Poetry of Departures

to hear it said

“He walked out on the whole crowd”

Leaves me flushed and stirred,

Like “Then she undid her dress”

Or “Take that you bastard”

I had an unpleasant shock the other morning when I opened up my laptop (we’re still old school in this house, I’m telling you). As soon as I logged into Zuckerberg’s online Tower of Babel, I was wished a Happy 11^th Anniversary of being a member of Faecesbook. Back in June 2008, things seemed generally quite rosy in my world’s garden, but by the end of the summer after, my dad had died, as had Bobby Robson, while Newcastle had been relegated, following the despicable treatment meted out to Kevin Keegan and the farce of the Joe Kinnear administration. Probably the only good things I can recall about 2008/2009 are my beloved Benfield winning the double of Northern League Division 1 and League Cup.

Gazing back to those events from over a decade ago, it’s remarkably difficult to countenance how anything other than the old fella’s terminal illness could actually impinge on my consciousness. Eddy was diagnosed with renal cancer on May 1^st, eventually hospitalised on July 1^st and died on August 1^st. Whatever faults and weaknesses he had to his character, many people loved the bloke and it was tragic to see him slip away so quickly. At the time, and I maintain this belief in retrospect, the image of Alan Shearer ranting and raving like a lo-carb Graeme Souness about the need to wear a suit and not use your phone in the changing room to a bunch of uninterested mercenaries, had minimal impact on my world, though I suppose it was a suitably farcical way for NUFC to pull relegation out of the bag. I do recall putting the season ticket renewal forms through the shredder, then mailing them back to the club in a Jiffy bag, along with a post-it note bearing the message, you must be bloody joking.

That single act of puny, putative rebellion was enough to economically disentangle myself from the fraudulent entity that was and still is masquerading as the football club I’d fallen in love with aged 7, effectively completing the journey of emotionally distancing myself from Newcastle United that had begun with the sacking of Bobby Robson, the traducing of Kevin Keegan and the sale of Shay Given.  I made a resolution that day that I’d never put a penny piece into Newcastle United while Mike Ashley remained in charge.  I didn’t say I would boycott games, but I refused to directly line Ashley’s pockets. Consequently, I have always taken the position that I would buy, or preferably accept gratis, spares from people who were away with work, holidays or whatever. Indeed, my first offer of a ticket was the Reading game the opened the home programme after relegation and saw a Shola hat trick blast the Biscuitmen to bits. I turned that one down. Too soon, though I quickly got over that initial reluctance as the following grid shows. Incidentally the number of other tickets I knocked back because Benfield or Percy Main were playing, is not recorded, but it would double, if not treble, the figures below -:

Season	League games	Cup games
2009/2010	11	1
2010/2011	4	1
2011/2012	12	0
2012/2013	11	6
2013/2014	4	1
2014/2015	5	1
2015/2016	9	0
2016/2017	4	4
2017/2018	1	1
2018/2019	0	0
Total	62	15

At the time, despite following Benfield, I was on the committee of Percy Main Amateurs, basically because I was writing a book about that club, so I basically watched them at the weekend in the Alliance and Benfield in the floodlit Northern League on a Wednesday. When neither of them had a game, I found time to watch Newcastle United, meaning my first game back at the scene of so much caterwauling and tears was to see Danny Guthrie’s glorious strike beat Leicester on August Bank Holiday Monday, from a seat in the Milburn Paddock, Leazes Wing, courtesy of my mate Dave. Next up was QPR on a Wednesday night at the start of October, high in the Gallowgate via Shaun Smith’s contacts. I passed on a freebie pair from work to Ben and his Grandad for the Doncaster game, while I watched Percy Main beat Peterlee 4-2 after being 2-0 down. Via connections in the Irish Magpies Supporters’ Club, I obtained 8 tickets for Ben and his pals for the 2-0 win over Watford in early December, preferring to watch Percy Main put Wallsend Boys’ Club Seniors to the sword in the Northumberland FA Minor Cup. Courtesy of Dave, I was in the Milburn Paddock again to see the 2-0 win over Boro and 0-0 draw with Derby around Christmas time. He even had a spare for the Plymouth cup replay. It was a great seat, but I ended up throwing his generosity back in his face, by accepting a freebie season ticket from a woman at work whose husband was working away in China; something to do with the oil industry. Cheers for that Kev! She was vaguely interested in football, so went to a couple of the Saturday games, still allowing me to enjoy Cardiff, Coventry, Preston, Scunthorpe and Sheffield United at the join of the East Stand and Gallowgate completely without charge. If only all seasons saw my conscience so untroubled.

