Grave New World Order

Comrades, I’m angry and I’m scared.

It rained the other Saturday; Tynemouth had Hetton Lyons 79/4 at lunch when the skies opened over Preston Avenue. Another game, the sixth so far, to be lost to the elements in this cursedly damp summer. On the up side, there were a few new faces around; blokes inspired by England’s World Cup win to come down, have a few beers and watch their local club. In the absence of any play, we all had a good yarn about the Greatest Game (and by that I don’t just mean the final at Lords), to the extent I clean forgot about heading to Whitley Bay v Sunderland West End. Indeed I didn’t notice the time until 6.15, when the sun was back out and cracking the flags, three hours after the captains had shaken hands.

Ah; if only everything could be as uplifting and life-affirming as an afternoon at Tynemouth Cricket Club, or any cricket club in fact. Sadly, the real world just isn’t that nice, most of the time. Continuing with the greatest game, it’s surely more than symbolic that England were crushed and humiliated at Lords, skittled by Ireland for 85, on the day Boris Johnson was granted the power to set the controls for the heart of the sun. The only hope we have, sticking with metaphor rather than metonymy, is the recovery and renaissance to be found on day 3 when poor old Ireland were routed for 38. Goodness, this test left me conflicted; unlike football or rugby where I’ve always supported Ireland and wanted England to lose, regardless of opposition, cricket was more complex. On falling in love with cricket in 1973, there was no Ireland team I knew of to support, unlike in football when Miah Dennehy’s winner over Poland in October of that year defined me as an Ireland fan, in the same way that Mike Gibson’s incredible performance at Twickenham the year after decided where my international affiliations for the 15 man code would lie. Without the ties of ethnicity, it was the presence of Chris Balderstone, the Carlisle United captain, at Grace Road who made me opt for Leicestershire as my First Class County when Durham were still a Minor County, though I’ll admit to a sneaky flirtation with Middlesex when Phillippe Henri and Embers, the radical sporting equivalent of Rough Trade Records, were twirling their magic.

However, and this is important, in cricket it doesn’t matter who you follow, as long as you love the game; I’m more than happy to support England when they don’t play Ireland, as in cricket there isn’t the odious tribalism of football or economic triumphalism of rugby union. To be frank, Boris Johnson’s cabinet, that sordid, smug, duplicitous parcel of prorogues, embody the ethos of English rugby union to the fullest extent, while the shaven headed, chunky Italian knitwear clad, Carling swigging BNP/ EDL/ FLA/ DFLA /UKIP/Brexit Party authoritarian populists following Englun abroad are precisely the kind of expendable pond life who will provide the 20,000 extra Sturmabteilung recruits who’ll be cracking dissenting heads for Queen and country when the balloon really goes up. As ever, the ruling elite will rely on the willingness of reactionary lumpenproletariat to be their cannon fodder when the socially progressive, intellectual elements of society rise up against a whole lot more than the desperate effects of the no-deal Brexit this crazed fuckhead is obsessed with.

Meanwhile, have you followed the case of Carl Beech, aka “Nick,” the evil charlatan who inspired the wholly discredited Operation Midland? Without doubt he’s a vile individual; a paedophile, a fraudster and a habitual narcissistic liar with an inbuilt, sociopathic inability to accept he’s done wrong. I suppose that’s a couple of things he’s got in common with the new First Lord of the Treasury at least. Beechhas been sent down for 18 years, comprising 18 months for fraud, 18 months for possessing indecent images of children and 15 years for contempt of court. No, I haven’t got those sentences in the wrong order. The judicial system has decreed Beech’s most serious crime was defaming the elite, not abusing children. Beech appears to have a sexual perversion whereby he finds gratification from describing repugnant acts of torture being inflicted upon helpless young boys by powerful men. Pausing, as a victim of child sexual abuse myself, to say that Beech’s most immoral act in my eyes has been to waste police resources that could have been spent on helping actual victims, as well as potentially discouraging other victims from coming forward as the future environment surrounding the hideous taboo of paedophilic abuse may be less sympathetic to those who suffered unimaginable horrors.

The grotesque and repulsive accusations Beech made against Lord Bramall, Harvey Proctor, Leon Brittan and Edward Heath among others were almost too fantastical for words. The question that ought to have been asked before Beech’s obscene fantasies were described on television as “credible and true” by a senior officer from the Met, should have been; were these people sexual deviants of the utmost depravity, or were they unfairly maligned? Certainly, after a lengthy trial, it appears to be the latter, but if one looks at the people accused, namely the Head of the Army, Thatcher’s Home Secretary, a Tory Prime Minister and the Chair of the virulently racist Monday Club, we must conclude that these men may not have been sexually deviant, but their acts in public life were uniformly evil and deserve endless condemnation. Morally, they were all monstrous tyrants.

If we look at actual convictions for paedophilic acts, it becomes clear that the sexual abuse of young boys is unquestionably a class issue. Poorly paid, semi-literate, barely trained thugs in uniform, employed by in care homes, YOI units and, it has to be said, football clubs, are the patent for this kind of sex offender. Alpha males of limited intelligence, little education and an underprivileged, often chaotic, family background whose desire to dominate, subjugate and humiliate was not primarily a sexual one, but an expression of their lust for power and control over those they believed weaker than them, to mask their own inadequacies. From Barry Bennell to George Ormond and at every predator in a tracksuit in between, the stench of toxic masculinity exudes from every pore; these are the evil and inadequate men who will act as Johnson’s new security force, while those in government continue to view the working class as cannon fodder for their sordid beliefs in a new world order.

Make no mistake about it; the new cabinet is the most squalid, evil, rapacious collection of neo-Fascist bastards that have ever taken power in this country. This will no doubt get worse when Farage and Yaxley-Lennon inevitably get noseholds at the trough, whether they're inside or outside the Palace of Westminster won’t matter a fuck. The Commons are being dismissed come September; not for an election, but for the Dishonourable Member for Uxbridge’s take on realpolitik.  He’ll shut the place down to ensure no-deal Brexit happens and continue to rule by decree. Within 18 months, we will see the death penalty reintroduced, modern day workhouses filled with all economically inactive citizens until 50, making all the goods we can’t afford now the EU have washed their hands of us and, without a shadow of a doubt, internment camps for those seen as behaving or holding beliefs contrary to “the best interests of the nation.” We’re talking repatriation or slavery, heterosexual behaviour or chemical castration, adherence to a national ethos or forced re-education. Yes it is Big Brother come back to life. Yes it is Nazi eugenics in another name. Yes, it is the Khmer Rouge marching all those who dare to think to the Killing Fields. Johnson is neither a clown nor a buffoon; he is an evil dictator, ready to call Year Zero the day we leave the EU.

