Star Struck

On Saturday, I went to watch Newcastle Blue Star and bumped into a couple of people I knew -:

I’ve said many times in the past that I’m not a groundhopper, but a ground collector. The essential semantic difference being that I don’t make the pursuit of ticking off grounds the raison d’etre of my football adventures. However, having opted out of Benfield’s trip to Guisborough where we collected a welcome, deserved point, I’m glad to say I’ve been able to track down and eliminate a previously unvisited treasure that means my Northern Alliance Premier Division set is again complete. Scotswood Leisure Centre has long been an Alliance ground, mainly as the home venue of Grainger Park Boys Club. A few years ago, they quit the league and the ground lay fallow until one of those baffling mergers, takeovers and renaming exercises that regularly muddy the waters at Step 7 and below in our region.

Stepping down even further, Hazlerigg Victory were the ultimate success stories of my time involved with the Tyneside Amateur League. Reforming in 2007, initially as a Sunday team, Mark Bullock’s side conquered all before them when they opened a Saturday scion, enjoying 4 straight promotions until they hit the buffers in summer 2018, as their Hazlerigg Welfare base was unsuited to top division Alliance football, on account of the absence of such features as a permanent rail round the pitch. The solution came in the shape of an offer to use the Grainger Park ground, providing Hezzy changed their name to Blue Star. It was a way to bring one of the most famous names in north east non-league football out of an induced coma. The former Scottish & Newcastle Brewery works team, who won the FA Vase in 1978 as a Wearside League club, joined the Northern League in 1985, playing their home games at the Wheatsheaf Ground, now known as Druid Park and used by West Allotment Celtic. They were a successful and well-respected outfit, but it was a bolt from the blue when they moved to nearby Kingston Park, home of the Falcons, and took promotion after being invited to join the Northern Premier League in summer 2007. The move wasn’t a success.

On 8 March 2008, Newcastle Blue Star asked the FA if they could take the place of the relegated team in the league. The reason being that the costs of playing in this division were unsustainable, because they were the only Newcastle based team in the division. The Northern League said that they would welcome the team back, but on 4 April it was announced that the league had allowed Blue Star to stay in the Northern Premier League as they had withdrawn their request for relegation. Despite massive overheads, Blue Star went from strength to strength on the pitch. In 2008/09, NBS finished third in the Northern Premier League Division One North and were promoted to the Northern Premier League Premier Division after a 4–1 victory over Curzon Ashton at Kingston Park in the Play-off final. The joy was short lived and illusory. On 11 May 2009, it was announced that the club was facing the possibility of folding after being hit with a demand to repay £65,000 of loans previously made by the Football Stadia Improvement Fund to improve the club's former Wheatsheaf Ground, because the club was no longer playing there. Although Blue Star were offered the option of repaying the debt in instalments, the club chose to cease operations in June 2009.

And that was where the story ended, until Hazlerigg’s privations provided the chance to hitch a ride on a Trojan horse headed for a marriage of convenience. Eighteen months later, Blue Star sit on top of the Alliance, fighting for the title with other Alliance galacticos, such as New Fordley and Killingworth, with Ponteland United and the revitalised Blyth Town also in the mix. Undoubtedly, any one of these sides would massively improve the playing standards of the largely dire Northern League second division. However, there’s still a while to go until the season ends, so it’s a contest well worth keeping your eye on.

As I mentioned, Benfield’s trip to Guisborough granted me the opportunity to visit Blue Star. Taking the #1 bus outside what used to be the Odeon, I seemed to lose track of where we were once we passed the (closed) Villa Vitoria at Rye Hill. Cruddas Park appears to have been remodelled and renovated; affordable newbuilds stand side by side with streets of spruced up social housing. South Benwell formerly a den of low-rent houses of multiple occupancy, is now a distinctly shabby area of high-rent houses of multiple occupancy. From Armstrong Road onwards, there isn’t anything down towards the river; brownfield detoxing and second-generation slum clearances have resulted in a superabundance of empty, unused land. Fit for redevelopment, this hasn’t happened yet, while high wire fences and regular warnings about security patrols keep the bare earth free from fly-tipped mattresses, furniture and garden waste that populate every back lane and abandoned from garden in the entire NE15 area.

Scotswood Sports Centre springs up out of nowhere behind a clump of trees at the bottom of Denton Road. I get off the bus, straight into the teeth of Storm Dennis for the second Saturday running. Only 4 Northern League games have survived the wet weather, while half a dozen 4G pitches host Alliance games; this is the only one on grass. At a higher level, the squelching pitch wouldn’t be deemed playable. However, we’re in the Best End and nothing makes a Westender cry off, other than an Eastender of course.

