Hudson Ford *

I suppose every football fan thinks their team is unique, but last weekend my beloved Benfield could truly live up to that claim. While our scheduled opponents Stockton Town were on FA Cup duty away to Guisley, gallantly going down to a single goal defeat to a side 2 steps higher in the non-league pyramid, we were the only Northern League side left kicking our heels, as there were no other sides short of opponents.

Having visited all the other 19 grounds hosting NL games, I decided to take in a Northern Alliance divisional cup game at a venue I’d never been to before. As the Alliance took over the running of the Tyneside Amateur League, there are now 64 clubs in 4 divisions. Of the 32 scheduled games, I was able to choose from 9 untrodden pathways; specifically, Haltwhistle Jubilee, Lowick, Morpeth FC, Newcastle Blue Star, New Fordley North Sunderland, Rothbury, Whitburn or Wooler.  There were two possible choices, both involving top division clubs in the Challenge Cup, that stood out for me; firstly, Newcastle Blue Star, a successor club to Hazlerigg Victory playing out of a rapidly redeveloping Scotswood Leisure Centre with Kenny Wharton in the manager’s chair and Keith Graydon in centre midfield against Seaton Delaval, who’d lost all their players in pre-season and all their games since the real stuff kicked off, including a 16-0 pulverizing by Winlaton Vulcans. Being candid, I could have seen this one outstripping Arbroath’s 36-0 annihilation of Bon Accord back in 1885. Thankfully, perhaps, Delaval conceded the game, being unable to raise a team. I sincerely hope this is one step back and two forward for them, as Wheatridge Park is of the most charming step 7 venues I’ve ever visited, and it would be a crying shame if such an aged and noble club called it a day.

While I love England’s border county, I was in no rush to visit some of its more arcane, if bucolic, delights, so New Fordley it had to be; a choice made partly because the opposition was Percy Main, a club I’ll always hold in the utmost respect. However, my main reason for being drawn to this one was the location; New Fordley play at Annitsford Welfare, a short distance from the epicurean delights of Annitsford Tandoori. I’ve never eaten in this establishment, but I’ve long wished to pay homage at its door as, being on the border between Tyne & Wear and Northumberland, it has been lucky enough to host a large billboard exclaiming Welcome to England’s Border County with a picture of Bamburgh Castle proclaiming the beauty of the North Sea coastline, just across the road. I’d always wondered whether Carter Bar has a similar sign for those coming south, but with a glorious image of Annitsford Tandoori framed and mounted at the side of the road instead of some ancient pile.

That homage didn’t get to happen as my Canucklehead colleague Wavy Davy was his usual 15 minutes late for the bus, meaning I’d waved the X8 off before his arrival and consequently we were left with no option than to board the self-same service 43 that took us to his first Alliance encounter back in May, when New Fordley had won 2-0 away to Shankhouse. The 43 is a Northern Alliance aficionado’s version of the Love Boat, as it passes Wideopen, Seaton Burn, Shankhouse and the currently vacant Willie John Sams Centre, formerly home to Newcastle BT. It also allows you to walk the country path between Dudley and Annitsford that takes you to the Welfare, which we did after only a tiny detour as I can’t read maps and Wavy Davy doesn’t understand smartphones. Still, we got there, bang on kick-off; £2 in and a free programme means it is a walk worth making.

As you may know, Percy Main are celebrating 100 years of football at Purvis Park this season. They’d had a mixed start, including some thumping wins (9-0 over Delaval and a glorious 5-1 triumph over Alnwick Town that I was delighted to see for myself), but had lost 4-2 at home to Fordley who, only 4 seasons after they joined the league, are one of the very top Alliance sides, alongside the Killingworth galacticos and the resurgent Blue Star. For today’s game, I only recognised 3 Main players; keeper Liam Mooney, winger Aaron Kah and former West Allotment stalwart, centre half Ian Dunn. Meanwhile Fordley boasted 2 players who’d recently turned out for Benfield, in the shape of Liam Hudson and Callum Uddgren, 2 former Main men, namely Scott Pocklington and the redoubtable Ian Lee and someone I’d taught GCSE English to; Trae Rowlandson who, despite covering his folder in Alan Barnes-related graffiti, gained the Grade C that has set him up for life.