Slight Return

Going back to your roots is often harder than it should be....

Wolverhampton Wanderers 4 Newcastle United 0. Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life. If you haven’t chucked your hand in with that shower of excrement up Barrack Road, then you’ve definitely forfeited the right to make any form of protest about the owner or the latest shabby clown to have accepted 30 pieces of silver and the title of Head Coach. That unprincipled oaf, who looks like he subsists on a diet of half a dozen large portions of fishcake and chips a day, has walked out on yet another club, showing he’ll do anything for money, including changing his name from Steyve Brewse, when on Wearside, to Thteeeef Bwooooooth now he’s on the Sports Direct payroll. Fair play to Rafa Benitez mind; he stuck to his principles, holding out for £8m a year in wages and not a penny less for steering NUFC to a finish 3 places lower than the year before, so when that 25% pay rise wasn’t forthcoming, he nicked off. Bwooooooth is probably doing the job for £20 a week more than he’d get on Universal Credit, plus an all you can eat session at the nearest foodbank.

However, let’s kill one urban myth dead at the outset. Bwooooooth may well have been born in Corbridge, but he isn’t from there. He was a Walker (pronounced Waaaaalka) lad by nature and nurture. Back when Thteeeef was a mere twinkle in the Just Eat app’s eye, Newcastle’s main maternity hospital was the venerable Princess Mary on the Jesmond side of the Moor.  It couldn’t cope with the demands of the famously fecund Baby Boomer generation, so the city’s health chiefs, long before the RVI’s Maternity Unit came into being, decided on a policy of dispersing les dames enceintées from Throckley to Pottery Bank and up as far as Annitsford or Blakelaw to lying-in wards across Northumberland. As post natal care basically consisted of a week’s sequestration from the rest of the family in those less enlightened times, it didn’t matter whether new mothers were being shouted at in monochrome by hefty ward sisters in Jemond, Berwick, Morpeth or Corbridge. Hence Bwooooooth has a Hexhamshire birth certificate, a boxer’s sneck, no principles and an insatiable hunger for fried potatoes. 

There is absolutely no need to demolish his supposed credentials as a top flight boss; his own CV does that quite effectively. He’s here, either because Lee Charnley is even more of a walking disaster area than had been imagined, if that is indeed possible, or because Ashley has effectively decided to troll the fans by appointing the joke who combines all the worst aspects of Pards, Juan Cava and McClexit. Of course, he’ll fail. It’s a job second only to leader of the Tory Party in terms of the potential for live-action, slow-motion public implosion of a kind last seen when R. Budd Dwyer chewed the barrel of his own snub nose on live TV. Don’t delude yourself; Bwooooooth isn’t coming home to Newcastle. He’s another anachronistic pachyderm, using SJP as a sporting cementerio des elefantes, where chancers go to die, rich and laughing.

But going back always presents problems. Honestly, I’m telling you, I couldn’t get to sleep for worrying this time last week, as Saturday 13^th July loomed across my horizon like a set of Damoclesean steak knives.  The question where to spend the day was causing me a degree of anxiety that any social life should never do. On the one hand there was the opportunity to attend the Durham Big Meeting, where the inspirational Laura Pidcock, the obnoxiously combative Len McLuskey and the frankly shambolic Jeremy Corbyn were the keynote speakers. Every time I’ve been over the last few years, it has been a purifying experience, from where I came away re-energised for the Class Struggle. Ignoring the fact I’m not really politically active any longer, despite Labour Party and CWU membership, I know I could have tagged along with Ben and Lucy until they began their quest for refreshments, at which point Benfield’s hastily arranged friendly away to Chester le Street, would have been the second part of my day’s entertainment.  We won that one 5-2 and, by all accounts, the Gala was a tremendous occasion. Unfortunately, I couldn’t sort a lift back afterwards and so took myself back to the place that is the source of so much pain, anguish, fear and self-loathing; Felling.

Every time I’ve been back in Felling since I escaped, it has caused an unpleasant attack of the jitters. Whether it was justified or not, padding the streets of NE10 always leaves me feeling vulnerable, exposed and fearful of an attack. It’s never happened yet; indeed, I’ve never even come into contact with people I was aware of back during the tattered wreck of years that was my childhood.  For the last 2 years, I’ve been unable to attend Felling against Tynemouth, so I decided it was time for me to visit this one, especially as there was a lift on offer.

Enormous fun it was too. Felling won the toss, put us in and time crawled under heavy skies on a still day until the rains finally came with Tynemouth 10-1 after 10 overs.  Lunch was taken early, and I set off exploring, up Watermill Lane and down Split Crow Road to where Felling Square used to be. It’s a car park for ASDA now, but it’s in better shape than the High Street, where even the takeaways have gone bust. That ecoli incident that did for Myers’ Butchers and half their punters seems to have taken the last bit of metaphorical as well as literal life out of the place. It’s worse than any East Durham or South Northumberland former pit village you could mention. It’s grim beyond description. It’s hell without the handcart. I was glad to escape back down towards Heworth for the cricket, where things got almost exciting, as we advanced to 89-3 from 28 overs, at which point it began blamming it down and the umpires called the game off. 

The lift home and escape from Felling unscathed justified my choice I reckon, as heading to Durham could well have put me in close proximity to Gray O’Connell, authoress of the scurrilous autobiography  The Prostitute of Felling that seeks to justify thefts from her dead aunt’s estate and the abandonment of her widowed mother for the crime of regurgitating a rosti in the Tyneside Cinema. I’ve not read this 90-page screed of dog excrement yet, but I will. Forensically. I’ll go back to it over and over, ready to point out all inaccuracies and lies. Keep your eyes peeled folks…

Finally, one wonderful instance of going back was a trip to Leeds for Ben’s MA graduation. Seeing him with his Lucy, so happy, confident and ready to take on life, was undoubtedly the proudest day of my life. Let’s hope Saturday can be as friendly and not imbarrathin.