I nip into the Bobby Robson lounge for a quick coffee before kick-off. The place is rammed and it’s clear the regulars all know each other. There’s a vibe about the place, as shown by the prevalence of Blue Star hats and scarves to keep the chill out. Slaloming down the hill to the newly enclosed ground, for which many exciting plans are proposed, I see a queue to get in. This is a rare occurrence in the Alliance, as is the entry fee (£3) and programme. With a reported record crowd of 470, this is a club ready to go places, though I would counsel patience as floodlights, drainage and a combined stand and changing rooms should be prioritised, rather than earmarked for simultaneous installation. Hard standing would be my immediate suggestion as the ankle-deep, touchline mud is taking its toll on many pairs of expensive trainers.

Snug in my Jack Wolfskin walking boots, I take a vantage point at the top right corner in the company of the man with the hardest left foot in the West, Gouldy, so as to assess the Blue Star style of play. After an opening whirlwind of rash challenges, overhit crosses and poor short balls on a difficult surface, the opposition come right in to the game. Winlaton Vulcans, formerly known as Ryton & Crawcrook Albion Reserves, are another ex-Tyneside Amateur side who’ve climbed the divisions, quietly and efficiently. Despite the big names and bigger egos in black and white, the modest club from Shibdon Park are by far the more composed side.  They are regularly gifted possession by a panicking home side, who look to clear first and scream recriminations later. Therefore, it is against the run of play when Blue Star take the lead with a looping back post header by Euan Henderson from a corner that drops in over the stranded, shortish Winlaton keeper on 27 minutes. It is the only time the home side properly threaten all afternoon.

After the break, having waded back to the entrance to use the facilities, I decided not to repeat the journey and settled for a spot behind the goal, where Blue Star were attacking. Within 5 minutes, my companion for the rest of the game joined me; Mr Peter Beardsley, the greatest player I have ever seen in a black and white shirt.  Of course, the fall-out and repercussions from his departure from Newcastle United mean he is currently unable to work in the game he loves and where he distinguished himself for so long. Having been in Peter’s company many times in the past, as well as working with his daughter Stacey a few years ago, I wouldn’t claim to know him, but we have been acquainted. I simply would not, and could not, break his confidence by revealing what we talked about, but suffice to say, he knows more about football than everyone else I’ve ever talked to about the game. His razor-sharp recollection of the smallest details of Newcastle United’s fortunes during his time, regarding games, goals, team mates and opponents, is mind boggling. It’s not often you come away from a game feeling honoured, but I did today.

Sadly, Peter’s old colleague Kenny Wharton probably didn’t enjoy the day as much as I did, on account of an effective and efficient game plan by Winlaton that saw them score 3 well-taken short-range finishes; one on 63 minutes and 2 in extra time as the westerly rain came in horizontally, like sharpened glass bullets. Full time and Winlaton had progressed to the final of the Bill Gardner Cup, where they’ll play Chemfica who knocked out Percy Main. Frozen to the bone, I took the bus back into town, bought a Michel Houellebecq novel, then Metroed back to Tynemouth, thawing out with news of Benfield’s impressive draw. This was another good day in the company of good people. I wish Blue Star every success for the future.

A Soviet Once Again?

Here's my take on the recent Irish General Election -:

Despite dire warnings as to the imminent apocalypse that Storm Dennis would bring and the systemic, institutional incompetence that complements every action of the FAI management committee, from putting the bins out to appointing a Mani Pulite Chief Executive whose primary instinct isn't to lightly cook the books in order to bathe in money, the League of Ireland Premier Division got underway on Valentine’s Night. And what a thrill-a-minute spectacle it was, with a full slate of 1-0 scores, including Bohs, who deserve enormous credit for their brave, bold and compassionate Refugees Welcome away shirt, sponsored by Amnesty International, losing to a last minute goal at home to the Tallaght Corinthians. This game was moved to Saturday 2pm, not to allow the Phibsborough Casanovas to feel the sap rising in Doyle’s, but for “safety reasons,” as well as allowing RTE to broadcast it live. Except they didn’t, as the programme was cancelled, also for “safety reasons,” while the game went ahead in the teeth of a howling gale and torrential downpours.

 

If you think this semi-organised farce is par for the course, have a look at the latest incarnation of the First Division, which is kicking off this Friday 21^st February.  A fortnight ago I reported the thinking at the time was about an 11 team division, including both Shams Stiffs and Stab City Rockers, playing the reanimated First Division Shield as a semi-preludial kickabout.  Obviously, things changed. Treaty United, the latest, putative Limerick franchise, didn’t pursue their licence application, so we’ve got 10 teams, no Shield and hell coming west along the road, without a handcart to its name. Goodness knows when a Cork and Cobh double header by de Banks might be possible.

