Joyous Listening (& Watching)

Culture time....

MUSIC:

My last music blog in early September was dedicated entirely to The Drummer himself;

Lord Neilson of Govan (http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.com/2019/09/the-drummer.html ). This meant other recently acquired music was put on a back burner, which was a little unfair on Josef K, whose Sorry For Laughing, accompanied with a CD of their initial demos, made under the previous name of TV Art was my birthday present from Ben. I wasn’t aware it had ever been released and it was quite a shock pitting it against 1981’s seminal suicide note, The Only Fun in Town, which found its genesis in the band’s busy, scuttling angular throb of the Brussels recordings for Les Disques du Crepuscule in January 1981, whose uncompromising power and volume took the band beyond Pere Ubu and towards the Gang of Four, compared to the summer 1980 recording of Sorry For Laughing that sounded like the Talking Heads; off kilter and uncommercial, but not confrontational or uncompromising. Comparing the two albums and the demos, there is a clear sense of progression from proto guitar and synthpop as TV Art, through to the sense of arcane guitar-based iconoclasm on Sorry For Laughing that includes 5 of the demo songs, 3 that appeared there and nowhere else and 5 that also appeared on the clattering, headstrong menace of The Only Fun in Town, that introduced 5 other songs. These 21 songs, plus Heart of Song’s other life as Radio Drill Time, are the legacy of Scotland’s second most important band of that era. In retrospect, I think the band were artistically correct and commercially crazy to scrap the SFL tapes in favour of TOFIT. However, I’m delighted to own the pair of them.

When it comes to live music, I’ve never previously been tempted by the various iterations of the annual Tusk Festival, which has been an annual feature of the Tyneside music scene for more than a decade now. However, news that legendary outsider bluesman Jandek and inspirational French prog iconoclasts Magma were playing stirred my attention. Sadly, they were on separate days so, at nigh on £30 a pop, I had to decide between the 2. Jandek won because he was on the Saturday.

On the day of the event, my legendary anxiety kicked in and my journey to Gateshead on a packed 57, longer than many short haul flights I’ve taken in the past, didn’t help. Entering the Sage, the first sound I heard was a repeated 2 note piano motif that I assumed was part of the Festival. Only when I reached the café did I discover that the noise was actually being made by a 6-year-old bairn, whose parents indulgently smiled on him as they took coffee. Knowing Tusk, it could well have been part of the festival.

Up the stairs and into the Northern Sinfonia Room for the first time ever, I joined a crowd of about 30, in a ration of about 30:0 male to female, awaiting the first act on; Swiss Barns. Assessing this small gathering and the larger audience later that day, it seemed as if every punter attending boasted at least 4 items from the following list: beards, baldness, spectacles, black t-shirt and a tote bag full of esoteric vinyl. This was explained by the racket Swiss Barns made; 2 viola players, one of each gender, wandered on stage, said nothing and then proceeded to make a Third Ear Band style drone for half an hour. While initially the scratching and shrieking seemed to be the sort of thing, you’d not give house room to, in case it scares the cats, a hypnotic undercurrent of Irish folk flourishes was discernible beneath the beseeching wails and pizzicato meanderings. What did strike me as interesting was the presence of a backing track, which showed this piece was not improvisational practice, but a structured, rehearsed piece. That said, I wasn’t sure whether the loud / quiet / fast / slow sections indicated discrete elements or one continuous piece, because of the absence of any recognisable, repeated motifs or phrasings. And then it stopped. They bowed and said nothing while a few people applauded. Fair play to them, though my interest did begin to wander about 15 minutes in. I suppose it would have been a treat for people who listen to Henry Cow voluntarily, but they couldn’t hold a candle in performance terms to Warren Ellis.

The afternoon promised lectures and some sort of experimental film show, but I opted for Benfield 4 Northallerton 3, which I thought was the better choice. I was back for 6pm to see Luke Poot introduce the evening entertainment. Attired in a surgical gown and mask, he adopted the persona of a mad ranting lad, babbling on about shopping options in Withernsea, accompanied by some rambling backing track that had little to do with what he was saying. He ended by repeating the word “fun” in a silly accent for 5 minutes, apologised and wandered off stage. I enjoyed him tremendously, unlike KA Baird who was next on in Hall 2. A woman with a bad perm in a white boiler suit doing a terrible Diamanda Galas impersonation and looking like Robin Trower. She began hitting herself over the head with a djemba, before picking up a flute, which was my cue to head out for a pint. Never mind putting this on at the Sage, if you herded everyone who really liked this together, you could hold it in the cupboard under my stairs. If we did, I’d still shut the door.  In 43 years of gig going, this was down in the bottom 5 performances I’ve ever seen.

