Locked Groove

An analysis of what I've been reading & listening to since the world changed. I'd like to dedicate this blog to my impossibly talented mate Fee Johnstone, who lost her beloved Oma last week. Stay safe girl; love you x

Books:

Unsurprisingly, I’ve had a bit of time on my hands recently. This has enabled me to get seriously engaged with reading as a pastime once again. One author I have simply fallen head over heels in love with is the current enfant terrible of French letters, the scabrous and inflammatory contrarian Michel Houellebecq. I’m currently 75% of the way through his novelistic oeuvre, which means I’ve read 6 of 8 works of fiction. The intention is to publish a blog about him in a couple of weeks, but before then, I’m here to discuss the books I have recently read by other people.

 

Somewhat astonishingly, all 3 authors I’m here to talk about are known to me personally. One of them, Ian Dowson, published my work in several issues of his seminal literary journal Billy Liar both sides of the millennium, whereas the other 2, Fee Johnstone and Holly Watson, I’ve had the honour of showcasing in Glove over the past couple of years. All 3 writers have now taken the step of publishing solo works. In Ian’s case, Rain God is a taut and compelling cop procedural, told from the point of view of female detective Payne, an emotionally scarified product of experience and environment. Set in a mythical, dystopian Tyneside, where 5 years of incessant rain has emptied the streets and ramped up social paranoia in an eerily prescient foreshadowing of the difficult times we find ourselves in, Rain God is a breakneck compelling read. It shows a rare ability to make the topography of Tyneside real and free of cliched tropes, meaning Ian isn’t just the wicketkeeper and captain of High Stables CC, but an accomplished writer of terse and terrifying prose.

At the other end of the literary spectrum, Fee Johnstone from Aberdeen and Holly Watson of Coventry though residing in Southend, have each published a complementary set of short fiction pieces. The key difference is that Holly’s Never Seen the Sea is a vaguely chronological cycle of incidents involving her alter ego The Coventry Conch. Heading towards her teenage years, our heroine lives on a council estate at the arse end of the 1990s with her harassed Mum, dull brother and Dad who is forced to work away to make ends meet. Add in her grandma Nanny Pam and her vile, spiv of an ex-husband Grandpa and his blowsy second wife, as well as the inanities of everyday life assuming  gigantic proportions in the eyes of young Holly, and you’ve got a genuinely funny, warm and believable account of growing up in a no horse town. I seriously recommend it.

Meanwhile, Fee’s collection Hath No Fury is a series of excellent short pieces, half of which have been previously published, that offers an insight into the difficulties experienced by young women growing up and coming to terms with their sexuality. If this world had any sense of the need to support teenagers from the LGBT community, and to destroy myths, ignorance and prejudice among heterosexuals, then Fee’s book would be on the National Curriculum reading list when the schools next open. It genuinely burst open my mind as I learned things from a perspective, I’d never had any insight into. Like the other two books, Hath No Fury is one I’d advise you to seek out, as you’ll not be disappointed.

Music:

It’s probably of little surprise to you that there are no gigs to review this time around; Sound of Yell, Alex Rex and Green Ribbons have all postponed trips to The Cumberland Arms to a vague, unconfirmed date in the future. Instead, we have 3 albums to be assessed; all of which I’ve purchased on CD incidentally. We’ll look at them in reverse alphabetical order, which happens to the order I acquired them.

 

Since their full reformation and revivification following the retirement of Bruce Gilbert and the full incorporation of his replacement, Matthew Sims, Wire have proved themselves to be the most reliable and innovative of groups. Age has not diluted the bile nor smoothed the jagged musicianship of Messers Newman and Gilbert in particular. Mind Hive is their sixth album in ten years and, despite the brevity of the set weighing in at 34 minutes, it sits squarely and comfortably alongside Silver / Lead and Nocturnal Koreans as recent releases confirming their right to be judged with the same rigour as contemporary bands, rather than being given a free bus pass because of their age. Wire made the best album of 1977 in Pink Flag and still strive for such artistic success.

I must admit the stolid, generic opener Be Like Them didn’t promise too much, but the next 5 tracks settle into a jaunty, upbeat and almost anthemic groove that could be from 154. The positive mood is destroyed when Bruce Gilbert takes the mic for the unsettling, disturbing and randomly titled swamp trash crawl of Oklahoma that heralds the advent of a blinding, closing triple salvo. Next up, the punishing Hung is late period Wire at their stunning, scabrous best. Arcane and angry, Colin Newman veers between the detached and declamatory; it’s bleak and relentless in a way that Wire do better than most other bands. Finally, the surprising, almost pastoral Humming ends the record in as gentle a way as Bitters End finishes off the first Roxy album; contemplative whimsy such as this makes you take a step back and realise aren’t ahead of the game, they are actually playing a different one to most groups. A great album and one that comes highly recommended.