As ever, logic in Irish sport is provided by the GAA, especially the National Football League; 32 counties and 4 divisions. What could possibly be simpler than that? Well, there’s Kilkenny for a start. They don’t play football; full stop. Instead, London, whose home venue of Ruislip could never be mistaken for Skibbereen, take up the slack by assuming the lanterne rouge role by custom and practice, if not genetics.  Now, the League may be enjoying its 89^th year, but it is of minor importance compared to both the provincial titles and Sam Maguire, so it tends to be viewed as a competitive warm-up for the season proper. Taking that on board, it is a source of shame for the Rebel County that they fell into the third tier last year, though there are encouraging signs this time around, as Cork have reeled off 3 straight wins and sit top of the table. A win over Tipp at Semple Stadium on Friday night coming would be a major step towards promotion, though that would still not guarantee a place in the All Ireland qualifiers, unless the Leesiders book their annual place in the Munster final, for the usual annihilation by Kerry.

Putting playing performance to one side, massive respect must go to  the Cork County GAA board for an initiative that will see both hurlers and footballers  wear commemorative jerseys honouring Tomás Mac Curtain and Terence MacSwiney in their upcoming home Allianz League games. The sides will take to the field in black shirts featuring images of the two men, both of whom died in 1920 while holding the role of Lord Mayor of Cork.  The jersey commemorates the centenary of the election of Mac Curtain, as Lord Mayor of Cork in January of 1920, though in March of that year, he was murdered by members of the Royal Irish Constabulary. He was succeeded in the role by MacSwiney, who was arrested in August 1920 and interred in Brixton Prison. There, he went on hunger strike and died in October. Then, in December, crown forces launched a bloody rampage against ordinary citizens, which led to the burning of Cork, which saw damage to numerous houses, businesses, City Hall and the Carnegie Library. Forza Corcaigh. Rebels Abu.

Turning back to sport, the National Hurling League has also got underway. Now, considering that only 12 teams compete in the All Ireland Hurling Championship, it seems strange that the league sees 35 counties, comprising the 32 National Football League participants plus Lancashire, Warwickshire and Kilkenny, competing in 6 divisions (1A, 1B, 2A, 2B, 3A & 3B). The really fascinating detail is that the bottom 4 divisions are hierarchical, while the top two pay lip service to a parity of esteem, which is actually a way to avoid more than 1 of the top 12 being relegated. So far, so decent for the Rebels; wins over Westmeath and Tipp after an opening day single point loss to Waterford, mean that Cork have already assured safety, as Westmeath have lost all 3 they’ve played and have a points difference of -30.

Even at this relatively early stage, it appears there is a degree of clarity about future prospects, which is certainly not something that can be said about the direction of the 33^rd Dáil. Following the clutch of by-elections at the end of November last year, occasioned by the metamorphosis of 4 TDs to MEPs, including the Daly-Wallace Love & Gravy Train, there was little to suggest a semi-seismic change was incoming. Sinn Fein may have taken the vacancy in Dublin Mid West after Frances Fitzgerald stood down, and the Greens profited from one-time target of Father Joe’s Vanguardist Hit Squad, Clare Daly, taking her muscles to Brussels, but progressives in the south east had a kick in the bollox when Fianna Fail hoovered up Mick Wallace’s old seat, which suggested the old order wasn’t about to change. At least the Brexit Tragedy that resulted in Britain veering towards the outer fringes of right wing populism with Johnson’s election, had little if any impact on Ireland’s voters.

Superficially, it would seem that Ireland’s voters have voted for left wing nationalism in vastly increased numbers. While the logic of a United Ireland after Britain’s Brexit Suicide is compelling, self-determination is not the prime driver in the electorate’s choice, nor is radical environmentalism. In my eyes, the General Election on February 8^th produced an absolutely stunning rejection of the status quo. The twin versions of austerity peddled by the two formerly main parties, and Labour to an extent, have both been rejected out of hand by voters no longer hoodwinked with tales of Civil War daring do by both sides, 100 years ago.

Fianna Fáil may theoretically have the most seats with 38, if re-elected Ceann Comhairle Seán Ó Fearghaíl is included in their total, but things have changed since Dev’s Diaboliques and the Blue Shirts of Fine Gael were described a little over a decade ago as ‘heterogeneous in their bases of support, relatively undifferentiated in terms of policy or programme, and remarkably stable in their support levels.’  To me, the main difference appeared to be that the stereotypical gombeens that make up much of FF’s support, wholeheartedly approve of bribery and corruption as a tactic and tendency in civic office, while the flint faced, penny pinching unsmiling daily communicants in FG are conspicuously fastidious in their public dealings.

The Shamrock stasis changed for FF when BIFFO Cowen bankrupted the place and Angela Merkel placed a restraining fiscal chokehold on the 3 Green Fields, causing a fracturing of support at the 2011 election that they’ve still not recovered from. The pent-up resentment at Cowen's government resulted in a debacle for Fianna Fáil. The party suffered the worst defeat of a sitting government in the history of the Irish state, falling to only 20 seats for third place; the first time since 1927 that it was not the largest party in the chamber. In 2016, under the stewardship of the dreadfully dull, tranquilised automaton Micheál Martin, FF recovered to 44 seats. He has now piloted them to 37 or 38 deputies. That isn’t a credible revival considering the centrality to FF to the ideology and aims of the Irish state for most of its existence.