Fire in my Belly

For many years, every outbreak of ill-health I suffered was to do with my mental state; from about the age of 14 I’ve suffered from varying levels of depression. At certain periods, such as 1981-1983, 1994-1999, 2012-2016, so profound and devastating was the effect this cursed illness had on my psyche that I would happily have ceased to exist, as I saw little point in soldiering on, so bleak was my world view. However, the incredible insight afforded to me by my psychotherapist from 2015 onwards meant I was able to rationalise, compartmentalise and deal with the swarm of demons that had plagued me for so long.  In addition, I always say the 3 Cs of cats, cricket and coffee saved my life back then, but I’d also add the support I got from friends within my beloved Newcastle Benfield FC kept me going; we are a true community club.

To be frank, being mentally ill is not something I would wish on my worst enemy. Thank goodness we are now living in a more open and understanding society, whereby people are no longer afraid to discuss their fears and self-loathing, compared to a quarter of a century ago. The prevalence of more tolerant social attitudes is why, when I realised I was suffering from severe anxiety in 2015, I had no compunction about telling my GP and accepting more medication, in the shape of Beta Blockers that keep me from hyper-ventilating during the regular panic attacks I endure. That said, and here we come to the kernel of this article, anxiety isn’t just a mental health problem, it is a physical condition that can manifest itself through an array of symptoms that are neither preventable or predictable. Many of these symptoms are visible. Some of them are embarrassing. Certain are so personally and profoundly humiliating that their persistence forces the sufferer into wholesale lifestyle changes.

As I’ve grown older, my innate and instinctive preferences for quiet pubs, local cricket clubs, games of non-league football and intimate gigs have become stronger by the year. I thought for a while I was just being precious and pretentious and, frankly, I was, but that’s not the only reason I seek out oases of calmness. Rationalising this urge, I feel that social anxiety is at the root of what I initially thought was just my cantankerous middle-aged, nature. I’ve given up going to the theatre, except for midweek matinees, and only do the cinema at ludicrously unpopular time slots, when the place is almost guaranteed to be deserted. At seated gigs and professional football, I can only breathe properly if I’m sat on an aisle, with a clear run to the bogs and an established emergency escape route if I need to get out of Dodge ASAP. Otherwise, I start to sweat, both hot and cold, gasp for breath and shake with nerves, regardless of events on screen or pitch. If this can happen when I’m watching an Am-Dram version of As You Like It, imagine how being among 52,000 moaners at St. James Park can makes me feel?

If that was as bad as my physical anxiety got, I would know exactly how to cope as the triggers are predictable and the strategies logical. Unfortunately, there are two other anxiety-related, autoimmune conditions that I must consider; namely, urticaria and colitis. Without getting too technical, the prevalence of urticaria means I suffer from seriously debilitating cases of hives, rashes, vomiting and unspeakable diarrhoea every day of my life. Urticaria, which comes from the Greek word for a stinging nettle, is an unpleasant burning rash, characterised by the presence of blister-like hives that can flare up with apparently no cause. It is an auto-immune condition, kept at bay by taking strong anti histamines, that is thought to be related to anxiety and often appears alongside digestive or colo-rectal problems, which hints at the next of my medical impediments.

Whenever I’m anxious, I am gripped by an overwhelming urge to vomit; really deep, shuddering retches that come from the bottom of my gut. I can puke just about every single drop of liquid and morsel of food I’ve had that day in about six hideous heaves.  Often it is at the side of the road, as being outside can often bring this condition on, but it has also happened at work and once when about to play 6 a side; crazily, I’ve played football with the same dozen blokes every Monday evening since I was in my 30s. It doesn’t stop me throwing up out of fear and loathing, alas. Thankfully, it has never stopped me going to a game of football or a gig.

However, the worst of all the array of health problems I’m required to endure is colitis; you may not have heard of the medical word, but you’ll no doubt be aware of the umbrella term of irritable bowel syndrome, which covers everything from trapped wind to rectal prolapse. Colitis is another defect in my fractured autoimmune system; ulcerative colitis is the disease that blighted Jonathan Woodgate’s playing career at Newcastle, but I don’t have that. Nor do I have Crohn’s Disease, which is a relief as I don’t appear in any need of a stoma bag to deal with this condition. My particular problem is lymphocytic colitis, which gets the following thumbnail biog from NHS Online; a condition characterized by chronic non-bloody watery diarrhoea. The peak incidence is in persons over age 50; the disease affects women and men equally. Associations with other autoimmune disorders suggest that overactive immune responses occur. No definite cause has been determined.

Back when all digestive tract problems were lumped under the IBS handle by the medical profession, treatment focussed on testing for food allergies; herbs and spices that caused swollen guts and bad wind, legumes (peas and beans) that bloated and bunged up the poor sufferer, high-fat items that caused acid indigestion and stinky farts or wheat, which means life wouldn’t be worth living, as you couldn’t have beer or bread.  These days, like many if not most branches of medicine, the emphasis is not on medication or abstinence, but on managing the condition. What I’ve been told is that since my condition doesn’t have a defined cause, the most important thing is not to place too much emphasis on it by worrying unnecessarily, which is of course easier said than done if you’re sat on the bus, terrified to move in case a couple of pints of tawny, liquified log pour out of your back passage. The argument holds that if I can cut down my stress levels, my anxiety problems will decline and the attendant issues with urticaria and colitis will disappear. I’d love that; I dream of a time when I’m not hampered by a constant burning itch up and down my arms and across my neck. 

As far as I can remember, nobody ever used the urinals at the back of the Gallowgate; walls were made for pissing on and once a fortnight 10 or 15 thousand blokes would decant a gallon of Ex or Brown Ale each on the poorly-maintained brick facades and pillars, causing a modest tsunami of Scottish & Newcastle’s finest to pour down the concrete steps that acted as the conduit between turnstiles and terracing.  Great memories and I still happily micturate against brick bogs at non-league and local cricket grounds, if and when necessary.

However, number 2s are a different matter. Be honest; have you ever been for a shite in a football ground? The first time I can remember downloading some software in a sporting arena was January 22nd, 1983, just before Newcastle 4 Shrewsbury 0.  Kenny Wharton got a double. If the Gallowgate pissers were crude at best, the single trap was positively obscene. No seat, no light, no lock, no paper, no roof, no chain and no water. Mind there wasn’t a sink to wash at, even if the tap had been working. The only thing it had was a cracked pot and a broken door, but I needed it, or I’d have been in real trouble.