Just to linger on the ex-Main players playing for Fordley; Scott Pocklington was a great little servant for PMA until he suffered a serious injury. He was also victim of the worst incident of cheating I’ve ever seen on a football field; playing Stocksfield at home in the NFA Benevolent Bowl, the game was finely poised at 2-1 to the Main. Stocksfield’s then captain Bruce Vause, who is now Head of PE at Heworth School, for whatever reason, took a blatant theatrical tumble, holding his face and screaming he’d been felled by a blow from Scott, who was about half a head shorter and more than 5 yards from the wailing thespian, writhing unconvincingly in the clarts. The referee bought Vause’s play acting and the red card he brandished with scarcely concealed glee could not be appealed against. Stockfield’s subsequent equaliser and win on penalties absolutely disgusted me; cheaters had prospered in the most despicable way imaginable. Hence, I was glad to see Scott playing today, until he was helped off with an ankle injury in the second half. Incidentally, it was 10 years almost to the day since Ian Lee signed for The Main from Whitley Bay, scoring 2 on his debut in a 3-1 win at Seaton Burn. Within 48 hours, he’d gone back to Whitley Bay and was next seen being sent off in a 4-2 loss at Purvis Park in December that year. Ian’s career has been, shall we say, peripatetic since then, but it was good to see he him still playing when he came on in the second period.

Among the crowd of around 80, there were no PMA heads I recognised, though I believe Norman de Bruin and Big Baz the chocolate Labrador were not in attendance, as Norman’s elder daughter Rachel gave birth on Saturday night. Congratulations to her, the hubby and the bairn, as well as proud grandparents Norman and Ann. 

We found a stop at the end of the rail part way round the pitch and watched from dead on halfway, opposite the dugouts, with many others opting to flop out and nurse cans on the grass bank in front of the excellent clubhouse at the same side as we were. Having sampled ice cold pop and large, tasty cheeseburgers, I can recommend the catering, almost as much as the absorbing football on display. In the opening exchanges, Fordley had more of the ball and all the chances, until suddenly Aaron Kah showed persistence down the right and slung over a neat cross that was expertly nodded home by James Walker just before the half hour. Main might have counted themselves a tad fortunate to be ahead, but it had the effect of stunning Fordley into inertia.

Come the second half, Main started to look value for their lead, but never looked likely to snatch a second goal. Instead substitute Pyle equalised with a disguised close-range effort that flummoxed Mooney on 65 minutes. With 15 minutes to go, the winner arrived as Hudson tapped in a rebound after Mooney had gone full length to save. From then on, Fordley played the ball retention game admirably, drawing all sting and fight from the visibly tiring Main lads, booking their place in the last 8 of the Challenge Cup, which will see them host Ponteland United on October 19^th.

We never did get to see Annitsford Tandoori close up, as we caught a helpfully late X8 back to town as soon as we arrived at the bus stop. In town, we allowed the crowds to disperse from the bars to the match while enjoying an expensive can from Centrale, caught up with Mrs Wavy for a while, then parked our arses in The Bodega for the Newcastle v Brighton game. It is almost 2 years since I last set foot in SJP, following a 0-0 draw with Brighton, after which I’d said I’d never be back until Benitez left. Watching Bruce’s abysmal and insulting take on total voetbal, I may as well just say I’ll never be back, not just while Ashley is still there, but while I’ve got a hole in my arse. At least we had peeve to numb the pain unlike the deluded buggers who’d shelled out north of thirty quid to endure that baloney.

Now, I’m a lover of Thornbridge beers, but a flat white IPA such as their Cortado doesn’t really work; it should be a stout for winter. Mind it was nectar compared to the atrocious Pina Colada tinged nonsense Davy brought back from the bar. In the absence of gratis sorbets, several pints of Jarl did the job. They cleaned my palate, made me forget about a first half performance that was possibly the worst I’ve ever seen in 45 years by any Newcastle team and make my legs all wobbly, to the extent an Uber was hailed, last orders in The Lodge achieved and then a good night’s unconsciousness to top it all off. God, I love the Northern Alliance.

* Hudson Ford were a UK rock band, formed when John Ford and Richard Hudson left The Strawbs in 1973. The original line-up featured guitarist Hudson and bassist Ford along with Chris Parren on keyboards, Mickey Keen on guitars, and Gerry Conway on drums.

Over

This is my 500th post on this blog. Thankfully it is about something important; the end of the 2019 cricket season...

Watching:

The 2019 cricket season is over for me. There remains one final round of county Championship fixtures to be played, though the ECB, in their usual infinite wisdom, have scheduled these to begin not on a Saturday or Sunday, which would provide for the maximum possible attendance, but on Monday 23^rd September. Despite the incredible summer we’ve had, with the World Cup and a drawn Ashes series courtesy of the stellar performances of Ben Stokes (influenced in no small way by Bad Boy JED Carr), the domestic long form game is half hidden away by the ECB, who seem to regard it as a kind of eccentric elderly relative, compared to the supposedly much-heralded all singing, all dancing 100 ball bollocks we’ll have foisted on us next year. Then again, our domestic game is managed by an organisation that also saw fit to start a series of Championship games on the weekend of the World Cup final and scheduled the 20/20 quarter finals with such aplomb that Lancashire, with Old Trafford in the middle of hosting the Fourth Test, were forced to play their knock-out tie at Chester le Street.