Mind Fine Gael are no better off either. That pompous martinet Enda Kenny looked so smug following the 76 seat haul in 2011 that left them perilously close to a majority; he wasn’t quite as pleased when their total tumbled to 50 in 2016 and quickly left the stage to count his pensions, resulting in the Varadkar Blandwagon that provided 3 years of shite government and secured a paltry 35 seats this time.  Not only is the FF / FG behemoth on its last legs, the Irish Labour Party, down from 37 seats in 2011 to 6 TDs now, the same as the ephemeral Social Democrats who have inherited the legacy of the late and unlamented PD, have absolutely no right to assume that they are the party for the working class. They’re finished, and the question of who takes up their mantle as the mass workers’ party is a fascinating and complex one.

Suffice to say, the ossified detritus of Father Joe’s Leninist Vanguard have less right than the Labour Party to claim that role. While Mick Barry is their lone TD, he is also the solitary left TD in the Rebel County. The lack of a significant Socialist voice in Cork, especially when compared to the ideologically charged atmosphere in Waterford for instance, is a source of shame. Barry may not be perfect but, as the semi-rehabilitation of the Fresh Prince of Tallaght, Paul Murphy, has shown, people can politically mature. Murphy may have grown up in a house with a front lawn bigger than his constituency, but his defection from Father Joe’s lot to his own RISE party, shows ideological development and a clear break with the institutional homophobia and stringent sexual morality that characterises the Taaffe on Liffey lot.

Richard Boyd Barrett, Gino Kenny and Brid Smith continue to lead the fight against the barbarity of capitalism as senior partners in the Solidarity: People Before Profit coalition, though they need to be aware of the immediate need to  reintegrate the sole Independents 4 Change TD Joan Collins to  any broad left alliance.  One of the features of Irish elections is the persistence of Independent TDs; the recent election saw 19 returned to Dáil Éireann. Few of them could be categorised as progressive in outlook, such as Catherine Connolly in Galway West, Michael MacNamara in Clare, and especially Thomas Pringle in Donegal, but overtures should be made to try and find a way for all Left TDs to work together. Sadly, there seems little fertile political thought among the remaining Independents. Some are FF or FG without a party membership, while the rest are a heady mix of loonies, gobshites and fundamentally corrupt small town thugs masquerading as crossbencher politicians.

 

How about this collection of worthless head the balls? The Healey Rae Brothers in Kerry who, along with shiftless yahoo Mattie McGrath in Tipp, are pro-life, climate change deniers with an obsessive belief that drink driving limits shouldn’t apply to their rural constituents. Now, apart from being publicans (there’s a surprise eh?), the Healey Raes have a brood of brainless offspring whose finest moment to date was a family get-together that involved lacing a lad from the diaspora in a queue for the chipper van at half 3 in the morning, on his first  trip back home since he was a bairn. Grand lads who appear to combine the best bits from Romper Stomper with the Hardy Bucks. There are the offensive homophobes and Islamophobes Michael Collins and Noel Grealish, carnivorous ecophobe Michael Fitzmaurice on a one-man campaign against vegetarianism, and my personal favourite, Verona Murphy, President of the Irish Road Haulage Association. Originally selected as Fine Gael candidate for Wexford, the Blue Shirts withdrew their support from this unfair colleen when allegations of workplace bullying surfaced, which she trumped with mindless, racist comments linking migrants to terrorism. There’s also that risible pair of former Shinners, who decided they could not embrace the speculum and the Ballot Box. Peadar Tóibín, head of clericofascist imbeciles Aontú, was returned in Meath West and Dana in a balaclava, Carol Nolan get the nod in Laois Offaly. I’m guessing they’re the only Diehards who liked to show off their Pro Life credentials.

 

So, that leaves 50 TDs to be accounted for. The Greens have a dozen seats, showing an incredible recovery following their near total annihilation in 2011. What is even more encouraging is their success carrying on across the country, with 4 deputies from outside the capital about to take their seats.  Hopefully they will have learned from the bitter harvest of climbing into coalition with BIFFO and the Boys, which is a lesson Sinn Fein need to learn. Quickly. Before discussing the incredible resurgence of Mary Lou’s lads, it needs to be stated that the best scenario for Socialists and the working class as a whole is another election, wherein the Shinners put their surprising modesty to one side and stand more candidates, especially in constituencies where they polled almost twice the quota of first preferences. The trick is to do so while appearing to be willing to form a government with either of the Old Firm, putting the blame on them for not forming a Government. Such a stance will make your average FG Joe sick with anger at the temerity of the Terrorists. The Blue Shirts brokered the Anglo-Irish deal, remember? In contrast, old style FF lads would be more than keen to engage in a few verses of A Nation Once Again after a few pinteens. The question of embarking upon executive power sharing may well be decided by the top tier of Irish capitalist interests who use both FF and FG as their errand boys and ideological catamites.