These days, all the grounds I know of have decent toilet facilities and this is just as well, because colitis means I’m going to need their smallest rooms more and more often. Basically, after I get up in the morning, the timing of my first sit down is crucial as, trying to be delicate, it’s the only solid one I’m guaranteed to have all day. If I’m in a hurry, I keep it for work as, once that first internal, faecal bung has been waved off to the seaside, what follows is a series explosions of yellowy-brown  liquid that require extensive use of the shower head as part of the clean up operation. I can be in the bog for up to an hour and have been known to suffer 6 emergency evacuations in that time. Afterwards, I am left almost bent double by a burning ache in the gut that lasts for several hours, which can be best described as the kind of residual, radiating pain you feel in your calf or thigh after a particularly severe bout of cramp.

Clearly, if I make it out of the house with the back seal intact, then I am vulnerable to the caprices of my bowels. Luckily, I am now in possession of a Radar key, which lets me use accessible toilets everywhere, from shopping centres to cinemas and many points in between, including my work. As my colitis causes the kind of undignified and unedifying spectacle that requires me to strip below the waist and wash myself (you can’t get away with a packet of wet wipes, I’m telling you), I need privacy. So far, I have been unable to find it on a regular basis in football grounds, even with my RADAR key. This is because, in many instances, there are no accessible toilets. Fair play to the likes of my own dear Benfield, Ashington, Bishop Auckland and Penrith, especially as the latter 3 have made accessible toilets a central part of their approach to inclusive customer care when building their new grounds.

From my perspective, I do feel that if non-league clubs are serious about reaching out into the wider community, they need to include those whose disabilities are covered by the Equality Act. In the same way the clubs were faced with the need for finding a separate changing room for female officials, the next step for clubs serious about community inclusivity, must be to provide the toilet facilities necessary for those with medical needs. 

The Rainy Season

This need to write is a strange and solitary curse; an unshakeable urge to describe and share opinions that brings too often approbation and obloquy rather than assent and admiration. Of course, public approval is not the ultimate aim of our art. Rather, it is the potent desire to put the world right, which can mean topics one would rather avoid discussing in polite company, such as Newcastle United or the current political situation, need to be scrutinised, not just meticulously, but forensically, so the truth can be seen in all its shameful state of undress. All the while, I’ve wanted to write about celestial, magisterial cricket, but the pestilential earth has too often dragged me down to bathe in its fetid whirlpools. Only now, when Rafa Benitez has revealed the embarrassing reality of his quest for scarcely imaginable riches was behind his doomed danse macabre with Ashley and the Tory Party has begun to break apart, foundering on the rocks in the head of the heterosexual Paul Gascoigne body double with A Level classics who will soon be steering his bus over the cliffs, can I write about the one sport that enshrines poetry, with philosophy with geometry in a tripos based on a golden ratio of beauty, brains and power.

Without question, the hiding of the Cricket World Cup behind Sky’s pay wall is a national outrage. I fell in love with the maiden tournament in 1975, to the extent of feeling a scintilla of pity for Thomson and Lillee when their brave last wicket pairing just fell short against the West Indies behemoth in the final. A 10-year old these days just wouldn’t have that opportunity. Sure, there are clips on BBC news and the website, with highlights shown far too late at night, but it isn’t enough. We deserve free to air coverage in the way we’ve had to endure bloody Wimbledon for decades. Though I must say, Sky’s advert for the tournament, where British domiciled and resident citizens from diverse ethnic backgrounds showed their enthusiasm for both the tournament and their home countries was both stirring and sentimental. Never mind Farage, Norman Tebbit would have fucking hated it, and that’s alright with me. Yeah, the Pakistan versus Afghanistan game had an unpleasant air of friction, but there weren’t any boozed-up oafs throwing garden furniture across medieval piazzas, unlike the Engerlund mob in Portugal at the start of June.

Shame the weather hasn’t been as good as the cricket, though it would have been unrealistic to expect another drought and heatwave like last year. Even among club cricket and the Minor Counties, wet weather has been a curse. Sadly, the second Saturday in June provided only my second complete sporting blank day in the last 18 months. Indeed, a combination of excessive rain and unaccommodating shift patterns between Monday and Friday, have limited my cricket watching to only a couple of dozen games by the second week of July. Very poor numbers, but often good in quality, as I shall explain.

Watching:

Here we are in the second week of July, looking back on almost 3 months of cricket, almost exclusively watching Tynemouth. Already the mind is starting to lose focus by deleting unused memories, so I’d best mention certain events that would otherwise be lost to posterity. First up, back on April 13^th, was the tail end of a pre-season friendly at Preston Avenue, when Beverley Town were the visitors. We lost, being so short of bowling that skipper Ben Debnam had to put himself on. He took a wicket with his first ball mind you. A freezing day and I knew we were back, as the moment I wandered in to the bar, I was pressganged into serving pints and washing glasses. It’s always good to know you’re appreciated.

The week after saw the start of the season proper and some glorious weather to celebrate this auspicious occasion. As I’d arranged to take my Canadian pal David to see Percy Main Amateurs v Wallington that day, I got to St. John’s Green earlier than usual, so as to watch a bit of cricket from the far side of the hedge. The Main 2s were hosting Backworth 2s and my attendance was finally righting a wrong, as for all the years I was involved with PMA, I never took the time to watch a game of cricket in this lovely spot. As there was no scoreboard visible, it was all about the aesthetics, though once I’d retreated to the other side of the privet, the repeated shouts of approval and sounds of high fiving told of Backworth easing to victory even before the football ended.

One of the great things about local cricket, the same as local football, is that you’re never too far from another game. David and I took a time out to sup a pair of blinding pints in the Enigma Tap, then headed for Tynemouth where the 2s were engaged in a tight, winning draw against Sacriston. Ayoze Perez’s solitary NUFC hat trick brought the Magpies 3 points against Southampton, though the dodgy stream on the clubhouse telly froze after about 15 minutes. Still, this is a cricket club after all and news of wins on the road for the 1s and 3s made it a pretty good place to be as the glorious day slipped through a glorious evening and a bloke from Hamilton Ontario began to see just what is so special about cricket. As ever on such occasions, Tynemouth felt like home, as it will always hopefully be.

As I’ve mentioned in earlier blogs, the Tyneside Amateur League is no more, which is very sad but, as a newly liberated former administrator, I have to say it is a relief not to have the hassle of organising the end of season cup finals. This year there were 3, over successive Saturdays, all played at Benfield, which was great for the players, but did hamper my cricketing adventures. On a day when rain in the west ruined any chance of play for the 3s and the 1s won well on the road before the showers came, I cycled on a glorious afternoon to Preston Avenue and saw approximately 5 overs as the 2s gently put Boldon out of their misery. After that, another series of frozen images gave us a less than perfect version of the Brighton v Newcastle game.