Personally, I watched some or all of 37 different games in 2019, the vast majority of which involved my beloved Tynemouth, at 10 different grounds, 3 of which I’d not been to before. My first cricket blog of the year (http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.com/2019/07/the-rainy-season.html) contained a precis of the first 22 of these and the week after, I wrote about my predictably emotionally fraught return to Felling with Tynemouth in my 23^rd game (http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.com/2019/07/slight-return.html), so it’s only right I bring things up to date by discussing the rest of my viewing pleasures. Except, there wasn’t a lot of cricket to watch for large parts of the season; having seen the game at Felling washed out in early afternoon on July 13^th, the week following saw an even earlier curtailment. We’d bowled well to restrict Eppleton to 76-4 at lunch, having already pouched a bonus point for bowling, when the skies opened even before the teams had properly sat down to eat. Clearly, there was no prospect of play. Indeed, North Shields had to call off a pre-season friendly that same afternoon and if you can’t play football because of a waterlogged pitch, there’s no way you can play cricket in such conditions. Ironically, it turned into a lovely evening by 6 o’clock, but the players had long dispersed by then.

The day after, which was predictably glorious, I did my bit to support the Midweek Cricket League, who were playing a challenge match against the West Tyne League at Corbridge CC, allowing me the chance to tick off a new ground. Corbridge, like the adjoining Tynedale rugby club, had suffered tremendously from flooding after the Tyne burst its banks a few years ago. Consequently, the replacement pavilion is a splendid structure, almost like a sporting version of the Sage.

I’d not really thought about coming to this game, but umpire Peter Woodley, who had been standing at the Tynemouth v Eppleton game and was standing in this one along with his wife Gillian, suggested I come along. As he’s our divisional officer in the Midweek League, I acquiesced and found myself willingly pressganged into acting as drinks monitor, in return for a goodly share of a stupendous tea. This made up for the fact that the train out to Corbridge was absolutely rammed to the gills with post-Pride revellers returning to the north Lancashire and south west Scotland corridor, not to mention a gang of Christian cyclists out on a jaunt. It’s a good job I wasn’t playing, though it was a shame to see morning cry-offs had reduced the Midweek side to 9 players, because I’d never have fitted my kit on the train. Batting first, the Midweekers amassed 163-6 from 30 overs, during which the main point of interest was Peter insisting one young lad, whose radar had gone awry, had to go off after bowling a series of unintentional beamers. In reply, the West Tyne team struggled to 72-5 before a lad from Haydon Bridge came in and won it by himself. All in all, a good day, but rather poorly supported.

The last Saturday in July was another desperate day for the weather, to the extent that Benfield’s friendly against the University was switched from their home ground at Prudhoe, to the astroturf 4G facility at their Cochrane Park training ground. The Lions eased home 4-1 and put in a great performance, under floodlights as well, so it was with a sense of incredulity I learned of a 3.45 start between South North and Tynemouth. Amazingly, the rain had ceased and so, post football, I headed to Gosforth, hampered by the lack of a direct bus (I wasn’t cycling in those conditions!), which meant I arrived at the start of our innings. South North, the NEPL galacticos, had been having a sticky season of gross underachievement for money invested, though at least with their state-of-the-art pitch technology and all-round hi-tech wizardry, they’d been getting the games on and avoided the maddening stop start playing time other teams had. It hadn’t done them much good, as Burnmoor, Chester le Street and my beloved Tynemouth had them in our sights. There was no way the NEPL title was going to Roseworth Terrace.

We should have won the game. If we had, the league would have looked very different come mid-September. South North had posted 152-5 and we began, with Nick Armstrong and Matty Brown opening, tentatively in the murky light. As Tynemouth are world renowned experts in the art of the inexplicable batting collapse, the first target was to avoid defeat. By the time we reached 50, that was out of the question, mainly because Nick Armstrong batted beautifully; not only was it the best I’ve seen him play, it was the best innings of the season I’d seen, up to that point, while Browny ably supported him with his own half century. As the realisation of first possible and then probable defeat occurred to the South North team, the whole array of shady gamesmanship was rolled out: moaning to the umpire about the light and the state of the ball, endless fielding changes and calls to the dressing room for changes of kit, all of which created a glacially slow over rate until, with poised for a victory charge at Tynemouth 123 without loss with 6 overs to go, the umpires, perhaps alerted by 2 dropped catches by South North fielders, decided to take the players off for safety reasons. Clearly, we demurred, but within minutes, heavy rain had returned, and the game had to be abandoned. South North knew they’d got away with one but, swings and roundabouts, I recalled us standing at 32-7 at home to Benwell Hill when Mother Nature saved our skin, though at least we had the decency to be shamefaced about our good fortune on that occasion.