Crucially, Sinn Fein must realise that assuming the burden of office brings with it the heavy responsibility of representing the needs and aspirations of the entire working class across the entire 32 Counties, as well as all of Ireland’s dead who fell because of the activities and actions of British Imperialism and the worldwide capitalist system. It is an onerous task, but one that can be achieved by holding the nerve, embarking upon another election and electing a majority Socialist and Progressive Government, prepared to embark upon a mass programme of house building, rent cuts, investment in social services and preparation for a 32 County Socialist Republic.

Evolutionary Rhetoric

It's a long time since I wrote about Newcastle United. So I did -:

Like a lot of people, my tolerance for a seemingly endless series of arid, goalless draws that stifle the love I have for the beautiful game is fairly low. All right so there are nil-nils and nil-nils, but these recent drab, blank bore fests are making me seriously consider whether the love and money I invest in watching games on a Saturday afternoon could be better spent elsewhere. However, that’s enough about Bedlington 0 Rothbury 0 (4-2 pens after 120 interminable minutes) in the Alliance Combination Cup and Chemfica Amateurs 0 Heaton Stan A 0 in the Alliance Development Division, what about Newcastle United eh?

The Magpies are currently in the midst of a mid-winter break, which has recently taken place on the last weekend of January when normal clubs play in the FA Cup 4^th round. This year, the Premier League has seized upon the yawning chasm in the fixture list occasioned by the cancellation of the February international friendly date, to give clubs a weekend off. Not coincidentally, the FA Cup 5^th round has shifted to the first midweek in March and all replays have been jettisoned. Mark my words; this will be the norm for rounds 3 and 4 from next year or the year after, which is ironic as the two replays NUFC have been involved in recently, have been among the most enjoyable games I’ve seen all season.

Being honest, there would not have been a Rochdale replay if Joelinton had been able to hit a barn door. Instead, Almiron’s classy finish was nullified by the ageing Aaron Wilbrahim’s leveller. Hence, the replay and, after more than 2 years of boycotting home games after the absolute nadir that was 0-0 v Brighton in December 2017, Ben and I took advantage of Platinum Club briefs for a tenner and took superb seats in the Leazes Wing of the Milburn. Rochdale had held us to a draw and taken Man Utd to penalties in the League Cup, but this was a game too far. Their defence quite lost the run of themselves, gifting three goals in the opening 25 minutes. I was off my seat punching the air when Matty Longstaff turned and laced one home. Almost as good was Joelinton’s unerring finish from young Tom Allan’s pinpoint cross. It was a good night and I’m really glad I’ve seen the team in the flesh this season. Of course the relatively encouraging performance has nothing to do with the manager. Bruce is a simpleton and his sides are tough to beat mainly because they’re even tougher to watch, still going through their paces of Benitez’s anti-football by memory, as the mentor has departed and his replacement is more schooled in Gorman’s takeaway menu than 21^st century catenaccio.

Then again, the dreary draw at home to Oxford, was supplanted by a quite incredible game at the Kassam Stadium. Alright, so NUFC would get their arses handed to them against a good side, but the 5-goal thriller in Blackbird Leys was a minor classic, with every goal being a bit of a gem in its own way. Saint-Maximin’s winner brought the house down, and justifiably so. Truly, a night that showcased the oft maligned magic of the FA Cup.

Of course, for the past 15 years the FA Cup could have brought in rules stating teams must play in fancy dress, or take the field nude, oiled and tumescent, and it wouldn’t have made a blind bit of difference to us, as not one of the bosses from Roeder to Benitez has managed to manoeuvre NUFC into the hallowed reaches of the last 16 since we lost narrowly to Chelsea in 2006. Again, not coincidentally, this was the last campaign pre Ashley. However, the world has changed; that master tactician and Mr Creosote body double, Thteeeve Broooth has piloted the good ship Newcastle United past those footballing colossi Rochdale and Oxford United, and into the sights of Championship leaders West Brom. Whether this midweek, floodlit tryst at The Hawthorns will replicate the joy of 1974, or the farce of 2010, only time will tell, but at least we know whatever NUFC side takes the field, they’ll have a bloody good go at winning the game, unlike the shambolic shower of free transfers in waiting that Benitez foisted on the competition. Not coincidentally, for the third time, Curtis Good was unavailable for this year’s cup tie at Oxford when we won, after a scare, but played the full 90 minutes, for no readily apparent reason, of the 3-0 debacle in 2017.