Back in the Premier League, Ben showed interest; hence, I broke my vow and splashed out on Arsenal League Cup tickets. We lost 4-0 and I felt chastened, but I’ve always defended paying for tickets where he is concerned, as it’s my duty and my joy as a father, regardless of regime or result. Thankfully, I got back on the freebie gravy train, with Blackburn and Fulham tickets in the Leazes courtesy of my mate Richyy who was poorly, before Cola found me a perch in the centre of the East Stand for the bizarre 3-3 season ending contest with West Brom. I also got Man City tickets as a Christmas present. We lost that one of course.

In 2011/2012, I was rather proud of my ingenious way of getting a freebie against Fulham. Those who had attended the abandoned pre-season friendly with Fiorentina were allowed to choose a replacement ticket for a Category C game. I persuaded Jamie to get his for me against The Cottagers, as he wouldn’t need it as he was a season ticket holder. However, I was proud to pay for the 0-0 with Swansea City, in memory of Gary Speed, which was a must attend. I watched that from Level 7 with Ben and I’m glad I was there. I couldn’t say the same about the 3-2 loss to West Brom that I’d won a ticket for by retweeting some bot, but at least it was free. I swapped a copy of my Percy Main book for a Wolves ticket, with a lad who was in Berlin for his stag do. Dave’s mate who had the spare in the Milburn Paddock was now working in Spain, so I scored for his tickets against Spurs, QPR, Villa, Norwich, Liverpool, Bolton and Man City; they didn’t cost me a penny either. The other game I got to was Stoke, in the East Stand, courtesy of Biffa from www.nufc.com; cheers mate, appreciated. Get well soon.

So, only 3 years after forswearing SJP and NUFC for good, I’d managed to attend almost two thirds of the home games. It was even worse the year after. The pretence of self-imposed economic sanctions went right out the window with those fabulous £10 Europa League tickets, causing me to shell out for half a dozen glory nights, when entertainment, or a version of it, came in ahead of principles: Atromitos, Bordeaux, Bruges, Maritimo, Metalist Kharkov and Anji, though I chose Whitley Bay v Dunston ahead of the Benfica quarter final game when they reverted to £25 a pop.  There were also 11 league games where I showed my face: Villa, Norwich, West Brom, West Ham, Southampton, Man City, QPR, Fulham and Arsenal, courtesy of Dave’s mate, now permanently domiciled in Spain, but asking £20 a game for a ticket. Luckily, I also picked up freebies for Reading (Chris) and Stoke (Les), to offset against the highest net spend I’d made since 2008/2009.

Perhaps such semi-regular attendance meant I’d sickened myself of the whole NUFC experience (Ashley, Pardew and all), as my appearances at SJP were far less frequent the next year. I won a competition for a Fulham ticket, which I passed on to Ben in August and we both attended the predictable League Cup loss to Man City in October. My mate Janine was working on Boxing Day, so I saw the hilarious debacle that was the 5-1 thumping of Stoke City from high up in the Leazes. I shelled out in the Milburn Paddock for Dad and Lad to see the last second win over Villa, which made the money worthwhile, before sitting through a dire 3-0 loss to Everton from my pal Gary’s seat in the East Stand. Finally, when true faith trashed the 69^th minute walkout against Cardiff, I turned up to show my opinions and saw the last 2 goals in a 3-0 win. Take that Ashley!