We gained a modicum of revenge in the Banks Semi final the next day, when we played Crook at home. They are a new team to the league and I’d not seen them before. We made 232, which always seemed more than enough, and they replied with 169, setting us up for a home final against lower division title favourites Washington.

Into August and a real seaside special; Tynemouth v Whitburn, bookended by Whitley Bay v Benfield in the opening game of the season. I thoroughly enjoyed a very composed exhibition of batting in the opening session, that saw us go into lunch 111-2, as I pedalled off to Hillheads. The only contentious event had been a frankly risible appeal against Matty Brown for obstructing the field, when a wildly inaccurate throw hit him on the back as he scampered to make his ground after being sent back by Mike Jones when attempting an impossible run. Frankly, if it hadn’t been for Browny’s back, they’d have conceded 4 overthrows, such was the plight of the attempted run-out. Anyway, after a point secured in a somnolent 1-1 draw, I returned for 5.15, to finding Whitburn teetering at 29-8 in pursuit of 209. There was to be no Stokes and Leach miracle here. Whitburn were all out for 45 as we rediscovered our momentum after the South North disappointment, only for the week after to again see a game washed out, as our trip to Burnopfield was abandoned without a ball bowled.

There was no option than to find succour in sandwiches and cakes at the members tea on day 1 of Northumberland versus Hertfordshire. This annual treat is enormously appreciated by all of us who try to give the best support we can (my headcount was 60 for today’s crowd) to England’s border county, who are still sadly cast as the Cinderella of the Minor Counties. The 2020 season will see a realignment of what we must now call the Unicorns Championship and I’ll return to it, once I understand its ramifications fully. The lads put in a decent first innings here, though other than a flamboyant Michael Richardson knock and a few muscular blows by Oli McGee, there was something rather too circumspect about the rest of the batting. Hertfordshire showed how it was done, racing to 120 off 20 without loss in response to 290, though their efforts were in vain as, you’ve guessed it, rain washed out the next 2 days.

When we finally got some decent weather, it was awful to see Tynemouth 1sts implode through a combination of injury, unavailability, a lack of form and sheer bloody bad luck. Because of Benfield commitments, I didn’t make it to Burnmoor where, at the change of innings, the title seemed within our grasp, having skittled them for 113. Oh, how tantalising was our misfortune to be dismissed for 107, which in retrospect, signalled the death of all our dreams. To the Sunday following and the Banks final at home to Washington. Goodness I was excited for this one; got to the ground early, had a coffee and a chat with Sean about NUFC’s prospects, then saw some excellent bowling and fielding restrict them to 157-7 from 40. You could see it in the eyes of our lads as they came off for tea; confidence, not arrogance, belief, not entitlement. We thought we’ve won this; time to make up for the disaster against Eppleton in 2015. Sadly not; dreadful batting, tigerish fielding and inspired bowling, including a hat trick after successive wides on either side of the wicket holed us below the waterline. Once Mike Jones was out, we vainly clung to the hope Wes could take us home, as a fitting way to end his 2 years at the club, but there was to be no fairy tale here. We made 140 all out and Washington celebrated like crazy, as they deserved to do. It wasn’t funereal in the clubhouse afterwards, but a palpable sad sense of what should have been, hung heavy in the air. The weekend was a massive opportunity missed, with the final providing a result none of us had expected.

The week after, we dismissed Newcastle for 113, with Polly grabbing an astonishing 7-16, and reached 84-3, before subsiding to 99 all out. It was like post-traumatic stress meets mass hysteria. I didn’t make this one because of football commitments, but it was a horrible result. By the time I got to Preston Avenue, news of this loss had filtered through and the 2nds began to lose heart against Newcastle 2nds, to the extent that 54-year-old Keith Brown’s dogged batting saw the visitors home. A hideous stench of capitulation hung over the club, so I exited to the back field to join a crowd comprised entirely of Bad Boy parents, enjoying a picnic and piss up as the 3rds eased to victory over Greenside, courtesy of some lusty blows and immobile footwork from Jazzy. The news that they were now up to second in the table, with every chance of promotion because of the inevitable mergers and resignations the post season will bring, brought some cheer, making me willing to work the bar, solo and unpaid, until 10pm.

Bank Holiday Monday saw the rearranged 2XI 20/20 finals day at Preston Avenue. The second game was Chester le Street against Castle Eden, but we were up first against The Hill. For some reason, I had absolutely no confidence in us for this one, especially as we were required to chase after they won the toss and set off like an express train. While Sam and Benno reined them in, the 150 target looked an imposing one and, sure enough, we gave wickets away like clockwork, playing like the hungover dupes they were. The final total of 68 all out was a tragically fair reflection of our batting efforts. Despite the presence of several thirsty Bad Boys, the magnitude of the defeat broke my spirit and I disappeared home, missing the 2 remaining games. However, I did return to see the last knockings of the James Bell semi-final at home on the Thursday following, when the same two sides squared up again. We lost our grip on the cup with a 40-run loss which, in the context of a 15-over game, is pretty comprehensive.