It has just occurred to me that I’ve not written about Newcastle United since the October international break last year (http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.com/2019/10/shoot-out-lights.html), so there’s been a fair bit of action gone on in the meantime. To summarise, there have been 17 games in that time, which have seen 6 wins, 4 draws and 7 losses, which is the kind of results distribution you could reasonably expect from a bang average, mid-table side who are on course for about 50 points and 11^th place at season’s end. Obviously such a reasoned overview doesn’t reflect immediate responses to the highs (Shelvey’s stunner against Man City, Almiron’s first goal versus Palace, the theft of 3 points home to Chelsea or the injury time insanity at Goodison) or the lows (the collapse at Old Trafford, failing to show up at Villa Park or the frustrations of Norwich at SJP), but it does reflect that the results don’t lie and Newcastle, lying in 12^th spot with 31 points from 25 games, are doing just about okay.

Bizarrely, reactions to NUFC’s progress vary considerably, though perhaps unexpectedly, on Tyneside and Wearside. While Newcastle fans, still blinded by the false lustre of the Benitez era, unfailingly talk down any positive results or performances, for the purpose of continuing to regard the departed, avaricious Spaniard as some kind of demigod and Bruce as an obsequious charlatan. Meanwhile, Sunderland supporters accentuate the positive, for the purpose of denigrating and demonising Benitez’s alleged achievements, while highlighting how much better a boss Bruce is. I see the arguments on both sides, but still can’t accept that Benitez did much more than phone it in during his 3 years and escaped as soon as an enormous bag of cash was dangled in front of him. I don’t often agree with self-appointed sage Gary Oliver’s delusional opinions, whether about non-league football, politics or music, but he’s bang on the money about what he refers to as the Children of the Rafalution; blinkered, naïve, intolerant and quick-tempered, they make adopting a nuanced attitude to NUFC a dangerous thing to do on social media.  Like the shirts, everything is black and white in Magpie world.

The team has obvious strengths, in terms of probably the best clutch of centre backs we’ve had in years, the best keeper since Shay Given and a solid set of midfielders now Ki has been paid up, but there are glaring weaknesses. For a start, the forward line is dreadfully weak; Joelinton’s weaknesses and lack of confidence may be the most obvious problem, but goals are a problem for others as well. Gayle is the most mobile and thoughtful option we have up front, but he’s done nothing and Carroll, nice lad and good bit part player he is, still hasn’t scored either.  Muto notched our first home goal this season, but I wouldn’t trust him to go to the shop for a pint of milk, never mind lead the line in a Premier League game. Happily both Saint-Maximin and Ritchie are returned to fitness, so creativity from out wide should be a feature of subsequent games, even if Arsenal may rediscover their mojo by banjoing us on Sunday.

Additionally, the loan signings of Bentaleb and Rose offer promise, though Lazaro, to me at any rate, is an unknown quantity. These 3 may leave at the end of the season and, if they do, it seems likely they’ll be accompanied by soon to be free agents: Fernandez, Manquillo, Elliott, Darlow, Colback and Matty Longstaff. Only the first and last of these causes me any distress. Losing Ferandez would be an error, while losing Matty would be an outrage. Letting a brilliant young local prospect leave for nothing, because of a spiteful refusal to pay him a decent wage, would be possibly Ashley’s most despicable act in the 13 years of his rule.

If Matty does walk away from the club, I’d pour down even more derision on Ashley, but I’d stop short of calling for him to be beheaded by a sword, then having his decapitated body crucified for 3 days. I don’t think I’d like to see him stoned to death in a specially dug pit or shot in the head from close range.  I wouldn’t even demand the amputation of a limb or for him to be flogged. The punishments I’ve listed above are permitted by the Saudi Arabian penal code for such offences as atheism, adultery or homosexuality. Perhaps all those who fervently hope that NUFC can be sold to the (probably mythical) Saudi Royal Family Investment Trust can stop taking photos of their gaudy wristwatches and reflect upon the morality of such a move. Ashley is an evil, rapacious, unapologetic capitalist, but he isn’t a despotic ruler, vehemently opposed to any form of human rights outside of the adamantine strictures of Sharia Law. Sometimes it really is the case that it’s better the bastard you know…

 

Alex Glasgow / Spiderland

Last weekend, Laura and I went to Glasgow to spend time among musical geniuses at the launch of Alex Rex's new album, Andromeda. Here's how things went -:

Undoubtedly, if it were possible for me to up sticks and move to another city, the only location I’d countenance would be Glasgow. I love the place for numerous reasons, though one of the most compelling is that it boasts possibly the best and most vibrant music scene of any urban metropolis on earth. As ever, 2020 will be another year of dominance by the Merchant City.