Thankfully, Jandek made the trip worthwhile. Mesmerising, otherworldly and utterly uncommunicative, his 3-piece pick up band made the dirtiest delta blues I’ve ever heard. Nick Cave and Jon Spencer would give their eye teeth to have the authentic stench of the deep south that Jandek has. He spent 40 minutes on drums, then 20 on guitar and I’ve no idea if this was 2 pieces or more, but the weird and wonderful representative from Corwood Industries beguiled me. Strangely, a load of the audience were not impressed and a steady drift from gig to bar was discernible. Their loss.

I’d never been to Gosforth Civic Theatre before. I nearly went to an 18^th Birthday do in April 1983 but didn’t make it in the end. My NE3 musical virginity was ended a mere 36 years later when The Drummer Alex Neilson put Laura and I on the guest list for the Alasdair Roberts gig. I’m very glad he did as not only was it an excellent gig, but it gave me a chance to buy his new album The Fiery Margin that was simply unattainable from all independent record shops in Newcastle, which is both disappointing and worrying. Support was from Phil Tyler and a female singer / guitarist from Consett I didn’t catch the name of, impressively playing self-penned compositions from the folk tradition under the moniker Yakka Doon.

Alasdair was billed as being accompanied by friends; viola all the way from Leitrim, double bass (played in the Stray Cats style) and The Drummer, for an evening of acoustic excellence. Ranging across most points of his back catalogue, together with the strong presence of new material, it was a brilliant evening. Shamefully it was my first Alasdair solo gig and I luxuriated in the stories he had to tell. It was a beautifully paced and executed set, rounded off with a highly enjoyable chat over a couple of pints in a venue I’d like to go back to soon.

Following a fruitless search in all of Newcastle’s independent search, I was delighted to be able to purchase a copy of The Fiery Margin on CD from Alasdair himself. It’s a virtuoso triumph from start to finish; stunning musicianship, inspirational vocals and literate, narrative words that compel you to listen hard as the baroque folk stylings where traditional melodies float by as persuasive gobbets of pavane and plainsong. Standout tracks are: False Flesh, Actors and The Untrue Womb, all of whom stand close to the genius of The Drummer’s impeccable Otterburn from earlier this year.

 Being candid, the thought of a trip to the sterile Academy to see The Wedding Present do Bizarro didn’t fill me with excitement, to say the least. The lack of anticipation reminded me of the days when Ben and I had season tickets and, with a sense of duty rather than pleasure weighing heavily over our attendance at a game rearranged to Sunday lunchtime or Monday evening, we sighed and made the journey, nonetheless. However, unlike NUFC back in the day, the equivalent of a rip roaring 6-0 home win unexpectedly sprang out of nowhere. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve seen The Weddoes, but this must be in the top 5 times I’ve seen them, while Ben reckons it was the best show, he’s seen this lot do.  Alright, we knew we could rely on Brassneck, Kennedy, Granadaland and Take Me for highlights and none of these disappointed, primarily because drummer Charles Layton’s administrative role in compiling set lists has seen him take the crucial step of splitting the album up and inserting tracks at appropriate places in the set, but even minor Gedge moments such as Deer in the Headlights and Montreal were punched out with a frenzied panache that showed both pride and professionalism. No Boo Boo. No Corduroy. No Dalliance. No My Favourite Dress even. We did get new songs such as Telemark and a wonderful cover of Magazine’s A Song from Under the Floorboards, which really did make the evening feel special, with the absolute headlight being a simply monstrous Click Click. Mr Gedge is nigh on 60, but this gig was no nostalgia fest; it was a strong step forward, though Danielle Wadey’s maternity leave may have something to say about the band’s plans in the near to mid-future.

Another plus point was the relative lack of boorish boys in the moshpit. This gig saw loads of women getting totally into the band; word perfect singing along, dancing in an uninhibited way and just having a great time, without being showered in tepid lager by balding bozos.

As an aside, one half of Swiss Barns is Ailbhe Nic Oireachtaigh, who is also one of Alasdair Roberts’s friends, as well as a member of Woven Skull. Having been blown to smithereens by their magnificent debut album last time around, I sought out everything else that was available by them. This consisted of one 7” split single with Thor and Friends, who I’ve little time for. Thankfully, the Woven Skull side, The Cracking of the Limbs, is an utterly brilliant piece from much earlier in their career. It’s more like Sweet Tooth or Earth than GY!BE but the thunderous Turkish / Balkan influenced pummelling of instruments is to be greatly applauded. Very glad I tracked this down.