Of course, it wasn’t just the 2nds that Benwell Hill were able to obliterate; the 1s were susceptible too. The following Saturday, I got to The Hill around 6pm after enduring a public transport marathon from Ryhope (Benfield had lost), just in time to see the best knock of the summer; Kyle Coetzer elegantly displayed his array of controlled attacking shots, with the kind of flourish you don’t mind seeing, even if it’s against your lads and only partly because it’s for nowt. We lost this one by 4 wickets and we lost the next two as well. The last fixture saw Eppleton do us by 3 wickets at their place, but I didn’t make it over there. I did see the final act of the Chester le Street game, arriving when we were 121-6 with a notional 117 needed. Wes and young Joe Snowdon did their best to perform a rearguard action, as did Finn and Evan, who has a classic forward defensive technique that must be applauded. CLS, sensing blood, rounded on our wounded esprit de corps like a pack of famished wolves around timid, orphaned lambs, sending us to another defeat.

Consequently, having seen Ashington play Benfield off the park, I arrived for the final part of the 2s at home to Gateshead Fell, my final game of the year, almost relieved to see the back of the cricket season. My love for the game wasn’t initially restored as, while chasing 238, we managed to stumble from 180-1 to 200-8 in the first half hour I was there, mainly because the shambling, bleary-eyed Bad Boys in the team, who’d been out carousing until the early hours, continued to suffer. That said, strong drink and a late night must have done something positive for Richie Hay as he took 2-30 and made a season’s best 45 for the 3s, who ended their campaign with a win away to Benwell and Walbottle. And then something magical happened; as news of Burnmoor’s triumph against the odds to win the NEPL came wafting across Twitter, we ignored the sad news that the 1s had gone from runners-up to 6^th because of the string of late season losses, as Sam Robson and Jimmy Carr came together to produce a wonderful cameo partnership of thumping and heaving, resulting in a totally unexpected 2 wicket win, that was greeted with mild hysteria akin to a Champions’ League success.

This victory seemed to lift a lot of spirits, as over 30 Tynemouth cricketers from all teams, including Wes for the very last time, got stuck into the pints, often including long draughts of the newly installed Moretti and celebrated the beautiful game for what it is. Our summer. Our pastime. Our own beloved cricket.

Yes, winning is nice, but it was this camaraderie, the piss-taking and plans for the future, including whispers of another shot at the National Indoor Championships under our own Mike Brearley (cheers Poll!) that made it all worthwhile. This, more than anything on the field, restored my love for the game and Tynemouth in particular. Thankfully, I was sensible enough to head home by 10pm, so avoided any chance of last season’s antics when I fell off a table while attempting an air mandolin solo during my dreadful karaoke version of Maggie May. If we win something next year, I’ll try it again! In all seriousness, I am ready for the challenge to carry on watching, carry on playing and, if the weather is clement and the fixtures amenable, to complete the full set of NEPL grounds: Castle Eden, Crook, Shotley Bridge and Willington, along with new arrivals Lanchester and Philadelphia. Roll on April….

Playing:

Last time I provided an update on the fortunes of Tynemouth Bad Boys, I’d just taken a lifetime best 4-23 against Whitley Bay, which led to me to ponder whether it could get any better than that. Frankly, it didn’t, as the rotten, stinking weather that plagued us throughout the whole summer conspired to curtail the second half of our fixture list, limiting us to only 3 further games. In the first half of the season we’d conceded a rain-postponed home Cup tie against Matrics Barbarians as we simply couldn’t find a suitable date to play the game, then lost our Plate contest with the Civil Service, but managed to win 4 league games, lose 2 and concede 1, which was the away game against Cramlington on Friday 28^th June when at least half the Bad Boys squad were a gallon deep at the Riverside, watching South Africa v Sri Lanka, by the time our game would have started.  As far as I’m concerned, Fridays are not midweek nights, so we should avoid playing on that day at all costs. I have suspicions that certain clubs pick these dates as a way of gaining points through concessions, but obviously that’s hard to prove and, at the most vibrant of clubs, there are so many teams that Friday may occasionally be the only option.

However, being frank, there are some lads amongst us who don’t fancy away games if we have to travel further north than Bates Cottages or west than Heaton Medicals. Consequently, the away game against runaway league leaders Merz & MacLellan up at far distant Ulgham only attracted 3 availables; Unknown Hat, Tynecastle and me. Luckily rain intervened as a weekend of monsoon conditions resulted in them calling the game off on the Monday, so we ended up with 1 point instead of -5 and a £10 fine for defaulting, as M&M never bothered trying to reschedule for late in the season. In that instance, we got lucky, but the opposite was true of the next fixture.