So now, the season before relegation; the one when Pardew was replaced by (and I still can’t believe I’m typing this) John Carver. Bizarrely, the campaign began against Basque opposition, in the shape of Real Sociedad. Freebies in the Platinum Club took me to that one. I wasn’t back again until Ben and I did the back to back festive games against Everton, Pardew’s last, and Burnley, Carver’s first. That latter game was the straw that broke Gary’s back; he’s never been back since. Consequently, I had the use of his unwanted ticket against Stoke, Spurs and Swansea. Goodness, we were terrible; it was a clear premonition of things to come.

With Dave’s mate living la vida loca and Gary refusing to throw good money after bad, Tony Corcoran from the Irish Centre was my next regular benefactor. Tickets for Southampton, Chelsea and the utterly hilarious Keystone Kops defending in MacLaren’s Last Stand against Bournemouth, came my way for his perch in the Gallowgate, with Arsenal seen from the East Stand junction with the Gallowgate as Kat was on holiday, plus finding myself in the Platinum Club for West Ham after some concerted Twitter begging, the same place for the Mackems courtesy of my former GP (cheers Doc Julian) and a spare ticket in the East Stand handed to me in the Irish Club pre-Spurs, from where I watched our relegated anti-heroes dismantle the opposition 5-1.

For 2016/2017, the Championship was viewed with something approaching optimism, rather than foreboding as in 2009/2010. Benitez may not have kept Newcastle up, but the fact he’d stayed, almost certainly because of the reception he got at the Spurs game, had everyone in high spirits. I was there against Reading, up in the Gallowgate West on a freebie with Knaggsy, when a superb second half saw the season really take off.  I was also there to hear the whines and grumbles when a freak late OG cost us a win against QPR. The other two league games I was at were in the bottom tier of the Leazes for a Dad and Lad Christmas treat against Forest and blagging my way into Level 7 on a kid’s ticket for the end of season Barnsley game. I also took advantage of the £10 Platinum Club tickets for League Cup games with Cheltenham, Wolves and Preston, as well as an FA Cup replay win over Birmingham City. To tell the truth though, despite promotion, much of the football was as stilted as under Carver. Despite the seemingly forced, if not compulsory, jollity and hero worship in the stands, I just wasn’t getting as much out of the whole Rafalution as nearly everyone else was.

The last times I went to St James’ Park were for an awful League Cup home loss to Forest in August 2017 and a truly rancid 0-0 with Brighton in December of that year. I said at full time after that game, I wouldn’t set foot in the ground while Benitez remained manager, because that game was worse than a 0-0 at SJP against the same opposition, with 12,282 there in early 1991. I had to draw a line somewhere. Obviously, Ashley’s reluctance to spend more than the absolute minimum left Benitez with no choice other than to play such stagnant, safety-first dross. People excoriated and upbraided me for my opinions, but I stuck to them. What possible use was my £30 or whatever a game, when Benitez saw none of it and Ashley remained in situ?

I’ve watched a few games on the telly since then and, fair’s fair, there’s been as many diamonds as dog turds. In both 2017/2018 and 2018/2019, Benitez has spent the first part of the season relentlessly downplaying the quality of the squad and their chances of staying up. Almost as soon as Christmas is over, the team starts to gel once the penny has dropped about tactics and formations, and accordingly results pick up massively. It doesn’t excuse the first part of the campaign, but it certainly puts a spring in the step of supporters. Last year, Newcastle signed off by thrashing retiring Champions Chelsea 3-0, costing Antonio Conte his job in the process. This year, the 4-0 obliteration of Fulham, amidst the crazy scenes of the fans’ cruise along the Thames to Craven Cottage, meant the season ended on a scarcely unbelievable high. Surely, the pendulum had swung so far in Benitez’s direction that Ashley would give him the deal he wanted.