 

Take for instance, January; the first record and first gig were both from residents of said city and products of its music scene. Firstly, ex Trembling Bells bassist Simon Shaw’s West Coast powerpop ensemble Youth of America released the gorgeous Bop Showaddy EP, boasting four wholesome sticks of goodtime bubble-gum pop extraordinaire. Standout tracks on this essential purchase 10” include the sexy deadpan Death Doula, that drives along with a clear nod to Sister Ray’s uncompromising riff, not to mention a respectful take on The Rubettes’ falsetto kitsch classic Sugar Baby Love, that is all the better for having the histrionics toned down a notch from the original. This EP is great work and I’d love to see the band put through their paces on stage.  One person I did see on stage, doing a solo, acoustic free gig on Burns Night, was Teenage Fanclub drummer and all-round musical polymath, Francis MacDonald, who performed a beguiling set at The Cumberland Arms. In town to catch up with a former neighbour, Francis made the excellent choice of not putting on a greatest hits by other people show, and did half an hour of his own material and songs given to him by friends, as well as a genuinely moving take on Green Grow the Rashes-Oh. He’s got a great voice and certainly knows his way round a fretboard, as well as providing excellent company over a post-gig pint. I did make the point it is important that we see him again as part of his day job, at which point he reassured me new TFC product and shows are in the post. Hallelujah.

Moving on to February, the first day of the month offered up the most enticing night of 2020 thus far, in Easterhouse. For months, Laura and I had been looking forward to the launch party for Andromeda, Alex Neilson’s new album, under his Alex Rex alias, especially as support came from the eternally radiant Lavinia Blackwall and Stilton, whose own album is out on May 1^st. Heading north on the 10.46 train to Waverley and thence on to Queen Street, we ran into Cath and Phil Tyler, toon-based troubadours who were also on the bill at Platform; a council performance space of the kind the Tories decimated south of the border. A spot so cerebral it makes Gosforth Civic Hall look like Max’s Kansas City.

On arrival at Queen’s Street, we took the short walk to Central and our adjoining hotel, Motel One. It might just have been a place to get our heads down, but it’s a quality spot and I’d recommend it on terms of location, price and facilities. We’d stay there again. Having booked and made a pretence of unpacking, it was time for football. Laura had hoped to see Partick at home, mainly for a glimpse of their amazing mascot Kingsley in the flesh, but Sky TV had intervened, moving their game to the night before. Therefore, we had no real choice; as Airdrie versus Raith was just too far to double back to, a trip to Hampden Park for Queen’s Park v Cowdenbeath, giving us the chance to be part of the 616 rattling around in the 52k capacity National Stadium was our destiny. Being next door to Central, we availed ourselves of the train to Mount Florida and took a deserted walk down to the ground that once held 135,000 or thereabouts. Next door, the renascent Lesser Hampden is being spruced up ready for next season, when it will become the Spiders’ permanent home, as they vacate the uneconomic big brother that has been their home for more than 150 years.

In the ground, spectators of both sides mingle freely on the concourse of a modest quadrant in the South Stand, but the two seating areas are segregated, with a somewhat excessive sterile area keeping the 50 Fifers in support of the Blue Brazil distant from the devotees of the descendants of the Men with Educated Feet who formed Queen’s back in the mid-Victorian Era. English groundhoppers, paying a final respectful trip to a Queen’s home game, are spread on both sides of the netting, visible by the weight and volume of club merchandise they’ve purchased. Indeed, the nearest we get to disorder are 3 teenage lads in our section having their 500ml bottle of Volvic confiscated by one of the stewards. However, the yellow jacketed crowd control operative returned with the contents of said bottle poured into a plastic glass. That’s how they do things here and I like their style.

The shouts of the players echo around the 3 and a half empty stands, as the promotion chasing visitors are placed firmly on the back foot by the well-organised home side from the off. Late last year Queen’s membership voted to abandon not just Hampden Park, but their code of unapologetic amateurism that had been the philosophical touchstone of their 152-year existence. Will this work? It isn’t really our place to comment, as 80% of the club’s membership voted to go down that modernising route. A significant step was the appointment of Ray McKinnon as manager. I’d last seen him getting pelters from a seething gang of disaffected Bairns during his final game in charge of Falkirk away to Dumbarton in November. He’s certainly nowhere near as divisive a figure on the South Side. Indeed, I didn’t hear a single cuss all afternoon from the Spiders’ fans, probably because they were massively on top and took a deserved early lead when Slater buried a low shot after a tidy move from back to front, before 10 minutes had elapsed. Lots of possession football followed, but chances were scarce from both sides, though there was a late shock right on half time when Cowdenbeath hit the inside of the post, but the ball stayed out and we breathed again.

During the break, I ate an awful pie and Laura bought me a pin badge, before a frenetic second period that saw Queen’s Park swarm all over Cowdenbeath, but just couldn’t find a killer second. Obviously, there was later desperate pressure from the visitors to endure, but the Spiders held out and we gave two modest cheers at full time, before training it back to the hotel for a quick sit down. Soon, we were in an Uber on the M74, hurtling towards Platform. Having eventually found the entrance, stood athwart a Library, a College and a swimming pool in the sort of compassionate urban planning we don’t have in England any longer, we were immediately welcomed by ex-Bells guitarist Mike Hastings and soon took our seats for opening act Boss Morris; a 10-strong female dance troupe from Gloucestershire, accompanied by a fella on the accordion. Brilliant, crazy traditional stuff; they were like Toto Coelho meets The Wicker Man. Next up Cath and Phil Tyler brought the mood down low and desperate, with the darkest shades of Americana imaginable. These fine folks make The Ballad of Hollis Brown seem a comedy sketch in comparison. One highlight I’d not heard before was the set closing, banjo driven riff on Matty Groves, whereby the male is the one who cheats on the female and is done away with for this crime passionel. More rather than less extraordinary for such an unexpected juxtaposition.