Our home game against Sparta was scheduled for Thursday 18^th July; as they were bottom of the table and we’d clouted them by over 100 runs at Heaton Medicals back in May, confidence was running high. Sadly, we fell foul of the labyrinthine Midweek Cricket admin regulations. When Merz & MacLellan called off the game on Monday 8^th July, we should have confirmed the home game with Sparta for 10 days hence there and then. We didn’t and because of that, they cried foul and said they couldn’t possibly play at such short notice. As required, we offered alternative dates of Thursday 8^th and 15^th August; no dice. They had a game on one of them and weren’t available for the other. We sent the matter to divisional officer Peter Woodley to adjudicate and he decided it should remain unplayed.  Now I like and respect Peter tremendously, but I don’t hold with his decision here. We should have had the points; I know his decision had more than one eye on keeping a struggling team afloat, but I doubt Sparta’s continued existence was dependent on that result. However, at the end of the day, I’d rather they played on next year than we got 8 points and they folded.

Right; time for some cricket, at last.  Tuesday 23^rd July was a glorious, sunny summer’s day. I finished work at 4.30, took the 54 northwards and arrived at Bates Cottages just in time to see suspended home captain Ross Symington mowing the wicket. It didn’t look helpful for spinners, which is probably why Benno and Strez had them on the ropes at 12-6. For Corinthian purposes, I sent down a couple of dreadful overs, allowing them to recover to an eventual 79-8, with Benno back at the death to claim two more scalps and return our best bowling of the season; 5-8.  In response, we had an early wobble before the glittering teeth and lustrous bouffant of JED Carr took on the mantle of all-rounder, tactician and player coach, gaining the win by 7 wickets.

Our last home game, following the Sparta debacle, saw High Stables in the neighbourhood on Thursday 1^st August. It started absolutely slinging it down around 5.30, but as their captain said; “we’ve travelled 30 miles to get here, so we’re playing.” Now that is an attitude I can empathise with. They put us in, and we amassed 127-7, which proved to be enough as they struggled to 89-8. I collected my shabbiest wicket of the season, which I’d like to blame on having to bowl with a bar of soap, but probably has more to do with my innate lack of ability. Let’s be honest, the hip high full toss on leg stump is not an integral part of the leggy’s attacking array. I could hardly look at the unfortunate batsman who hit it straight down Richy Hay’s throat at deep square leg. Fair play to High Stables, as they all came back to the pub afterwards and proceeded to outdrink us. Goodness knows how I cycled home that night. I must say it was great to catch up with my pal Ian Dowson who is their keeper; it was just a shame that Tuesday 6^th and Thursday 15^th August were so wet that the return fixture was again called off, having been postponed during a previous period of intense thunderstorms, back in week 6.

 We were back to basking in glorious sunshine when what turned out to be our final game away to Genetics took place on Monday 5^th August at the highly impressive Swalwell Cricket Club, where Northumberland have played Minor Counties 3-day fixtures. Unfortunately, we didn’t turn in a performance that fitted our surroundings, enduring our biggest thumping of the season, subsiding to 69 all out (I contributed a first baller) and seeing them rapidly accumulate 70-1, though I did take the only wicket with another stock delivery; a hip high full toss on leg stump that Captain Sturrock pouched.

And then, the morning after, it started raining again, so it was season over. We finished 4^th in Division 2, which was confirmed at the end of season league meeting at Blue Flames that I attended on account of the fact I was working when the Bad Boys end of season night of debauchery took place. Suffice to say, the captain’s blazer has been passed on to Dan Storey and the season begins again on 20^th April 2020. We have trips to Felling (Matrics Barbarians), Cochrane Park (NE Tamils), Belmont, Mitford and Harton & Westoe (South Shields Bangladeshis) to look forward to. Winter well everyone.

Jimmy Rowe RIP

On Tuesday 2^nd September, Michael Owen achieved a feat I thought impossible; he managed to make me think even less of him as a person than I already did. Without dignifying his new book, Reboot that he’s clearly seeking to sell by means of creating an unseemly  public furore surrounding the deliberately antagonistic and provocative remarks he’s made about Newcastle United as a club, the supporters and his former colleagues such as Alan Shearer within its covers, I have say I am not surprised by his thoughtless denigration of the very people who paid his £120,000 a week wages from the day he signed in August 2005 to the day he sold his helicopter to the NE Air Ambulance Service in May 2009; a four year period in which he managed the grand total of 70 games, scoring 25 goals. Frankly his arrogance, avarice and utter lack of self-awareness mean I regard him as an even bigger parasite on the club than Kieron Dyer or Marcelino, which is saying something. To me, Michael Owen embodies everything I despise about football.