Moving in to May and TAL duties kept me away from any cricket on the Saturday, where the Firsts demolished Felling on the same day as South North were trounced by Whitburn. At least the Sunday provided some succour, with the 2s at home to Sunderland in the first round of the Banks Bowl. This game will be remembered for the incredible sight of Andrew Lineham completing a 3, which was especially risky as the defibrillator hadn’t been installed yet. It was a cold day, but a successful one as the 2s won by a country mile. Unfortunately, overnight rain meant the 1s away to Ashington in the Banks Salver was off on the Bank Holiday Monday. Just as well for two reasons: firstly, I was at work and secondly, we only had 7 players….

The last ever game in the Tyneside Amateur League saw Morpeth beat Ponteland 2-1 in the John Hampson Trophy on May 11^th. After a couple of farewell pints, I pedalled back down the Coast Road, arriving with Tynemouth 132/4 versus South North; no chance of winning, but every chance of digging in for a draw. Sadly, that’s easier said than done against the NEPL Galacticos, as relentless pressure saw us lose by 60 runs. Clearly SN were a wounded beast with much to prove after their loss the previous week. However, at the time of writing, their 18-point lead at the top of the table over us in second, can be attributed to this game, which is why the loss is so galling. That said, it was great to catch up with JDT and Oli, who are both convinced they’ve made the right move to go there from Jesmond. Nice to be bought a beer by John Tindale as well.  

On the Sunday, I had the chance to visit a new ground. The Banks Salver game against Ashington that had been washed out the Monday before was quickly rescheduled. Ashington are new to the NEPL this year and, as befits a club who once had Rohan Khani as their pro, it’s a good set up they have there. Just off the town centre, it is ideally located for a wander round old haunts. Where Portland Park football ground once stood, there is an enormously ASDA where I went to get a few sandwiches and a coffee. The game was a tight one; we began like an express train, but lost momentum, meaning they always seemed ahead of the run rate, until Jack Jessop holed out for 94 and great death bowling by George Harding and Evan Hull-Denholm saw us squeak home by 5 runs. Any joy was quickly extinguished by the news that Chester le Street, the perennial graveyard of our knock out hopes, would host us in the next round.

Saturday 18^th May; Burnopfield v Tynemouth abandoned. Sunday 19^th May; Northumberland v Cumberland 20/20 in glorious sunshine. It’s always a pleasure to walk down Osborne Avenue and savour the anticipation before entering the County Ground. Jesmond is such an iconic venue to watch cricket, especially in good weather. To be frank, the fact that Cumberland waltzed to a 10-wicket win in the first game mattered not one jot. To be a Northumberland member is to accept that the glory years of 2015 and 2016 won’t be coming back soon. That said, Tommy Cant’s young side do their level best to compete, hampered as they so often are, by call-offs because of club commitments. It is more of a social event than a sporting one; a chance to chat with club friends, whether they be elderly Morris Dancers or Premier League footballers, and to catch up with people from other clubs that you don’t see so often. I’m happy to pay £30 a season for that, rather than £400 or whatever to Durham, funding cheats while still maintaining an air of injured innocence about the ECB.

Saturday 25^th May; Whitburn v Tynemouth abandoned. Sunday 26^th May; Tynemouth 2s v Whitburn 2s in the Banks Bowl. A freezing wind tore across the ground all day in one of the few games not conceded in this competition. The presence of Sunderland at Wembley in the Third Division Play-Off Final meant Hetton, Eppleton and teams from similar hairy-arsed Mackem economic disaster areas were unwilling to play. Whitburn, still in South Tyneside and almost as posh as Cleadon, may be predominantly red and white, but they came north. After Tynemouth had enjoyed a thrash, posting 236, Whitburn came to defend and made 123/6 from 40 overs. The only cheers greeted news of Charlton’s winner at Wembley. Always liked that Lee Bowyer you know; splendid sporting chap… Monday 27th May; Chester le Street v Tynemouth abandoned.

The calendar flips over and we find ourselves in June. The weather isn’t much better as, with Burnmoor at 41/7, the rains come, and we take an early lunch. I selflessly decline one of Di Brown’s Oscar winning Pavlovas and head home for a bit. Once the sun’s out, I’m back again to see Burnmoor end up 90 all out, with Baz getting 5 and Finn fitting takes 4/30, as that’s the time he got home the night before. Another great thing about Tynemouth Cricket Club is the second field at the back means you can see two games in one day. The 3s were playing “Carry on Cricket” with Cowgate, who had got 127/3 from a rain-restricted 27 overs. They are a predominantly Asian team, for whom their solitary white player gets an unbeaten 50 and, because it is still Ramadan, presumably the whole tea between innings. Probably that’s why he elects not to field and does the scoring.

In their response, the 3s subside to 93 all out, with only Jazzy seemingly able to hit the ball off the square. Most disappointingly Dan Storey turns down the chance to be out obstructing the field, by deciding not to shoulder charge the opposition keeper as he was taking a skier. Back at the main event, the 1s inch home by 3 wickets in an incredibly tense encounter that is followed by us heading to Captain Sturrock’s to get leathered watching the Champions League final. Happy Bad Boy days.

Saturday 8^th June; Tynemouth v Newcastle abandoned. Thankfully, Sky TV came to my rescue with free coverage of New Zealand versus Afghanistan, before a night on the Tiny Dancer with the Bad Boys at Flash House Brewery. Sunday 9^th June; I opt for Tynemouth 2s 20/20 group stages against Ashington and Boldon, rather than Northumberland versus Cheshire. Tynemouth ease past Ashington whose game against Boldon is the nearest I’ve seen to a goalless draw at cricket. Boldon lose and show even less inclination to make a game of it against Tynemouth in the final encounter. However, we don’t complain as this gives us a home game against Gateshead Fell in the quarter finals and seeing a bit cricket, regardless of standard, has made my weekend worth having.