And then, things really went up a notch, from mild excitement to blind hysteria, with the news that the Bin Zayed Group from Abu Dhabi, were apparently ready to buy the club from Ashley, by meeting his £350m price tag. As you can imagine, truth and any sense of proportion went out the window. Ashley may be an old-style industrial despot, in the manner of Timothy West in Brass, but I’m fairly confident he hasn’t conducted a genocidal campaign against gays, for instance. None of this kind of detail matters to the majority of fans who reacted like Kim il-Jung’s fan club on May Day. Adulation for people with billions of pounds to spend was almost as high as for Benitez, though with even less cause. Of course, like Amanda Staveley’s mythical bid, it’s all turned to a hill of beans and Ashley remains the king of Newcastle. Shame, as it would have been a right giggle to ask the lads in Rafferty’s how they felt about NUFC being owned by Muslims.

The usual wall of silence from the club about the takeover and Benitez’s future endured for almost 7 weeks, other than the bland announcement that a deal had been offered and talks were on-going. The first part of that statement was true, but the second plainly wasn’t. Benitez kept his counsel, showing neither a willingness to sign up or walk out. Meanwhile the Brighton, Celtic and Chelsea jobs came and went, as did Juve. It seemed not to matter; the noises were Benitez was looking for an excuse not to sign. Ashley’s utter intransigence and refusal to discuss anything was that excuse. A week before his contract ended and pre-season kicks off, the club put out a mealy-mouthed statement saying Benitez wouldn’t be coming back. I’d heard strong rumours from sources in NE28 and NE30 that the offer of a £12m job in China was a smokescreen. El Jefe was leaving as he’d had enough after 3 and a half years of glacial progress and minimal communication. Ashley, who doesn’t give two fucks about anything other than money and anyone other than himself, will doubtless be pleased at winning the staring contest with a bloke who is almost the equal of him in terms of being a control freak. The big difference being that the man who walked away had done more than any other human, bar perhaps Chris Hughton, to keep the dysfunctional zombie farm that is Newcastle United functioning as a football team, since Ashley walked in the door a dozen years back; even before I had signed up to Farcebook in fact.

The question now is; do I want to go back as Benitez has left? As ever, it’s a complex one to answer, but I can’t be bothered to, because Ashley has finally won; he’s left me worn out, broken and disenchanted by the whole thing. Giving opinions, speaking your mind; it’s a dangerous thing to do these days. Social media is policed and analysed; comments about football and politics can cause rancour and dissent. Despite living in the end of times where that lethal narcissist Boris Johnson, a kind of heterosexual Paul Gascoigne with A Level Classics, appears ready to drive the UK Routemaster over the cliffs, similar to the last episode of The Young Ones, I’m not supposed to say anything, about a bi-polar, OCD-suffering, alcoholic and coke fiend in case it upsets people. Just watch again that hideous video where his repressed sexuality, couched in cloying, flirtatious behaviour and stereotypically racist social attitudes, screams out at all those of us who know exactly what he needs to do to save himself. But what’s the point in putting your head above the parapet? Guilty, innocent or anywhere in between, they’ll still try and blow your brains out.

In future, let’s stick to cricket and music. New manager? Takeover? Protest? I just can’t make myself care about NUFC any longer. The younger Newcastle United fans must take on this fight; I have nothing left to give.

our enemies comprehend only the language of blood…

the time for the pen has passed and we enter the era of the sword…

words are dead…

32 Weeks

It takes 32 weeks of your life to buy a car.

3 days, 4 hours.

Get a job, get a car.

It takes 1 week of your life to buy a mattress.

3 days, 4 hours.

Get a job, get a car, get a bed.

It takes 2 hours of your life to buy whiskey.

45 minutes.

Get a job, get a car, get a bed, get drunk.

It takes 6 minutes of your life to buy a loaf.

Get a job, get a car, get a bed, get drunk and eat cake.

The weekly £50,000 Premium Bond announced on Saturday

Was won by number 588755478.