On Wednesday 4^th September, the football man I respected above all others in this region died. Jimmy Rowe, along with dear departed Danny Gates, formed, nurtured, grew and sustained the club I love and who I’m proud to be involved with; Newcastle Benfield.  Jimmy was a bloke whose attitude and conduct was the antithesis of Michael Owen’s, and I’m proud to have known him.

As I’ve said numerous times in articles, blogs and editorials over the years, my first visit to Benfield was in early 1995 to watch Newcastle United in a Northumberland Senior Cup tie, while my support for Benfield began in September 2003, soon after our arrival in the Northern League, when I popped down the road to watch my (then) closest NL side demolish Thornaby in an FA Vase tie and was immediately struck by a profound passion for The Lions. You may find this hard to believe, but I’m actually quite an introverted person and I spent my early seasons at Sam Smith’s, often in the company of Ben who was Andrew Grainger’s number 1 fan in those days, keeping my own counsel. I would guess that Danny Gates, lovely fella that he was, was the first person I regularly conversed with in the ground. In fact, the first conversation I can recall having with Jimmy occurred in the downstairs bar of the Labour Club on Sunday 28^th December 2008, after Shay Given’s incredible heroics had proved to all be in vain as Liverpool laced Newcastle 5-1.

Jimmy was stood at the counter and beckoned me over, beginning his speech with remarks along the lines of what about that useless shower of ---- then eh? When I tentatively suggested that blame lay in the fact that Joe Kinnear wasn’t the ideal candidate for the SJP hot seat, Jimmy cut me dead, dismissing the relevance of Newcastle United. He was talking about Benfield and our entertaining 3-4 home loss to Morpeth Town the day before. At that point I learned exactly how much my club meant to Jimmy; it’s a lesson I’ve never forgotten since abandoning NUFC for Benfield in summer 2009. One of the reasons I felt able to throw off the shackles of Newcastle United was a conversation I had with Jimmy at Blue Flames on Friday 15^th May 2009, in the immediate aftermath of Benfield completing the League and Cup double with a 2-0 win over Penrith. If you were there that night, you’ll remember Andy Grainger’s incredible performance and Ian Graham’s wonderful goal. It truly was a special night and when discussing how good a performance it had been with Jimmy, he invited me to the club’s end of season do at The Turbinia the next night. After I’d graciously accepted and turned to go, Jimmy called me back and said; Mind, bring your lass as well. If ever you want an example of the social inclusivity and community-orientated nature of the club that Jimmy built; this was it. Laura had only been to Sam Smith’s on about a dozen occasions, but Jimmy had remembered and insisted she come along to share in the celebrations. It was one hell of a great night as well.

 Once I came on board with the club, Jimmy was always supportive of me in the role of the programme editor. My first effort was for Andy Grainger’s testimonial in July 2014 against Darlington. When I arrived at the ground, he shook my hand and told me how much he appreciated what I’d done. From that point on, I have always been proud to know that Jimmy was in my corner. He offered sage advice that could be both blunt and oath-edged, especially regarding my hairstyle and size, but which was given honestly and with the best intentions. Certainly, during some of the difficult times I had between 2015 and 2018, I knew I could rely on his (and Dave Robson’s) unstinting support, for which I’ll be eternally grateful, though I never was sure how serious his threat to buy me a suit was…

Without Jimmy Rowe, Danny Gates and John Colley, I wouldn’t have a team to support, so if I’m being entirely selfish, they have influenced and improved my life immeasurably. However, looking at the broader picture, the east end of Newcastle as a whole has benefitted from the oak tree that is Newcastle Benfield, that grew from the acorn of The Corner House FC playing on Walker Park in the bottom division of the Alliance. Jimmy’s whole aim was for the club to push on and improve. I remember after our record league win, an 11-1 thumping of Ryhope CW in November 2016; Jimmy’s first comment at full time was stupid goal we conceded there, which was so typical of him striving for excellence. Players, spectators, coaches, helpers, staff, committee and all their families have reason to thank Jimmy, which is why I believe every game that Benfield play from this day one will be a tribute to Jimmy. We will never forget him.

The Drummer

Rock and fucking Roll....