Saturday 15^th June; Tynemouth v Benwell Hill no play before lunch. This is the one time I didn’t object to a wet outfield, as I was down at Guisborough for the Northern League AGM on another drizzly Saturday in a whole season of them.  Frankly Jacka the groundsman deserves a medal for getting the game on at all. I get there in time to see the end of the Benwell Hill innings. Meanwhile, on the back field, the weather doesn’t hamper the progress of “Carry on Cricket,” where the 3s have compiled 173/7 from their 40. Similarly, Whitley Bay have got their game on as well in the natural amphitheatre on Hillheads Road. Bafflingly, Monkseaton are unable to play on Churchill Playing Fields; must have been a hell of an isolated shower. Either that or they might have been a few short. Meanwhile Tynemouth restrict Leadgate to 93 all out, with octogenarian orthodox left-armer Don Catley weighing in with 2 at the death; both victims probably born after Don first collected his pension. Fair play to the old lad.

 a collapse of the magnitude last seen when the Romanoffs were herded together in a basement, sees the 1s stumble to 18/5, before the rain returns. I feel incredibly sorry for the Hill, a great club who deserve to press home for their seemingly inevitable victory; the umpires bring them back on and we crawl to 39/7 until another downpour at 8pm ends play for the day. Undoubtedly, we’ve got away with one here.

The following Friday is Midsummer’s Day and Tynemouth mark the solstice with a special night for all the sponsors. It’s also the final 20/20 group game against Castle Eden for the 1s, where any chance of progress was ruined by a loss to CLS (typical) and the cancellation of 2 other games to the elements. I finished work at 6, cycled down and missed their 111, though I’m able to watch a scarcely believable capitulation as a scratch team essay a series of incompetent baseball shots to endlessly perish in the deep for a grand total of 76. There is the kind of rancorous discord not heard outside the confines of the Daily Telegraph letters page so, in the spirit of O Tempore! O Mores! I decide to stop late and get hammered.

The next day is Chester le Street away for the 1s. It’s a big one; Vince is on holiday, so I have to write the match report. Peter and Di give me lifts there and back and, once home I begin the professional task of summarising the day’s events, which I then email to Don Catley as part of his weekly bulletin to the News Guardian -:

Tynemouth first team gave a good account of themselves at Chester-Le-Street’s Ropery Lane ground on Saturday 22 June, before ultimately losing by 5 wickets with 4 balls remaining. Having won the toss and electing to bat, Tynemouth skipper Ben Debnam found his decision coming back to haunt when, with the first ball of the innings, Stephen Cantwell sent the luckless opener’s off stump cartwheeling, producing an unplayable delivery that moved significantly from middle to off. Strangely, after such an explosive opening, the pitch proved to be benign and true, with wickets falling almost out of the blue. Certainly, Mike Jones saw no demons, shrugging off the loss of other opener Nick Armstrong caught behind by keeper McCann, who would play a central part in proceedings, to play a fluent and untroubled knock of 32, before being adjudged leg before to the wily spin of Quentin Hughes.

Tynemouth keeper Matthew Brown was joined at the crease by David Mansfield and they advanced the score to 118, when the dynamics of the game shifted in the last few minutes before lunch. Brown was desperately unlikely to miss out on a half century, perishing for 49, caught behind off a top-edged skier by McCann from the bowler of Brodie Glendenning. So high had Brown’s final stroke proved that it allowed the batsmen to cross, only for the same combination to dismiss Mansfield for 27 with the very next ball, making the home side the happier at the end of the session.

After lunch, Ian Mansfield was joined by the towering George Harding, who decided to counterattack. He had just hit a towering straight 6 when he was smartly caught in the covers by Hughes from the bowling of Whitehead with the score on 150. Incoming batsman Barry Stewart sensibly played the junior partner’s role, contributing 11 runs to a partnership of 60 with Mansfield, before falling to a tumbling catch at point by Burgess to give Cantwell his second wicket. Soon after, Ian Mansfield anticlimactically fell for 67, run out attempting a suicidal second run with Wesley Bedja. South African Bedja sought to make amends by contributing a rapid 15, before being bowled by Burgess. Last man Finn Lonnberg contributed a handy 8, before he was out to John Harrison, leaving Martin Pollard unbeaten on 2 and ensuring every home bowler took at least one wicket.

Tynemouth’s 237 from 57.5 overs seemed to be a reasonable target to defend in 52 overs, though Ropery Lane pitches have a reputation for being batter-friendly tracks and the huge outfield is notoriously tough to cover. A tough ask became considerably tougher for Tynemouth when paceman Bedja pulled up with a back spasm in his third over and was unable to bowl again. As a result, 32 of the overs were shared between the spin trio of Harding, who bowled his maximum 15, Pollard and David Mansfield. They tried their very best, but Chester-Le-Street made sedate, untroubled progress towards the total, with George Harrison offering up a theoretical caught and bowled chance to Pollard with the score on 151.

The total had advanced to 165 when the first wicket fell. Nick Armstrong swooping to collect a Harrison stroke on the leg side, then throwing down the stumps from almost on the boundary. It was a great piece of work and it instilled a minor panic in the home batting line up, with the hosts subsiding to 175/4. Finn Lonnberg, bowling at a fearsome lick, took 2 in 2; both leg before, both beaten for pace when faced with straight balls that kept low. George Harding got in on the act, bowling Liam Simpson round his legs. Sadly, the man they needed to get ought, Jacob McCann, advanced to 120 before Harding bowled him. Unfortunately, at 220/5 with 4 overs to go, Chester-Le-Street were able to pick and choose their shots, with Quentin Hughes’s unbeaten 28 steering them home for a deserved win in a thoroughly entertaining encounter.

Disappointingly, this purple prose was subbed down to 3 factual paragraphs on the inside page, making it more of an elaborated scorecard than my attempt at reanimating Neville Cardus. Even more disappointing, the 2s completely failed to turn up against Newcastle in the home quarter final of the Bowl. Dismissed for 150, our awful batting was only outdone by the awful racket of a prole Christening party. I’m not exactly sure when such solemn religious festivals became an excuse for extreme vaping and heavy boozing by tattoo-drenched short and shifty bald blokes and fat, foul-mouthed lasses, but I don’t approve. At least we lost quickly, so I could get away sharpish to The Burning Hell gig in town.

The following Saturday, I also had a gig to attend; the wonderful Lavinia Blackwall at The Cumberland. Sensibly, I left the Tynemouth v Eppleton game after we’d declared on 199/8, in order to prepare myself for the evening ahead. However, by the time I hit the road, the 3s had wrapped up that week’s episode of “Carry on Cricket,” winning by 9 wickets over Benwell and Walbottle, who had been 11/6 at one point. Well done to the grandads and grandsons who still gave it a go and made 54 all out. You know, I often wonder whether I could still play at that level, not for Tynemouth of course, but for one of the sides desperate for players. Hell of a commitment though. Incidentally, a year ago to that weekend, Tynemouth had made 265/0 against Eppleton at Preston Avenue; Ben Debnam 141* and Nick Armstrong 118*. Neither of them played in this game.