The winner lives in Hull,

(The Mekons, 1977)

Clearly, I’ve no idea how much longer I have left on this planet. Whatever my allotted time may be, I know for certain I will never regret the decision I made to take voluntary redundancy from Further Education. The escape tunnel I dug in December 2017 and emerged from on Easter Sunday 2018, has literally kept me alive, as I’d undoubtedly have exploded or imploded if I’d been forced to keep frantically pawing the fraudulent hamster wheel of College politics, like a lobotomised, verminous Sisyphus. Of course, alongside the joyous sense of celebration I always feel when I remember I’ll never teach another lesson or give a lecture, I do recognise that some of the times I had post education were a wee bit tough.

For instance, those emotionally febrile weeks when I was literally destitute last October, trapped in the iniquitous Universal Credit labyrinth and reliant on handouts from Newcastle East End Foodbank. My descent into Benefit Hades was magically arrested by the simple stroke of fortune provided by starting paid employment in the middle of that month. Obviously, the very act of setting the alarm and putting your bait up after a significant period of quiet isolation and semi-creative idleness is an enormous jolt to the system and it took me a while to get used to the noise and stress occasioned by being in close proximity to a large number of other human beings, where exposure to the toad work is the only common factor or reason for interaction.

While obviously recognising that the main purpose of work under capitalism, whether it be backbreaking physical labour or mindlessly repetitive administration, is to engage in a process that ultimately exists to make bosses richer and workers ever more alienated, the degree of ordinary human interaction inherent in the workplace can’t help but take any unwilling cog in the machine of private enterprise, rapidly through all 5 stages of culture shock: confusion, despair, elation, boredom and acceptance. I’d say I’ve been comfortably on cruise control in stage 5 since the turn of the year, with no real desire to shift lanes, go through the gears or change horses midstream. You see, scarcely credibly, I have now completed 32 weeks of continuous labour, without any recourse to my cherished, pressure release valve of the sick day. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ec3ChH5uAuQ

This is a significant point; while the difference between the compassionate incompetence of the public sector and the flinty avarice of private enterprise is perfectly illustrated by the punitive use of miserly statutory sick pay (SSP) in the latter, meaning any absence leaves the ordinary worker seriously out of pocket, the fact I’ve not had a day off, despite wanting to quit the place after each of my first 9 days in post, shows there is some merit to be found in the social aspect of work. That said, it is nothing short of a scandal to see colleagues wracked by debilitating illnesses and conditions, dragging themselves through the door each morning, simply because a day’s rest and recuperation would have severe implications regarding the quality and amount of food on their table or stability of the roof over their head. Incidentally, please do not mistake my nose’s regular proximity to the grindstone for loyalty, subservience, or gratitude that my pay has risen from £8.30 per hour when I started to £9.50 now I’ve passed my probation, 3 weeks after I should have done because HR forgot about it. The reader is invited to answer for themselves the question as to whether I have been paid in arrears for this period. Still, what’s £135 in the wider context of the class struggle?

Currently, there are 13 of us in our particular section, including a team leader so laidback he’s almost horizontal and a low-rent Hedda Gabler, responsible for “managing quality,” which means she fills her week by sending snide, judgemental general emails, full of invective and personal digs, then sobbing unconvincingly into her cardigan sleeve because nobody with an ounce of self-respect likes her, other than the obsequious fellow-travellers who crave preferment.  

Of my 11 co-workers, I have significant problems with two of them; a loathsome grass who looks like Alan Barnes and a four-eyed, gormless Born-Again Christian bore and probable Operation Yewtree suspect who never shuts his mouth for more than 10 seconds and spouts an unending stream of shite from the minute he walks through the door. The rest are good company. There used to be 16 of us in total, but 3 have left in the last few months; one because he was hopeless, one because he’s got a job selling guitars, which is his real passion in life and one because he couldn’t stand the quality analyst’s relentless efforts to undermine him. Obviously, the net effect of 3 less people employed to do the same volume of work is that the remaining staff have to do more.  In the unforgiving private sector, we are not privy to the employment matrices that triangulate amount of work with number of employees and the skill set available.