TELEVISION:

While I’ve always enjoyed Bosco, The Late, Late Show and Come West Along the Road, there’s no doubt the best drama that RTE have done this century was the intense Dublin crime series Love/Hate. Gritty realism doesn’t come near describing the scabrous, intense demi monde of Dublin’s violent gangland. All 5 series were brilliant and bruising, but the series never had a chance of appealing to the refined Brit viewing public, more accustomed to Minder and Morse, therefore it is with enormous personal pleasure I’ve not only watched BBC’s Dublin Murders agog with anxious anticipation, but enjoyed seeing the overwhelming positive reviews the series has garnered.

It’s important to note that Killian Scott, who starred in Love / Hate as Tommy is stealing the show as Detective Rob Reilly, with an absolutely faultless English accent for someone born in County Limerick. A brooding, vengeful plain clothes Guard with a backstory as detailed and scary as a Nort Soide family tree, his partner in crime solving is Cassie Maddox, played by Corkonian Sarah Greene, who exudes just enough Dublinese street slang to make her fortuitous ownership of a Blackrock pad  believable. Just about every character is given edge enough that we believe them. The taut, oppressive atmosphere filled with hateful secrets from the past is both credible and unforgiving. This is superb televised drama.

Anyone with a degree of intelligence and a grain of humanity will have come to the only possible conclusion about The Troubles; A Secret History.  Specifically, the British Government armed, funded, trained and sheltered the UDA, the UVF and every other Loyalist murder gang that spent half a century slaughtering both active Republicans and non-combatant members of the broader Nationalist community. Consequently, anyone who accepts this will also sympathise with the aspiration for self-determination by the Nationalist community in the north of Ireland. Read that last sentence properly; it does not say “I agree with the IRA.” However, what I will say is that the Catholic population in the Six Counties suffered institutional racism in a way comparable to the indigenous population during apartheid era South Africa.

This 6-part series, commemorating 50 years since the start of The Troubles brought this out, both in programmes from a Nationalist and, on 2 occasions, a Loyalist viewpoint.  The raving right-wing fundamentalist lunatics from post Reformation pulpits were given scant air time, such is the irrelevance of their ideological position, as were the landed gentry of the Tories in sashes OUP. The Loyalist position was expounded by both the dead eyed, shaven headed, tattooed men of violence and their plummy voiced puppeteers from Sandhurst.  For six weeks the tragic tale of two generations of Six Counties residents was told in intimate detail. Even after 20 years of relative peace, the scars remain; bloodlines in the sand. Let’s hope the imminent reunification of the island of Ireland gives both the economic and cultural sense of ease that both sides deserve.

Sorry there’s no books this time, but I’ve been busy with fanzines you see…

Binos > Brexit

I've now done 21 Scotch League grounds. Here's story of how Stirling Albion gave me the 50% mark -:

I’d like to dedicate this blog to Dave Robson, who has recently developed a far deeper interest in my writing than at any time during the past 5 years..... I'm only joking Dave!!

anyway, the question as to whether I am still barred from North Shields football ground is a complete irrelevance to me; with the greatest respect to all my Shields-supporting pals, I’ll never set foot in that ground again in my life. Consequently, I needed an alternative location for my weekly football fix, so I gave the Twitterati the choice of where I should go by putting a poll up. The four choices were; Motherwell v Aberdeen, as it looked an appealing tussle, North Ferriby v Nostell Miners’ Welfare, as it is a ground I must visit soon, Rotherham v Oxford, as I’ve yet to visit the New York Stadium, or Stirling Albion v Strathspey Thistle in the Scotch Cup.  I’m not sure how these things operate, but 72 votes were cast, and Stirling came out on top, beating North Ferriby with the other two options trailing in far behind. Certainly, this would have been my preferred option as I never turn down the option of a trip along the high road, north of the soft border, especially as this was potentially the last visit I’d make before Jeanette Mugabe declares independence for Chilly Jockoland.