June’s final day saw the 1s in the Banks Salver quarter finals away to Boldon. The Brownmobile gave me a lift and our scratch side, who scrapped, battled and dug in, gave me even more of a lift. I was truly proud of their win in this one, though worried by Wesley’s seemingly serious back muscle injury that may curtail his season.  With 170 runs and 4 wickets, it was a great weekend for Mike Jones and 7 wickets for Poll made it a good one for him. I felt sorry for Benno not getting a bowl and for poor young Patrick Hallam who must have run a marathon in the outfield, but it’s a team game and everyone wins or loses together.

The proposed Newcastle v Arsenal boycott is taking place on Sunday 11^th August; my birthday. It’s a no-brainer for me, as it’s NEPL 2^nd XI 20/20 finals day, location TBC. I finished work at 6, begged a lift down the coast from a workmate and discovered a helpful cloudburst had turned the Gateshead Fell game into a 16/16 with a 6.30 start. I bought the necessary Red Stripe supplies and settled to watch the game, when not fending off inquiries about my bowling figures the night before and the bruise on my upper arm. Through intermittent drizzle, we accumulate a more than adequate 150. A short shower threatens proceedings, but Gateshead Fell want to play as much as we do. It’s never in doubt as they are restricted to 99/8, meaning CLS, the Hill and Burnopfield or Castle Eden will provide the opposition on the day I turn 55.

If you asked me whether I prefer football or cricket, the answer would unquestionably be football. But I also love Benfield and our first pre-season friendly against Bedlington Terriers kept me away from Preston Avenue until after tea, as I hammered shit out of my battery by following it on the NEPL Play Cricket site. Meanwhile at Sam Smith’s, I bathed in the sun and watched a somnolent walking rehearsal for the new season that we edged 1-0 from a Ritchy Slaughter penalty.  Tony Fawcett, a former student I’m immensely proud of, as well as a pal and Ryton’s manager, dropped me off at the club. “Carry on Cricket” was over as the 3s had dismissed Consett for 52 and won by 7 wickets. On the front field, Tynemouth had made a poor 177 all out, but Sacriston were teetering at 70/6.

While Sky Sports News ran hysterical headlines about Sean being linked to a £50m move to Man Utd, we watched Polly turn in 6/42 as Tynemouth won by 40 runs to stay second in the table. A great day. A great win. A great club. The greatest game.

Playing:

So, what about my involvement with the semi-mythic sporting legends who are the Tynemouth Bad Boys? Well, my debut season ended in a lake of spilled Tiny Dancer and a karaoke version of John Trubee’s Blind Man’s Penis at Flash House Brewery at our awards night back in September. It had been a successful return to playing the game for the first time in 28 years. We’d finished third in Division 3, securing promotion to Division 2, with my 6 wickets proving more valuable in the grander scheme of things than my 6 runs I’d have to say.

For 2019, with Division 2 our new home, there was the opportunity to reacquaint ourselves with old friendly foes Bates Cottages, High Stables, Sparta and Whitley Bay, as well as unearthing fresh enmities with Cramlington, playing at “the Sporting Village” at the High School, Genetics, who play at Swalwell CC and Merx & MacLellan, who are based at Ulgham CC. My personal aim was to take more wicket than last year and hopefully not to have to bat at all. I have been more than halfway successful thus far. Indeed, I have shown my determination and devotion to the cause by taking half of my annual holiday allowance to enable me to play. Downpours are therefore taken personally.

Our first scheduled game was in the Just Sport Cup at home to top flight Matrics Barbarians on the Thursday after Easter. As it was still April, the game was unsurprisingly washed out and, as well as a day’s holiday down the drain, with us unable to find a suitable alternative date, bearing in mind we have to take the fixtures of every other Tynemouth team, as well as work patterns, family commitments and sundry other ludicrous excuses into account, there was no option but to concede the game and drop into the Paddlers’ Plate. In the same way, we were forced to concede when Cramlington invited us to their place on Friday 28 June, as half the team were at the Riverside for Sri Lanka v South Africa. I didn’t mind so much as I hadn’t booked any holiday, but that came back to bite me on the arse when a late offer of a pair of free tickets had to be turned down.

Consequently, we finally got underway on May 2^nd, posting a fairly comfortable 25-run victory over Cramlington.  The Bad Boys never successfully chase, so a fortuitous toss won without Captain Sturrock, whose presence for the pre-game formalities is only slightly more frequent than the creased skipper’s blazer that festers at the bottom of his kitbag. We assembled 123/6 in 14 overs, with the partially-sighted skipper registering an unbeaten half century, then restricted them to 98/8, courtesy of a reasonable return of 4-1-3-4 by first team keeper Matty Brown, whose sensible policy of bowling straight, so if they missed, he hit, was crucial in the semi-darkness and incessant rain that threatened abandonment. Thankfully, the rain stopped, the sun came out and my 2-0-21-0 didn’t spoil things.

The following Tuesday, we struck out for the natural amphitheatre on Hillheads Road that is Whitley Bay CC. Having done the double over them last season, we hoped to be able to maintain dominion over Don Catley’s compadres. We did in this one, by a fairly comfortable 38 runs. Jazzy and Tynecastle, who both hit Don to every corner of NE26, gave us a solid platform as 170/2 was compiled. They never looked in the hunt as we restricted them to 132/8. I was delighted to pick up my first two wickets of the year, returning figures of 3-0-26-2, both stumped by Matty Leadbetter, in the process demolishing the timbers like a grizzly bear rugby tackling a deer, after the batsmen hurtled down the pitch and played their shot before I’d even delivered the ball.

If we thought our unbeaten start and top of the table placing showed this year and division would be a cakewalk, the next week’s humbling at the hands of Merz & McLellan disabused us of any arrogance. We lost the toss and their pair of openers, both left-handers, put on a ton in their 127/2. Nearest I came to glory was tempting one of them into an edge, but you don’t get second slips in the Midweek League and I returned 2-0-21-0 for the second time in 3 games.  When it came to batting, we got nowhere near, tumbling to 76 all out. Coming in at 11, I was last man to fall. I’d squirted an ugly, mistimed prod to point to get off the mark, before perishing caught and bowled from the next ball I faced. I probably hit it as hard as I could, entertaining thoughts of long-on and long-off giving up their pursuit as the immaculately timed shot bounced over the boundary, having neatly bisected them. It didn’t happenthat way of course; the bowler thrust out a hand, the ball stuck and we were all out for 76. Ah well, more time in The Spreadeagle eh?

