Alone Again, Naturally.....

Alone Again Naturally…

During the late afternoon of Sunday 29 December, it finally hit home that I don’t really have anyone I can call a close friend. Since Christmas, I’d spent most of the time in the long grass; laying low around the house, catching up on some reading and doing a spot of writing, with the only significant spell outdoors being a trip up in the hills for rather too much fresh air, to watch my beloved Benfield draw 1-1 with Consett. With my head in the clouds, I had a wonderful time catching up with my old pal Neil Farrington, decrying the falling educational and broadcasting standards in this country, while watching an entertaining contest that deservedly ended all square. My other companion on the day was my mate, and oftentimes chauffeur, Gary Thompson; another bloke I’m deeply grateful to know. It was great to have an ordinary day made special with such great company.

Despite the distances involved, I was back indoors by 6pm and didn’t stir again for the rest of the night. Hence by midday Sunday, I was starting to go stir crazy. Cabin fever had me crawling the walls, desperate for company and conversation, with only the cats to talk to, as Laura was spending the day with her mother. For a while, I fell into a black hole of social media and Sky Sports News updates as a bad day’s football unfolded; Hibs lost away to Livingston and Sunderland won at Doncaster, though at least MK Dons thumped Portsmouth. It wasn’t enough of a diversion though; I craved human interaction. Thirsty, antsy and irritable, darkness told me the pub was the only realistic option for me, though it seemed that I was destined to spend a few further solitary hours with only pints for company, as seemingly all my entreaties and exhortations on Twitter and WhatsApp, were either politely rebuffed or, more poignantly, ignored. Hence, I sat in The Lodge with Bass for succour, contemplating how my life had reached this point, whereby almost all of my old acquaintances have become sworn enemies, while my current ones tend to hold me at arm’s length. This is a state of affairs that is, unquestioningly, of my creation. However, and this may surprise you, I would contend it isn’t my fault, as in many instances, the situation that caused the fracturing of cordial relations, was engineered by me in the first place.

Over the years, it’s almost impossible to keep tally of the number of friends I’ve lost, but here goes my attempt to chronicle a few of them; probably my first serious experience of antagonistic victimhood was with the likes of Andy Balman and Neil Mackie, who did so much to destroy the original spirit of Riverside and the editorial independence of Paint it Red. It wrecked much of my social life at the time, but I feel justified in my stance, as it saw the obliteration of Newcastle’s music scene for a few years. Thankfully, due to a new generation of promoters, the city has never had a more diverse set of venues. Perhaps those involved learned from the past; indeed, Balman and I enjoyed a pacifying handshake at the Riverside book launch a good few years ago.

However, music is one thing; football is quite another. The overwhelmingly macho, patriarchal nature of the culture surrounding football on Tyneside means, aggressive, testosterone-fuelled posturing is a default position for so many involved in the beautiful game. As an example, most of my dealings with (former) NUFC fanzine editors, ended in recriminations and confrontations; initially it was the neo-Nazi nutcase Kevin Fletcher for his incessant homophobia, but that was 25 years ago or more. With Mark Jensen, it was because I questioned the quality of The Mag while still a contributor, with the effusive, good-natured Michael Martin, I was rusticated after I went off message from True Faith’s ethical standpoint. Goodness how I remember the hilarious “intervention” when the two of them called me into The Back Page, to play hard man / soft man with me.

Other Newcastle United related fallings-out include the gossamer-skinned journalist and opportunist author Martin Hardywho, despite a pronounced overbite, tried to set his face in a permanent scowl,  after I queried the veracity of his unfounded claims that all of our Muslim players would refuse to play for the club in Wonga shirts, with his batman and chief cheerleader Mike “Biffa” Bolam from nufc.com declaring war on me, for unspecified reasons, in several pubs and non-league grounds in subsequent years. The cause of his ire he has not expressly divulged to me, but he is one angry, protective man.

Additionally, there are several keyboard warriors I’ve had negative experiences with over the years, mainly because I’m humiliated them with logic in taking down their ultra-right-wing political opinions, as well as their all-round ignorance; most recently it was with Toontastic thicko Steve Richards, now banned from Twitter for his endless tirades of hate speech. Many years ago, it was www.skunkers.co.uk founder, the educationally challenged former criminal Neil Walls, and his camp followers the diminutive  accountant Steve Huddart, who physically attacked me in The Bodega, not to mention the notorious golfing BNP supporter David Bryan, who is possibly the most unhinged person I’ve ever met, all fall into the messageboard maniac category. Actually, hold that award; failed football hooligan Steven “Dole” Office and his close companion with the cuboid cranium David Dumble, combine zero intelligence, with threats of violence and an unapologetic Fascist ideology. Mind, they came off second best because of interventions when they tried to attack me the other year. Same as pretend NME toughy Sidney Yellowgrass, who tried to throw his weight around in The Newcastle Arms the other year, ironically out of slavish devotion to sock and tassle entrepreneur with his own overbite problem, the messianic Reuven Fletcher, who must be on first name terms with Winton Keenen, as he’s had the coppers to my door at least 4 times, including getting me banged up once. The fact I received zero cautions and faced a similar number of prosecutions after his allegations tells its own tale I feel.

In all honesty, other than Simon, there’s only Mike Bolam from that list I actually have some regret about the ending of any social interaction with. The rest of them, and I’m very firm on this point, temperamentally, ideologically or even both together, are not the kind of people I would wish to associate with for obvious reasons. I don’t hate any of them, even the ones whose physical attacks have sprung from the power of my words and the strength of my beliefs, but I do want them out of my life. On my terms it should be noted.

To be frank, I do harbour a pathological and ideological hatred of certain social groups and organisations; I hold Christians, bald, aggressive working class, alpha males and Leninist and Trokskyist Vanguardistas in utter contempt. I despise them, almost as much as I despise the Tyne & Wear Metro and Northumbria Police. The latter organisations have incurred my wrath because of my repeated, negative experiences when in contact with them. They are institutionally dedicated to persecuting me. Make no mistake these evil corporate entities won’t settle until they have killed me.

If I have reached the situation whereby family relations have fractured to the extent that my mentally-ill and emotionally inadequate sister, with her even more pitiful squad of lickarses, including daft Denver, and other weak failures, including Larry the Lisp, who have achieved the square root of fuck all while on  this earth, can report me to the coppers as regularly as Reuven Fletcher, with the same result in terms of prosecutions, I can live with explosions of anger from the likes of former childhood pal, the egregious social hand grenade, Garry Blythe without turning a hair. I may often walk alone, but I do so in complete awareness that I need never to apologise for or explain my actions. I will always tell the truth.

On that Sunday night, I was delighted see fellow Bad Boy Lee Reed when he popped into the Lodge for a couple of pints, en route to a Mexican meal with friends and family. No sooner had he lit out in search of tacos and tortillas than a superbly squiffy Steve Brown shambled through the door, portion of still wrapped curry and chips in hand, for several large G&Ts that ended the evening splendidly. Their visits rendered such good cheer that I could watch EFL on Quest and then Sportscene without grimaces, tears or even a superfluous deoch an doris. A great evening spent in great company; proof that you should keep in touch with your mates at all times.