In all seriousness, on a day when Comrade Oliver Letwin stuck another spoke in the wheel of the Fascist Brexit Nationalist Bandwagon who were ably assisted by half a dozen Labour quislings, including the functionally illiterate Ronnie Campbell, I felt I needed to be outside of purulent and pusillanimous Evil England, if only for a short while. Mind, I only just made it; some radgey headbangers on the tracks at Howdon delayed the Metro and I only made my 9.46 train because it was delayed until 9.54. I was riding with LNER, which is an altogether better experience than the cattle trucks of Cross Country or Northern Rail. It was express to Waverley, so I buried my head in the curate’s egg that is Mundial until stirring for the brief, heart-swelling glimpse of Easter Road that tells me we’re almost there. A quick coffee and then aboard the 11.30 to Dunblane via Falkirk Grahamston, Camelon, Larbert and Stirling; for most other passengers, lugging vast rucksacks, it was a gateway to the Highlands, but for me it was a well-known route that dripped football. Bearing in mind I would soon take my place among a crowd of 411, it was of scant surprise there were no other rail bound devotees heading to the Forthbanks Stadium.

I had been to Stirling twice previously; a summer trip out with my grandmother back in 1976, of which all I recall was the baking heat, and an open day at the University in December 1982, when I ended up rip roaring drunk on the way home in the company of various others who’d been there for the same reason that I never would get to meet again. These visits stored zero information about the place itself; luckily, as usual, I got helplessly lost and aimlessly wandered the attractive streets of a well-appointed city, where the English accents of students and academics were more than slightly prevalent. The utter lack of any river on my horizon informed me I was going the wrong way, so by the help of smartphone direction finder on spoken mode, I managed to find the correct track. Out of the charming city centre, across the eye-catching bridge that looks like a scale model of La Salve, fast by the Guggenheim in Bilbao and onto the Forth Path that skirts the demotic banlieue consisting of a Travelodge, a VUE and a Frankie & Benny’s. Once you’re past those, it’s a straight road to the ground, first left after the water treatment works; don’t you long for the days when we still had sewage farms eh?

 Next door to Forthbanks is a swimming pool and across the road is Stirling’s Morrisons; both car parks were rammed with happy shoppers and expectant families at a Gala of some sort. Football fans, bearing in mind scarves are de rigeur among every grade of supporter, were distinctly thin on the ground.  Despite today boasting the glamour of the cup, where League 2 sides join in with the survivors from other levels of the Scotch Pyramid, both senior and Junior and which had seen Bonnyrigg Rose and Edinburgh City progress the night before against Buckie Thistle and Banks O’Dee respectively, the Road to Hampden was clear of traffic.

This is when it dawned on me that Stirling Albion, formed in 1945, formerly dwelling at Annfield, where they defeated Selkirk by a margin of 20-0 in this competition back in 1984 and once managed by Bob Shankly, brother of Bill, are the very bottom team in Scotch League 2, the lowest professional division. They moved to Forthbanks in 1993, which is when Strathspey Thistle, perhaps the best tongue twister of a club name I’ve ever come across, were formed. Today’s visitors are based in the teeming metropolis of Grantown On Spey, population 2,400, and lie in 10^th place in the Highland League. They have been in that competition since 2009 after 16 barren years in the North Region Juniors. Their fans travelled in a minibus and, once affecting entrance, where free sweeties were on offer once you’d parted with your £12, it was clear only the main West Stand was open for this game.

 I really liked the ground; mirror image West and East stands and North and South terracing complemented each other and the whole place seemed distinctly well-kept, especially the pitch which is shared with Lowland League University of Stirling who were at home in the cup on Sunday against Linlithgow Rose (lost 2-0), and a source of pride to the fervent yet solicitous home support. On a day where the torrent of filth that is Brexit-enabled English racism was seen in the abandoned cup tie between Haringey Borough and Yeovil Town, not to mention the chants of Bristol City followers in their game at Luton Town, it was refreshing to sit in the cool, clear air and hear only positivity and advice, rather than antagonistic abuse. This is of course before news of Hearts fans racially abusing Moreilos on the Sunday. Stirling’s ground may not be called Ochilview, but it boasts a splendid view of the Ochil Hills to the north. For the first half, these hills were the backdrop to incessant waves of attacking play by the Binos, as Stirling are affectionately known.

After 10 minutes Man of the Match Sean Heaver ran on to a through ball and finished with aplomb, underneath giant, ponderous Thistle keeper Michael MacCallum. The custodian was required to block and parry throughout the game, mainly relying on his feet for low efforts and telescopic arms for high efforts, as diving appeared to be outside his conditions of engagement, though he was clearly the reason why a repeat of the Selkirk massacre was not likely today. After spurning several easier chances, Heaver finally doubled the Binos’s lead with a glorious bending finish past MacCallum just before the break. The 2-0 score should have been double that, but Stirling are League 2’s lowest scorers for a reason.