We even made it back there after our next game; away to Sparta at Heaton Medicals. It’s a lovely ground, but one where we tasted defeat by a fair-sized margin last year against the same gang, who were our divisional champions. A successful toss and an unheard of 16 overs a side saw us having first go. Wickets fell regularly, but we stuck at it and posted 145/9, with me coming in last ball and tapping a single down the ground to end on 1*. Not a bad score, but we felt we were 20 runs short. What happened next is scarcely credible. The hitherto perfect batting strip disintegrated as if we had been transported to the final session after tea on day 5 at Mumbai. At the start of the 7^th over, I came on with Sparta 40/5. Two balls later it was 40/7; miraculously, finding my line immediately, the first ball was missed by the batter and struck him on the front pad, right in front. There was no debate about it, or with the next one. Their star player, apparently, came in and played over a straight one and I had his middle stump. Amazing eh? Typically the third ball, perhaps the only time in my life I’ve ever been on a hat trick, was padded away for a leg-bye and the fourth ball tapped into the covers, but I took my cap from the umpire with figures of 1-0-1-2. After that, Gareth came on at the other end, bowled a shoulder high wide for a loosener then clattered the stumps with his next two, the second of which snapped middle stump. The number 11 was absent hurt and so they ended up 42 all out as we won by 103 runs. A proper thumping.

Predictably, we were brought back down to earth with a bump the next week, when Bates Cottages bested us in a tight game that they always seemed in charge of. Batting first, we posted a reasonable looking 132/3, but they got home in the last over for an 8 wicket win, without needing Ross Symington to bowl us out or smite us all over the place. I managed a wicket when their number 3 tried a massive heave-ho and missed by an appreciable margin, but it was only scant consolation. I did enjoy meeting up with Benfield manager Stu Elliott who bowls medium pace for them. In fact, one of the best things about the Midweek League is running into people I know from a non-cricketing context; Stu Elliott, Neil Dick who I used to work with at Tyne Met for Merz & McLellan, Mark Bullock from Newcastle Blue Star with Genetics and Ian Dowson, the writer, editor and fanzine scribbler who I’ve known over 20 years, who keeps for High Stables. Not that I’ve seen him yet this year. The worst week of the season for rain saw our game up at Beamish and East Stanley called off, as the outfield was under about 6 inches of water. Bizarrely, the league call these games “postponements,” with an indication we should try and play them before Friday 16 August. Well, we shall see…

After an unintended free week, we faced Civil Service, who I had faced in my debut in the Just Sport Cup last year, in the Paddlers’ Plate at the Medicals. A successful call enabled Captain Sturrock elect to bat and the game was soon underway. Last time round the pitch had declined as rapidly as a squad of Bad Boys on the Tiny Dancer at Flash Hoose and more of the same was promised when Mitchy, promoted to opener on a horses for courses policy, was caught round about the ankle by one that died off the surface and ran along the ground. The shamefaced umpire D Storey had no choice but to raise the finger, though Mitchy, sportingly, had walked even before the appeal was out of the opposition’s throats.

Wickets fell with the predictable regularity of rain in the first fortnight of June, with only the family that plays together staying together. The two Carr family joint top scored with 16 each and with their rapid dismissals came the inevitable end, enlivened only by a 2-ball cameo by Scoff whose elegant cover drive to the rope was followed by an inaccurate swish at a ball almost as unplayable as the delivery that did for Mitchy. In came Cusack at 99/9 and a cultured leg bye saw three figures up, before Storey was out next ball.

Unfortunately, it was never going to be enough. Captain Sturrock rotated the bowlers, but only Carr Jr really stood up to the plate, with an impressive 2/12. Cusack returned 2/16, courtesy of a routine catch by the Captain and a tremendous tumbling effort on the rope by Storey, who was rewarded for his efforts with a post-match Moretti in The Hussar. Kudos to keeper Lewis, who survived being almost decapitated by a throw from the boundary by Tynecastle, before a smart run-out, still with the gloves on and only 1 stump to aim at. The Bad Boys took them to the last over, but with the field in, specky wafted one over the top and they made it home with 3 balls to spare, to the relief of Just Eat customers everywhere. We finished the first round of fixtures with a close win at our place over Genetics, when we ought to have won more comfortably than by a dozen runs. Big thanks go to Benno who came up with some nerveless death bowling, grabbing 2 wickets for 4 runs in the final over.

When Whitley Bay came visiting on July 4^th, we won by the same margin as against Genetics; a dozen runs. It provided us with a ticklish problem before we started, as we’d 13 players declared their availability. After a series of diplomatic exchanges over WhatsApp, Scoff and Finn stood down and we racked up 123 all out. Mitchy, Davo and Jimmy all got a few runs, but Tynecastle, Craggsy, Clarky and me all recorded ducks. Craggsy, in his first game of the year, got a golden one, but I lasted 4 balls. Missed the first two at the end of one over, turning down a potential bye for safety’s sake. Davo harvested the first 4 balls of the next one; dot, 4, 6, 1, bring me on to strike when the partnership had reached 11. Next one I faced bounced surprisingly and I missed it, being struck on the upper arm, causing a massive bruise to erupt. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the next one was dug in to my toes and I was bowled off my pads. Ah well, at least we had something to bowl at.

After tight bowling from Richy and Strez, the skipper turned to spin. Clarky, from the bottom end took 3 with his flight and guile; all bowled as the opposition disintegrated around the time it looked like they might win. I came on from the top and ended up with 4-23, which is probably a lifetime best, and the Man of the Match award. Two caught off mistimed slices, including a brilliant one on the boundary by Craggsy and two stumped by Narco. Also, the skipper helped me run out their bear of a number 5, who had the power to hit me to St Mary’s Lighthouse if he connected. Last up, Jimmy did a one-handed caught and bowled off the final ball of the game and that feeling of victory was even sweeter as this was our local derby.

So, we’ve got 5 games left, or possibly 6 if we have to head to High Stables in mid-August. I would by lying if I didn’t say playing for the Bad Boys is the sporting highlight of my life.  Just a shame we lost 5 points for conceding against Cramlington.