Without any thanks for our labours, now that the sole sign of gratitude, our weekly free piece of fruit from a trolley pushed by the head of HR, has been discontinued, management have gone for the jugular in terms of demanding twice as many bricks with no straw. Peremptorily, we were informed we were required to work at a quicker rate than previously, with our assumed compliance regulated by the introduction of a series of ludicrously unattainable time scales for particular tasks. At the same time, the unforgiving and judgemental culture of the office means that all the inevitable mistakes, caused by the imposition of this speed-dating approach to electronic communication, are seized upon and the perpetrator held up for public ridicule. When the person pouring scorn is in a managerial position, it is to be expected, as the willing camp guards of the bourgeois elite have sacrificed their principles for a heady cocktail of money and power. However, when the running dog lackeys of capitalist oppression are fellow workers, honoured to embrace the role of the quisling Judas sheep, not for material gain, but simply to be seen as useful idiots, the sense of contempt rises even more bitterly in the gorge.

The bosses seek to maximise profit by ruthlessly imposing further and more exacting constraints on workers, which they are able to do with impunity as, surprise surprise, this place is non-unionised. This is not to say there is not a significant level of class consciousness and a desire to fight for workers’ rights evident; about 10 of us across the whole business of approximately 60 employees, are members of CWU, as well as a couple of long term Unite members. Let’s not overstate things though; there is a moribund seam of apolitical anomie that remains irritatingly and smugly indifferent to all imprecations of solidarity. I actually find that approach considerably more irritating than the brown-nosing Vichy style collaborators, who spend all their working and probably waking hours acting as narks and grasses for the management, in the hope of some kind of tangible or even intangible advancement in the politics of the office. As regards the erosion of our conditions of service, the latter scion doesn’t complain as they love their bosses, the former section seeks to foment dissent and action, while the middle grouping gripe and impotently moan, though have no desire to stand up for themselves. Well, let’s hope future conditions determine their consciousness, because we’re a long way from achieving a total of 50% plus 1 union membership, which would lead to full recognition.

The greatest indignity visited upon us has seen the cancellation of all paid overtime.  Previously, simply to make a few extra quid, people turned up about half an hour early for their shift, didn’t take one of their (unpaid) breaks, or hung about at the end of the day to sort everything out before going home. In total, we were probably doing about 2 or 3 hours a week on top of the required 37.5 at the absolute maximum each. Now, all overtime is unpaid and our clocking in and out stamps are ignored, providing we’re in credit, with the standard 7 hours and 30-minute day being seen as the only possible shift pattern. There is still the expectation you finish all work before leaving, which can be really galling if you’re supposed to clock out at 22.30 and have a train or bus to catch. If you do any extra, time you can come in late the next day but not leave early, which just stinks.

And yet, despite the whispered threat of redundancies if we can’t cut the mustard, I’m glad I’m here. The work is generally quite interesting and there’s some decent conservation around, especially when Silent Bob the Boring Baptist isn’t there. Thankfully, there are no Newcastle United fans to get on my nerves by droning on about Ashley, but plenty of people who know music and films. Looking at it selfishly, there are worse things I could do with my time for £300 a week take home. Yet again, Larkin called it right -:

Give me your arm, old toad;

Help me down Cemetery Road.