The second half? Not so good. News of Benfield’s 4-2 loss to Shields, Hibs conceding an equaliser at Accies and Chelsea getting the single goal necessary to beat NUFC brought my mood down a touch. Back on the pitch, Stirling missed 2 open goals than began to retreat, though the visibly exhausted Highland Laddies were nowhere near the standard required to lay a glove on them. The game turned into a midfield stalemate, when bald, burly enforcer Kevin Nicholl rescued the home time with numerous crunching challenges that would see FIFA delegates requiring smelling salts but were just played on in this game. The game petered out into a 2-0 win, but I’m glad I was sent here rather than to: Motherwell 0 Aberdeen 3, North Ferriby 1 Nostell Miners’ Welfare 0 or Rotherham United 1 Oxford United 2.

An unhelpfully slow return train got me to Waverley for 18.30, ruling out the chance of pints in the Guild Ford, so I collected some tinned Craft Ales from M&S, then took my seat in First Class (£2 cheaper than Standard for some reason) and alternately sipped then snoozed my way back to Central.  A thoroughly enjoyable day, despite other football results and the machinations of Campbell and his deceitful clowns. Scotland, I shall return.

Shoot Out the Lights

Saturday 5^th October was all about Benfield’s superb 3-0 win away to Ryhope CW, to the extent I filtered out most world events, including Jeremy Corbyn’s sold-out rally at Newcastle City Hall, where he was ably supported by the not at all shifty Member for Wansbeck; Comrade Ian Mortgage-Broker. Despite being a card-carrying member of the Labour Party, I’d not been aware that this event was taking place, much less how popular it had proved to be. To be honest, I’m still used to leaders adopting the Kinnock approach; stay in the house out of sight, unless you’ve got to pick up some beers or a curry, when you can get stuck in to the local ultra-right white trash and give them a good hammering in the offie or takeaway. Of course Corbyn is utterly unlike the Brussels Moneybag; he’s a hopeless leader but a brilliant ideas man, whereas Boyo was useless at everything. I also find it amazing how he can generate such support; clearly, he speaks for the marginalised everywhere. Can we say the same for his taller doppelganger Richard Thompson? He sold out the Albert Hall for his 70^th birthday bash the other week and it remains a source of real disappointment to me that I’ve never seen him live.

To be frank, I’m not Corbyn’s biggest fan, but when you compare him to the likes of Sunderland’s community leader, the incarcerated neo-Nazi thug Billy Charlton, or the recently deceased Scouse loudmouthed Trokskyist fraudster, bully, and lifelong groomer of the socially inadequate who flocked to his feet, Tony Mulhearn, then you’ve got to give at least two cheers for the Allotment Gramsci. Being in the toon, the night before the Ashley versus Glazer sludgefest, Jez the Gooner was in exactly the right place to make the uncontentious and highly logical points that -:

Football is our lives, our community, and it’s the place where people go to socialise and enjoy each other’s company…Football should belong to the people, not the billionaires and there’s only one party sending out that clear message. The Labour government will make the Premier League clubs pay money for grass roots football.

Of course, Newcastle United had to weigh into this debate two days late and totally against the tide of public opinion. Presumably the club’s gossamer-skinned billionaire baby owner screamed a few invective laced utterances down the phone to the hapless clown supposedly in charge of day to day operations, with the result being a snide, small-minded and self-pitying statement that seemed to suggest Labour were already in power when blaming the People’s Party for austerity -:

"We will not apologise for being financially sustainable, but we will push the boundaries of our budgets as far as possible to maximise the impact on the team. We agree with Mr Corbyn that ‘a football club is more than just a club; it is an institution at the heart of our communities’. That is why our vast work across the local community will continue, with Newcastle United Foundation providing services and support to tens of thousands of people in our region each year that truly need them. Often, Newcastle United Foundation’s projects fill in significant gaps that the public sector sadly cannot stretch to, particularly at a time when government cuts are so prevalent.”

