winning draw against Whitburn 5 months earlier. To me, the real indication of my affection for Tynemouth as a club was made clear by how, as the season drew on, the lure of watching the 2nds proved quite strong. It was both exciting and pleasing to see them win the title, as well as the 2 cups. They may be, in footballing parlance, the reserves, but in cricket each team is an entity by and of itself, where competition is real and important. Hence they are deserving of all the support that one can muster.

The seconds also provided two of the most amusing moments of the season, both involving Andrew Lineham being dismissed for 0. At Newcastle in the semi-final of the Roseworth Cup, Bad Boy extraordinaire and TCC refusenik James Carr, bowled him with the delivery of the season. Even better, in the final of the James Bell, legendary umpire and James Ellroy lookalike Eddie Collins confidently announced the bowler was left arm round. Problem was the lad was right arm over and Linaz didn’t offer a stroke. Querying the information he’d been given as the finger was raised, Eddy’s comment was “oh dear.” Perhaps most poetically, this was his final innings of the summer and, for the second year running, he ends with a duck. Unlucky, lad.

The firsts didn’t do much in the cups, but finished an encouraging fourth in the NEPL. Highlights of the second part of the season included South African Wesley Bedja bowling beautifully to take over 50 wickets, Polly proving that life begins at 41 with a lifetime best 7/27 against Felling and the superb batting display against Stockton, spearheaded by Stu Poynter, which I didn’t get to see. However, the actual moment of the spectating season was Matty Brown stumping Olly McGee for 0 at Tynemouth with the kind of accurate underarm throw that suggests a career in curling awaits him as a Winter sport if his sojourn to Australia isn’t to his liking (some chance eh?). The really great thing about that stumping wasn’t just it helped Tynemouth beat Newcastle, but that Matt and Olly were sharing a car all the way to Workington to play for Northumberland the next day. I wonder what they talked about.

As an added bonus, Tynemouth 3rds gained promotion, finishing runners-up in Division 6 South, so well done to them. Hopefully they’ll find more competitive encounters next year than their game against Blyth 2nds, who mustered 8 all out in response to 267/3. Well done also to my pal Gary Oliver whose Monkseaton side were runners-up in Division 6 North, so no more trips to Berwick next year for him. My biggest regrets of 2018 were not making it to either Churchill Playing Fields to see him in action, or Benwell Hill. That’s 2 years in a row I’ve not found myself on Benton Bank. I really must do better next year.

The same must also be said of my batting. In my debut Bad Boys campaign, I managed as many runs as I did wickets; 6 of each. With a top score of 2* against the delayed taxi drivers of NE Tamils, as well as other knocks of run out 2, away to Bates Cottages, 1* at High Stables and 1 at home to Bates Cottages, my preferred role of number 11 seems under little threat, especially as my average is in excess of every score I’ve made. However, courtesy of Gary, I now have my own bat, which served me well at High Stables and Bates Cottages, so perhaps things may improve. I doubt it mind.

Since last I wrote about cricket, the fortunes of Tynemouth Bad Boys fluctuated slightly. We were knocked out of the plate by NE Tamils, who are effectively Kimblesworth 2nds. They arrived disgracefully late for the 6pm start and as there is a loophole in the league rules in that there is not a specified cut off time for the side left hanging around to claim the game, we played and lost heavily to a clearly superior side by 9 wickets, in a game that began 30 minutes late. That simply was not the spirit of the game. However, the night after we went up to scenic little Mitford past Morpeth and won a league game by 85 runs, partly down to Sean getting a ton for us. I got a wicket that night; their skipper, who looked like a rather unkempt Kevin de Bruyne, holed out to the safe hands of Flash House Jack at deepish mid-on. One point of controversy was Box Office Carr’s single-handed catch that left an elderly batsman muttering his way back to the pavilion. At the end of the game, one of their lads went home on a quad bike across the fields. This really was the countryside.

In my time, I’ve seen football, rugby and now cricket at the Medicals Ground on Cartington Terrace, Heaton. It’s a lovely spot and the home of Sparta CC, who beat us by 8 wickets in a game that I neither bowled nor batted in. The week after I did both at Beamish and East Stanley, where High Stables play. Bowling first, I got a wicket when James caught one at deepish extra cover. The ground was so small the use of the word “deep” is problematic, as was my final ball; the first I’d bowled to a left hander all season and he cracked it away for four. High Stables are a mixture of Beamish and East Stanley from the NEDL and Anfield Plain of the DCL. My old literary pal Ian Dowson was behind the stumps for them and we exchanged pleasant chit chat. There was nothing pleasant about the gritted teeth and pace of the delivery from the lad who came charging in at me, who normally opens the bowling for Anfield Plain. I didn’t see any of the balls he bowled at me. Frankly, it was a waste of his energy, bowling outside the off stump to me as I didn’t get close to any of them. Bowl at the stumps and I was gone.  Despite it being the last over and Sea Bass standing at the other end on 20 not out, including a straight 6 into the adjoining cemetery, he seemed more concerned with admiring the view than getting on strike and we tailed off to lose by 12 runs.

It got worse before it got better. We went to Bates Cottages, after snatching defeat from the jaws of victory against them in the home debacle, and went down to a 52 run thumping. I actually enjoyed myself that night. Got 2 wickets, both stumped, for 15, including ex Newcastle, Benfield and a thousand other clubs, Stuey Elliott off the last ball. Made 2 runs and then pointlessly ran myself out. Promotion was now very much in the balance, so we took it seriously against Whitley Bay. We didn’t make a huge score, but it looked enough until they got hold of our bowling. However, there are always the spin twins to rely on; by bowling at 2 mph and letting the ball bounce quarter stump height, you aren’t going to get carted. Hence, I sent down 2 overs for 8 and earned the approval of Don Catley, who’s possibly the only umpire who tried to get in my head. At the other end, Clarky bamboozled them; his 3/27, including a wicket off the last ball, won us the game by 2 runs. This was a very important win.

Promotion was sealed and we celebrated lustily in The Spread Eagle, after the last game before I turned 54. The season ended at home to Matfen the week after, and we even got to play on the proper pitch at TCC.  We won by 30 runs, with me not being called on to bat. As far as the bowling was concerned, this was very much an end of season game, with Scoff bowling 3 successive wides and then taking a wicket. Skipper Matty was away with work, so Neil stood in. My first over wasn’t too bad, but the second one began in ominous fashion when their left-hander clouted me for 3 successive boundaries. I was having a crisis of confidence, but Neil, who was 8 cans in by this point, calmly reassured me that I was doing the right thing. Next ball, I bowled the bloke who’d taken a fancy to my timid leggies with one that definitely turned. Honest. I’m not lying. Not since I saved a penalty in the Over 40s back in 2012 have I felt such unadulterated sporting joy. Another night in The Spread Eagle beckoned.

Even better was our awards night at Flash House. Thanks to Jack for putting it on. Thanks to Matty and Mitchy for sorting the awards out. Thanks to all the lads who voted me Bad Boy of the year. I could have cried. I didn’t though. I sang instead.  After the 2nds last game on September 8^th, I made my first ever foray into the world of karaoke, regaling those assembled with a terrible version of “Maggie Mae,” enlivened only by me falling off a table when playing an air mandolin solo. At the Bad Boys do, I played it safe with John Trubee’s “Blind Man’s Penis,” then ended up so blind drunk I can’t remember much after 10pm. Great night. Great season. Great mates. Great game. I’m missing it terribly already.

Roll on 2019.