2018/2019 CV

So then, this is what I've had published during the season just ended -:

23 Newcastle Benfield programmes

3 Tyneside Amateur League programmes

Dirty Old Town #2: That Man

Football Focus #82: Newcastle Benfield

The Football Pink #21: Away is where the Heart is

Stand #27: In Safe Hands

Stand #28: The Nutcases in Nyon and Zanies in Zurich

Stand #29: Lennonism

Stand #30: Unhappy Wanderers

View #1: Some People are on the Pitch

View from the Allotment End #9: Organisational Chaos

View from the Allotment End #10: Working Class

View from the Allotment End #11: Orban Hymns

View from the Allotment End #12: Lionhearted

Academic Failure

So, me & my pal Davey went to the Scottish Junior Cup final at Hamilton Accies -:

Of all the Scottish league grounds I’ve yet to visit, the neighbouring Lanarkshire towns of Motherwell and Hamilton Academicals were both right at the top of my list. As regards Scottish footballing events, the Junior Cup final was the absolute number one target. When the stars aligned and this year’s final was moved from Rugby Park, which is having some form of drainage works performed on the 4G pitch, to New Douglas Park and my good pal David Stoker offered to do the chauffeuring from his home in sunny Bathgate, it seemed too good an opportunity to miss. Sadly, and with enormous gratitude to Davey for the driving duties taken as read, Auchinleck Talbot 2 Largs Thistle 0, which was my 64^th game, 29^th ground and 6^th new ground of 2018/2019, was also probably the most disappointing and disorganised event I’ve been to all year. That’s a real shame, because just about everything else about the day was a fabulous treat.

Rising hungover and groggy from an afternoon and evening’s bevvying to celebrate Tynemouth’s tense 3 wicket win over Burnmoor and obliterate the dismal Champions’ League final, I made my way to Central for the 11.00 to Waverley. I’m more used to Saturday journey’s in that direction, on trains replete with eager stags and hens ready to drink their bodyweight in Strongbow Dark Fruits before we reach Dunbar. This train was full as well, but mainly with hungover Scottish women, all unironed hair and Heath Ledger style smudged make-up, who’d been to see Westlife at the Arena the night before. Those who bevvied were on Prosecco mainly, but the fire had been extinguished by theirheavy night before. I whiled away the time reading the very excellent STAND #30 and View from the Allotment End #13, rather than infuriating myself with the obsequious social media toadying towards Liverpool from most points east and south of Merseyside. The fawning hagiographers who willingly divested themselves of their dignity in 280 characters or less displayed not only pitiful, cloying sentimentality in their cyber billets doux, but also hinted at the endemic anti-Semitism of Corbynism by hitching their wagon to the train of riches based on slavery and religious bigotry that is the main historical legacy of Liverpool, rather than the vibrant, tolerant, inclusive multi-cultural, multi-ethnic milieu of north London that has made Spurs the great club they are today.

Talking of great clubs, Davey collected me from Livingston North, right in the heartland of West Lothian junior football, where every dismal ex mining village boasts its own local club. In many ways, the area reminds you of the former Northern League strongholds of West and East Durham, or South East Northumberland, if you remove the ubiquitous Orange Halls, Masonic Lodges and Loyalist graffiti; scruffy former pit settlements once home to proud clubs at the hub of communities now bedevilled by heroin and cheap booze, where the only businesses making a go of things are tanning salons and takeaways. I’d already skirted Pumpherston at Uphall, before Davey took me to the real jewel of urban deprivation in the Lothians; Armadale. Their Volunteer Park looks as much of an ageing, crumbling gem as Kilsyth, Arthurlie or Shotts and the fact it will host next Sunday’s Thornton Property’s League Cup final between aforementioned Pumpherston and Fauldhouse United, is tempting me northwards again. If it was Saturday, I’d definitely be there, but there’s the small matter of Northumberland v Cheshire 20/20 at Jesmond or Tynemouth v Ashington v Boldon in the 2^nd XI 20/20 at Preston Avenue to consider.

There are other football options next week as well, with an array of finals to choose from. The West of Scotland Cup is being contested at Irvine Meadow XI’s Meadow Park, between Kirkintilloch Rob Roy and Beith, though having already been there, I’d not regard that as one worth attending. On the Saturday, the East Region offers either Carnoustie Panmure versus Broughty Athletic at Lochee United’s ground in Dundee for the D. J. Laing Cup or Whitburn against Dundee North End in the highly prestigious repechage that is the Consolation League Cup. Davey had been there on the Saturday to see the home side squeeze home 8-1 again Glenrothes in the latter’s final junior game before quitting for the East of Scotland League. The choice of venue for the final was   made by the fabulously scientific method of a coin toss that Whitburn won. In the NEPL, Whitburn’s Village Ground is probably the most picturesque venue for cricket at that level; Whitburn Juniors FC’s Central Park isn’t in that class, but it’s certainly a step up from Volunteer Park.