These weasel words were released on the following Tuesday, when the club ought to have been moving heaven and earth to give Matty Longstaff a new contract, after him and Sean simply played Man United off the park on the Sunday and I even got to see it. A couple of weeks before, Virgin phoned me and congratulated me for 16 continuous years of loyalty to them. I remember. I moved in here on the Friday before a stunning 0-0 with Bolton Wanderers and had the cable set up to see us lose 3-2 at Arsenal, courtesy of a ludicrous handball in the box by Jenas, the Friday after. I cancelled it a couple of years later, but the loyalty reward deal was £10 a month for all sports channels, so I took it. And proceeded to watch the 5-0 annihilation at Leicester, where Brooooth’s team were without tactics, a plan or a spine, same as the Brighton game the week before. Mind the Man United v Arse Monday night sponsored sleep gave an indication of what would be in store at SJP the following week. Newcastle only had to be a fraction less shite than the Red Devils to beat them. Thankfully, Broooth didn’t bother trying to coach them and the players returned to last season’s well-drilled professionalism and were more than worthy winners, almost by accident or default.

What has become blindly obvious to me this season, giving Hayden a free pass for his rash tackle and red card at Leicester, is that by letting Diame go and keeping the ineffectual Ki and unprofessional Shelvey, our best midfield should always include Sean for his vision and passing, and Matty for his tenacious, all-action style. To see a couple of Tynemouth Cricket Club lads absolutely playing Man United off the park almost had me in tears. I can’t remember having such pride in the team for years; probably not since the “bunch of lads” 2010 promotion side to be honest. There’s Chelsea and Wolves up next, so no room for any complacency just yet eh?

Meanwhile, a million miles away from the glamour and glitz of the Premier League, third division Sunderland have, for no good season it seems, dispensed with the services of manager Jack Ross. Yes, the same bloke who guided them to 2 successful defences of the Trafalgar Square Trophy, is out on his ear. Clearly their failure to get promotion last year was a surprise; I’d expected them and Portsmouth to be head and shoulders above the rest of the division, surfing a wave of pro Brexit testosterone, tabs and coastal deprivation. Losing out in the play-offs to Charlton, whose manager Lee Bowyer looks like the only ex-Newcastle player who would ever have chosen to live on Wearside, was a hammer blow to the plans of their venture capitalist owners Donald Stewart and Crystal Methven. The promised land of the Championship was needed to make their dreams of un embarras de richesses come true. Sadly, with defeats to the likes of Lincoln City littering the path to the Promised Land, potential investors took Sage advice to keep their coin and counsel, meaning Ross’s P45 was inevitable. Now, having been turned down by Mark Robins and with Gareth Ainsworth’s caprices blowing in the wind like his flaxen locks, the reality is they might have to give it to Bally, which will appeal to the Billy Charltons of this world I would imagine.

Meanwhile, a couple of events in the calendar caused uproar during the week just gone. I’m talking about World Mental Health Day on Thursday 10^th and Non League Day on Saturday 12^th, both of which had intransigent zealots, who simply can’t recognise their actual enemies, barking at well-meaning outsiders who supported the two events for being tokenist dilettantes.  It’s no secret I’ve been engaged in a continuous battle with my mental health for getting on 40 years now. I’ve also pointed out that being mentally ill in the current era, even if the cuts to the NHS have decimated the kind of care so many of us need on a regular basis, whether that be residential or therapeutic, is far easier than 25 years ago. People listen. People care. People try to understand. Ordinary, everyday people; your friends, your family, your workmates. I’m glad that is the case and I’d not spend an afternoon haranguing someone who has volunteered as a Mental Health Champion in the workplace for not understanding the precise nature of my condition and why nothing is being done for me. It isn’t their fault and I’d be more than grateful for their support. The care of my pals in 2015 kept me alive when others were trying to push me towards suicide. I can never repay them. In the same way, the interested onlooker who takes in a grassroots game at a level they’re unfamiliar with has to be thanked for the pie, pint, programme, badge and admission they purchased. It is £15 a club wouldn’t have had otherwise.

Think about abortive our trip to Brandon United in the League Cup on Wednesday 9^th. This is part of the group stage of the Northern League Cup, introduced so clubs have more games and, theoretically, more income from the competition. Brandon had endured 2 waterlogged postponements before this game, so were yet to make a seasonal debut in the competition. When we approached the ground, including the only Benfield fan who would be paying entry, the pitch was in semi-darkness. Some local scumbags have taken to shooting the floodlight bulbs with air rifles, for what gratification I do not understand. As the lines were undistinguishable from the touch line on one side, the referee had to call the game off.  Here is a club, Northern League Champions in 2002-2003, who are on the bones of their arse, constantly battling relegation, vandalism and community disinterest, suffering a financial blow from this postponement; zero income from gate, bar or bait, but all the officials to pay and another midweek to rearrange. This is where Non League Day isn’t enough and where Corbyn’s plans for football really do strike a chord. All support is appreciated, but hard cash is what is needed.