It's 10 years in May since I first saw, heard and fell in love with Trembling Bells and all their constituent parts. Being honest, it was Lavinia’s voice that first caught my attention; Sandy Denny reincarnated was the common reaction. However, from a decade distant, listening to her current work, it seems scarcely credible that we made comparisons with Folk sirens and vixens. Stilton are a brilliant rock band, but they’ve far more in common with The Faces than Fairport Convention. Unlike Trembling Bells, Stilton are more about light than shade. Bright, positive, life-affirming 70s tinged rock pop that combines gorgeous singalongs with driving, rhythmic backing. Lavinia seems so much happier when in control of her oeuvre as well, especially with Marco and the boys complementing her words so fittingly. I literally cannot wait for the album.

Alex’s album had arrived on the Wednesday before we went north. My goodness, I had assumed Otterburn was his finest possible moment but, brilliant though that album was, Andromeda outpaces it in terms of self-evisceration, vicious barbed tongue lashings and the deepest, darkest sources of hatred and hopelessness. This album could stand alone as a book of poetry or a concerto that muses on the inherently evil and distressing nature of human relations. I am shocked and grateful that Alex has been able to bring this mighty beast into the open. Simply, put songs such as the terrifying I Am Happy, which grows a tenth set of balls and teeth on stage, the sulphurous Oblivion, the ironic and hateful Rottweilers, not to mention my personal favourite, the howling, atonal I’m Not Hurting No More, as well as the curiously pastoral, yet lyrically vicious closer Pass The Mask, show Alex to be simply the most creative and inventive practitioner in the world of music today. Praise must also be given to the magnificent backing provided by Audrey Bizouerne, Rory Haye and Georgia Seddon, whose playing dovetails perfectly with Alex and has taken his sound to a different stratosphere, where the intensely personal words are complemented by intensely personal and perfect music. The comparisons are no longer with Fairport but Nick Cave, Jandek and the Brel v Gainsbourg interface.

 

Live, Andromeda and friends is a riot of decadent emotions, where the black mood is punctuated by purple prose and white noise. Nods to where he’s come from include a drawling, laconic Master, where Severin has finally broken the ties that bind, and a defiant, adorable Night Visiting Song that may have been slightly spoiled by my presence on stage, “singing.” The evening ends with a Last Waltz style ensemble singalong, where Mike Heron takes centre stage and brings the house down with a public hug with Alex.  Truly, a night of one thousand stars. Roll on April 8^th when he brings the band to The Cumberland Arms.

And so, we took our leave on a shuttle bus to Mono, when things became blurred. I remember being offered shots of vodka by a pleasant enough sociopath in a kebab shop, but nothing else until next morning, when the rain was lashing down. Still, Glasgow’s Miles Wetter as they always say. A tour around the city centre, marvelling at both the rain and architecture, ended at Monorail, of course, with the purchase of Return to Y’Hup, a tribute to Ivor Cutler that had been showcased the Wednesday before we hit Glasgow. Twenty-six glorious Cutler cuts, both musical and spoken, from all parts of his extensive career, performed by a who’s who of Scottish indie music, marshalled by Citizen Bravo and Raymond MacDonald. As a 40 year fan of Ivor, I am a bit of a traditionalist, but there are some glorious moments here; Emma Pollock doing Size Nine And A Half is one, Duglas Stewart’s warm and wondrous Vitamin P is another, but Tracyanne Campbell’s Women of the World is the winner here, breasting the tape just ahead of an ensemble I Got No Common Sense. This really is a fabulous project and a record I’ll grow to love more with each listening.

The train back was from Central, meaning the first stop was Motherwell, appositely enough as I’ve just finished dear, departed Deborah Orr’s tearjerking Motherwell: A Girlhood.  The progeny of vicious, evil parents whose vanity and narcissism was expressed by an urge to put their own needs before those of their first born daughter, Deborah compounded the misery of her emotionally barren childhood, by marrying the hideous and evil Will Self, whose self-messianic tendencies outdid even the cruelty of her parents. It is a brave, beautiful book and I urge you to read it, especially in memory of poor Deborah who passed late last year of the same demon cancer that claimed both her parents.

 

Our train arrived nigh on 17.00 and we headed home; tired, hungover but always improved by a visit to Glasgow and the company of the best musicians in the world. Only then did I discover that Andy Gill, guitarist with the Gang of Four, a man I've admired for over 40 years, had died. I'll return to his work in a later blog, but I can tell you I'm devastated at his passing.