From there we headed south and up in the clouds to Forth; a horseless hamlet 1,000 feet above sea level in South Lanarkshire. Entering the village on your left is Kingshill Park, home of Forth Wanderers. I’ve played on plenty of dreadful surfaces in my inglorious career and seen games on dozens more, but I don’t think I’ve seen a more undulating pitch than Forth Wanderers. They need to get some horses back in the village and graze the grass down to ankle level. Honestly, I’d love to see a game up there some time. It’s just as Davey described it; the Scottish Tow Law, though without the foot and mouth burial ground.

We left Forth, wending our way back down through the clouds to Hamilton via Kilncadzow, Carluke, Lanark, Larkhall, though we didn’t pass Gasworks Park I’m sad to say, then up the M74 to Hamilton.  One thing you can say about Hamilton is that there are zillions of free parking spaces. Davey found us a spot and we headed to New Douglas Park, possibly the only 2 not attired in some manner of amber and black favours, the colours of both sides, which was romantically accessed via the basement level of Morrisons’ car park. Emerging near the turnstiles at the corner of the wee temporary stand and the big one behind the goal, all enjoyment was sucked out of the day from that point onwards.

It was chaos. With neither signs to direct people, nor stewards to help and with a few random mounted police proving as much use as a glass eye in the bottom drawer, there was nothing to do but find a queue and stand in it. We decided on the Largs end. For the vast majority of last season, Hamilton Accies averaged about 2,500 in a ground that holds 6,018. The only games that exceeded today’s gate of 4,629 were the visits of Celtic (4,688) and the Huns, who assembled 5.013 and 5,887 reprobates from their Presbyterian Lanarkshire heartland. Each of the visits by the Old Firm was all ticket; today, even at £10 entry and £5 for concessions, the speed of access was a farce. It must have taken us a good 30 minutes to shuffle 50 yards to the pay box. Luckily, the Largs lot were good natured; a few half pissed wannabe Neds and Casuals, as well as many day trippers who’d probably never seen the team play before.

Once inside, the ritual steak pie was purchased, after another inexplicable wait to be attended to. The two sullen, incompetent teenage lasses behind the counter needed to take time out before, during and after each order to check their phones, eyelashes, hair, make up and so on. That was bad, but not quite as bad as the cardboard pastry jacket that rendered the pie almost indigestible. Still, at least I had a thimbleful of warm Diet Coke, price £2.30, to wash it down with. Indeed, I’d just dissolved a chunk of viscous trans fat from the roof of my mouth by the time Craig McCracken stooped to head home a Jamie Glasgow corner after 5 minutes. Largs were stunned, but not deflated, though I sensed they didn’t believe they could win against the side that had already won the league and were gunning to retain the trophy and take it to Beechwood Park for the 13^th time. After some timid Largs probing, the Bot broke away and Keir Samson stroked home a textbook finish on the counter attack. Both teams were in their change strips; Bot in a fetching blue number and Largs in red and white stripes. This choice minimised any sense of sympathy I may have had for them.

Largs were finished and the second half didn’t happen. Like a slow motion version of the Champions’ League final, the two sides passed the ball around to little purpose. Largs didn’t threaten at all and Auchinleck almost got a third when Mark Shankland hit the underside of the bar. The game drifted to the inevitable anti-climactic conclusion and with the whistle still in the ref’s mouth we were away down the road, in time for me to grab a Costa in Bathgate (I kid you not) and settle down to follow Tynemouth’s fine win away to Chester le Street in the Banks Salver. Summer is probably here.