Third night of a long weekend away from his home in Govan and The Drummer is battle fatigued. Succour is provided by a night off the piss, rehydrated by orange squash and PG Tips, he’s just got to get through one final show, then straight up the high road home. While The Drummer plays Leeds, Birmingham and Newcastle, Govan has been burning. It’s not the Watts Riots, but a two day tense Mexican stand off  between the green and orange tribes who interpret the importance of 17^th Century Irish History in vastly different ways, topped off by a 2-0 win for the Tic at the Big House that will pour more oil on troubling bonfires of vanity and hatred.. Will ye no come back again? Surely, but there’s a job of work to do first…

Back in the day, the Hunnish Horde referred to their mildly schizophrenic, ultra Loyalist last line of defence, Andy Goram simply as The Keeper. Bad, bad man though he was, it was a truth universally acknowledged that Goram was the best at his craft in 90s Glasgow. You didn’t use his name in case you wore it out.  A generation on, another colossus bestrides the known world of percussion, towering far above all others; Alex Neilson, though we call him The Drummer. He used to be the paterfamilias of the 21^st Century’s best band, Trembling Bells. He’s drummed and yelped for a dozen left and ultra left field outfits, from Shirley Collins and Miker Heron (he’s here tonight) to Tight Meat by way of Jandrek, Alasdair Roberts (The Drummer will be back in town with him soon) and Death Shanties. Right now he’s just finished the second leg of a tour promoting 2019’s best album, Otterburn, before cooling his ardour by coquettishly announcing a forthcoming release called Andromeda. We can’t wait, but we have to.

And so tonight; The Cumberland Arms, like the Star and Shadow, is a venue inextricably linked with The Drummer’s performances on Tyneside. Trembling Bells burned it down on half a dozen occasions, the last time we were here was for our dear Lavinia Blackwall and Stilton at the end of June, and tonight it will again be reduced to a crumbling shell of ash and metallic detritus after the show is over. First up, it’s Nev Clay, who is pretty much ubiquitous at these affairs, so we give him a miss and concentrate on the gloriously hoppy, hazy and citrus-tinged 4.2% Almasty IPA.  On second are Cath and Phil Tyler and, without question, it’s the best we’ve ever seen them. Taut, but not overwrought, it’s the sound of dirt poor, dustbowl demonic possession; Flannery O’Connor goes sean nos. I found them captivating.

Then, the time comes for The Drummer and his accomplices. Guitars and bass are provided by Audrey Bizouerne and Rory Haye, who regularly swap instruments with gifted nonchalance and are the equals of Mike Hastings and Simon Shaw, which is some compliment, while Georgia Seddon (daughter of Mike Heron and a regular collaborator over the years) tinkles the ivories.  Then there’s the bloke who runs the show. Normally we’re used to seeing him flounce onstage in a gaudy, diaphanous silken kaftan and fluorescent corduroy slacks, but it’s a different vibe he’s moving to this evening. Now he’s front of house, in an Art Blakey or Buddy Rich style, The Drummer dresses wicked. A sensible number 2 crop, hidden underneath a peaked cap, a pink polo, Sta-Press  slacks and Oxblood loafers takes him many miles from the shaggy haired Maoist beatnik counter culture and puts him right in the middle of the fairway as a kind of golfer with attitude, fashioned by Richard Allen.

The music is, as expected, perfect. Most of Otterburn gets an airing, augmented and indeed improved with virtuoso stickwork; it’s the equivalent of flamenco drumming, with each fill, riff and solo flying off to the outer spaces of your mind. It’s The Sun Ra Percussive Headfuck and I’m glad I’m here. Master, Dildos of Carbeth and a celebratory version of The Cruel Rule justify our attendance.. And then, the moment, the song, the purpose; Otterburn was inspired by the tragic death of Alastair Neilson in summer 2017 and we must never forget that. However, such heartbreak has forged the finest art and that includes a cover version of Luke Kelly’s Night Visiting Song so beautiful that I can’t listen to it without crying, in sadness and euphoria.

The oldest Neilson brother Oliver filmed a video for Night Visiting Song that was focussed around The Drummer walking south across the High Level Bridge towards Gateshead. Unknown to the brothers, this was a journey often taken by Luke Kelly. Long before The Dubliners formed, Luke came to England to make a living and the first place he worked was Newcastle on Tyne (with his navvy boots on, no doubt). At this time, he didn’t sing in public, being more concerned, as a Nortsoide Gurrier, with playing football. Settling on Coatsworth Road, he turned out several times for Gateshead Reserves, but also enjoyed a jar. Around this time, we’re talking 1959 to 1961, the Tyneside Irish diaspora congregated around The Bridge Hotel, where ex-pat Paddies  of the first and second generation, like Louis Killen and Tony Corcoran, formed a folk club. It was the first place Luke Kelly ever sang in public. It was the only place he ever sang duets with my old fella Eddy Cusack, other than walking back across the High Level Bridge when the last bus was long gone. So, you see, the song means a bit to me, but then every song The Drummer does means a lot to me. I defy you to listen to the acapella Smoke and Memory without dissolving into tears.

Despite not feeling the full shilling, The Drummer and his band harvest diamonds all night long. Once it’s over, we exchange hugs, while he listens, deferentially and half embarrassed, to effusive praise that he hears every time he does a gig. Soon, they have to load up and leave. We have one last Almasty for the road and start counting the seconds until Andromeda is upon and among us. For the avoidance of doubt, Alex Neilson is a genius beyond compare.