Then again, Non League Day at Benfield was a massive success, despite the fact my resignation statement still hasn’t made it in to the programme, which also lacked any show of gratitude to the devoted service I put into the most important thing in my life. Anyway, not only did we attract Harry Pearson to our game, a cracking 4-3 win over Northallerton, but also the Newcastle University Non League Society, who recognise and respect our club for the asset of community value is undoubtedly is. Thanks to all of them for coming down, as well as the 250 Cumbrians up the road.

Glazed Expressions

On June 30^th, 2003, Joseph P. Overton, Senior Vice President of the Mackinac Center for Public Policy at the University of Michigan, died from injuries sustained in a crash while piloting an ultralight aircraft, soon after taking off from the Tuscola Area Airport near Caro, Michigan. He was survived by his newlywed wife Helen, though his main impact on the world was his concept of the Overton Window, which is a way to track the range of opinions tolerated in public discourse. Overton stated that an idea's political viability depends mainly on whether it falls within this range, rather than on politicians' individual preferences. According to Overton, the window encompasses the range of policies that a politician can recommend without appearing too extreme in the current climate of public opinion. After Overton's death, his colleague Joseph Lehman further developed the idea, postulating that the degrees of acceptance of ideas by the public can be roughly viewed as a 6 point continuum showing, from the least to most acceptable, responses that brand all ideas as falling into one of the following categories -:

Unthinkable

Radical

Acceptable

Sensible

Popular

Policy

As Noam Chomsky observes; The smart way to keep people passive and obedient is to strictly limit the spectrum of acceptable opinion, but allow very lively debate within that spectrum—even encourage the more critical and dissident views. That gives people the sense that there's free thinking going on, while all the time the presuppositions of the system are being reinforced by the limits put on the range of the debate.

On January 2^nd, 2012, Guisborough Town beat Newcastle Benfield for the first time after 8 previous unsuccessful attempts. The game ended 3-2 to the visitors and there was nothing controversial about the goals. The bone of contention for this game was a volley of abuse by Guisborough player Jamie Poole, which was directed at Benfield’s young winger Jordan Lartey whose response showed he was convinced he had been the victim of racist hate speak, which seemed to be backed up by a cursory examination of the sound recording of the game which had been filmed by Sky Tyne & Wear. Despite the clarity of the recording, no charge was brought by the North Riding FA against Poole or anyone involved with Guisborough, as video evidence was not deemed acceptable at that time by the county association, who had and who retain, overall responsibility for adjudication in all cases of player misconduct. The saddest part of this whole unhappy narrative was that poor Jordan was never the same player again. He lost heart, quit the club at the end of the season, played fitfully at a lower level and drifted out of the game for good in his very early 20s, no doubt disillusioned by the lack of support by the authorities for another young victim of abuse. He doesn’t play at all now.

On September 28^th, 2019 I included the paragraph immediately above this one in a piece I wrote for the programme I edited and published for Newcastle Benfield v Guisborough Town, which took place that day and ended in a somewhat acrimonious 2-2 draw. On October 2^nd, I was offered the opportunity to resign from my role and my place on the committee of Benfield, or to be unceremoniously sacked. As someone who refers to the club as my beloved Benfield, there was absolutely no way I would put my own agenda before the good name of the club so, with the heaviest of hearts I sent this email -:

I have been made aware of an official complaint about an article I published in a recent programme. Having reviewed the content, I totally accept it was an inappropriate item to appear in an official club publication. As a result, I have decided to resign as Newcastle Benfield programme editor and concentrate my energies on supporting the team from the ranks.

Succinct and accurate I thought. Unfortunately, the club opted not to use it and simply tweeted their thanks for my efforts and stated that I had resigned with immediate effect. Now that’s not strictly accurate as I was 75% of the way through compiling the upcoming programmes for the visits of Northallerton Town and Bedlington Terriers, so I ploughed on and finished the pair of them, while simultaneously temporarily disabling my Social Media accounts to get away from the noise and innuendo that casts a shadow even over Step 5 football. In the cyber world, a touching number of people inquired as to my welfare, so I took care to respond to every one of these mates and acquaintances in turn. Their compassion was deeply appreciated.  Of course, the rumour mill was in overdrive by this point; I was reliably informed by someone I play cricket with, who announced to the whole Whats’App group for our team that he’d heard I’d “been sacked for racially abusing a Guisborough player,” which is the diametrical opposite of the truth, but almost an inevitable slice of gossip, bearing in mind the human capacity for salacious gossip in the absence of a complete statement by Benfield. 

To put things in context, I was more upset by having to step down as programme editor than by the deaths of my parents. I’m not being overdramatic when I say that either. I’ve never been very good at being a bloke and so the written word has been my vehicle of choice when trying to shout above the noise of alpha males. The problem is, the written word, on paper or on screen, is more enduring than the spoken one, which is why it can come back to bite you on the arse. On the Wednesday I learned of the inevitable course events, I wanted to die. I stood at Palmersville Metro Bridge in North Tyneside and spent an hour searching for reasons not to climb over the side and grasp the electric overhead cables below. On the Thursday, I contemplated leaving the country for good, getting away from everyone and everything as I’d made yet another mess of my life. On the Friday anger and despair turned to acceptance and understanding, if not agreement. If I wanted to carry on supporting the team I’ve loved for 16 years, it would have to be on their terms not mine. The verbal pugilist needed to take a vow of silence.

While I stand by the veracity of what I put in print for the Guisborough game, I realise I was on a hiding to nothing. What happened stunk, but it happened. I couldn’t reopen the case as both judge and prosecution counsel. In the current world, the effect of the Overton Window on public opinion in an era of authoritarian populism means that the beliefs and views I hold dear, relating to Brexit, the Royal Family, the north of Ireland, benefits, militarism, immigration, the economy and almost every point of political debate, not to mention the style of football Newcastle United played under Rafa Benitez, are viewed by many as somewhere in the Unthinkable category. I’ve got the choice between a seat on the backbenches at Sam Smith’s Park, or being a firebrand who is unwelcome in our ground. For this reason I have to try to bite my tongue and keep my own counsel about anything other people may find controversial which, until our society turned insular and mean, I hadn’t ever thought could cause offence or upset. It isn’t just my club where such public circumspection is required, but possibly every single one at our level. Driving people away because of a supportive Facebook status about Greta Thurnberg may be an unlikely course of events, but it’s something to bear in mind.

Of course, my attempts to hide in the long grass on social media haven’t always worked and I know I am disliked by a vast range of associates known and unknown to me, to the extent I considered the idea of a blog about the 50 people who hate me the most, but I found the subject too depressing for even my self-abasing mien.  Instead, I decided that while my disputatious nature is never going to win me any friends, it has been running for 55 years and so I may need to keep a permanent eye on it, ready to rein it in like a frail pensioner taking an unpredictable Mastiff for a walk round the local park, lest it causes any further uproar. Whisper it, but I think I might just have found a way through the woods.

On Saturday October 5^th, 2019, I went to watch Benfield away to Ryhope CW; for the first time in six years, I was an ordinary punter and not a committee member. This meant I didn’t go on the club minibus as has been my wont over the years. Now if I’d been feeling really bitter, this is the point where I could make a bleak pun about being thrown under the bus; but I’ll not, because I’m not. Instead, I went by Metro, which was far too full of screaming kids, shouting parents and morose teenagers, but it got me from Tynemouth to Sunderland. In the week when a list of England’s most deprived, or possibly depraved, towns and cities was revealed, I find it amazing that Chisnau on Wear doesn’t get a mention. It’s like a full-scale version of Legoland remade my Banksy; it’s 2021’s post Brexit urban dystopia in living monochrome. Even the buses can’t wait to be out the place, judging by my driver dumping me halfway to the top of Tunstall Hill, about a mile after the stop I’d actually wanted to be off at.

Entering the ground, I’ll admit to feeling nervous, so instead of the usual coffee and a chat with the usual suspects, I did something I’ve not done in years before a game. I relied on some Dutch Courage to get me through things; a couple of bottles of Black Sheep, though the 5 minute wait to be served while the barman filled his lungs with rich, soupy, vape goodness out on the patio, did nothing for my paranoia.  Comfortably numb, I watched the goalless first half by myself, while we attacked the other end and turned down the chance of a half-time cuppa in the hospitality Portakabin. Of course, it’s difficult to be anonymous in a crowd of 71 and those of the committee who were there stood near me in the second period. It felt natural, though that could be because of Benfield putting in our best performance of the season and storming to a 3-0 win. Everyone was back in their clubhouse at full time, for a celebratory pint and hot dog; this was a very good day. I even got a lift back in the minibus, meaning this wasn’t just a good day; it was a vision of the future. It has nothing to scare me, as I can now breathe lungfuls of fresh, free air, now that the sash on the Overton Window has been thrown wide open.