I’m very old; not COVID-19 super vulnerable old but getting there. I can remember half a century ago when BBC2 didn’t start until almost 5pm and BBC1 either shut down for a bit after Watch with Mother or showed some of its regional output. Cornershop, who are up next, referenced this by naming one of their songs after the Asian music programme Nai Zindagi Naya Jeevan. I remember watching this on afternoons I was off school, such as my 6-week quarantine when suffering from Scarlet Fever in late 71, as well as a fantastic Welsh language pop programme (name unknown), which made me fall  in love with a troupe of crazy longhairs who sounded like Lindisfarne meets The Band. Their biggest selling record from Flint to Haverfordwest was the wonderfully anthemic Mae Rhywyn Wedi Dwyn Fy Nhrwyn; having had the chorus going round in my head for half a century, it was a surprise to be able to find the title can be translated as Someone Has Stolen My Nose and that the band were Tebot Piws (Purple Teapot).

 

I contemplated buying the original 7” EP for £45 on Discogs, but then decided a CD of 18 tracks for a fiver from Sain Records was a better option. Having listened deeply and regularly to Y Gore a'r Gwaetha (The Best and Worst Of), I realise I made the best decision. The CD goes chronologically through the bands career from 1969 to 1972, placing Mae Rhywyn Wedi Dwyn Fy Nhrwyn in their 1971 heyday. At the start, it’s kind of Spinners and Scaffold style whimsy, though as the lyrics are in Welsh, I’ve no clue what they’re singing about, which is probably where Max Boyce took his influences from. The acoustic guitar, kazoo and banjo early days are left behind when electrification lifts them, as it did Bob Dylan, stratospherically, away from their early efforts. That said, mandolin and fiddles come into play on the gentle folk of Ilecu Ilwyd, before the gateway gamechanger Godror Fuwch tells us the 70s are here. It isn’t quite an Altamont moment, but Tebot Piws have certainly gone down around the corner and up toward the bend when they strike out like Canned Heat down a bluesy trail with much call and respond hollering.

Amidst this we have the standout track that I’ve kept alive in my head for nigh on 49 years; Mae Rhywyn Wedi Dwyn Fy Nhrwyn announces its arrival with relaxed, scuffling drums, eccentric psychedelic slide geetar, cheerful folk major chords and superb, stoned laconic vocals. It’s the sort of thing Lindisfarne, Ronnie Lane, Eggs Over Easy and Fairport were doing at the same time; only this was in Welsh, so it was a singalong where nobody knew the words, much less what the song meant. Moving on to their last release in 1972, Birmingham, we have a mandolin driven band that embraces Jacques Brel style histrionic vocals, akin to Bowie and Bolan in their tortured artist phase, with the bell-bottomed boozy, bluesy folk craft of Jack the Lad meets The Faces to drive them along. A glorious, wonderful document of a band who held the torch for Welsh folk rock, while Man and Budgie were doing similar for hard and heavy longhair stomps. It also filled in a gap in my knowledge that had bugged me for 90% of my life.

The tragic death of Andy Gill in January robbed Ben and I of the chance of ticking off a real bucket list band. Gang of Four’s scheduled appearance at Herrington Country Park were the sole reason I shelled out £200 on Kubix Festival VIP tickets. Andy’s untimely passing means me and the bairn will never see one of the most important bands in my musical upbringing. Entertainment, Solid Gold and Songs of the Free were a triumvirate of unbeatable slabs of Gramscian art rock. I’m so sad we’ll never see him on stage, which means Ben and I’s bucket list is reduced to one act: Cornershop. God, I love Cornershop; ever since I first heard In the Days of the Ford Cortina EP in early 1993, I’ve lapped up every single slice of three chord provocative post punk they’ve produced. I’ve only had the pleasure of seeing them live once, back in April of that year, but I still hold out hope that, once we get through the current difficulty, there will be an opportunity to watch Tjinder Singh live.

 

Thankfully, there are still records by Cornershop and the newly released England’s Garden is one of their best ever and the first album of theirs I’ve sourced since 2002’s ebullient classic, Hand Cream for a Generation. As John Peel said of The Fall, their importance was summarised by how they were “always different, but always the same.” So it is with Cornershop; 4/4 beat, three barre chords, tablas and sitars in the mix with Tjinder’s tired, cynical vocals and complex lyrics. It’s an adorable and comforting mix of thudding drums, anthemic organ and hippy, trippy flutes. It could be 1967, 1992 or the present day; Haight Astbury, Ibiza or Camden Town. Tjinder Singh’s takes influence from each place and scatters his own musical angel and fairy dust across us all.

England’s Garden is a barrage of brilliance from start to finish. In an album of universal strength, the real heavy hitters are the mid-paced, laconic anthems Slingshot, No Rock Save in Roll, the punch the sky exuberance of Cash Money and One Uncareful Lady Owner, replete with crooning, tablas and a 50s doo wop theme. Utter genius. Tjinder Singh and Cornershop as a project are intensely important entities, scandalously ignored by both the hoi polloi and musical cognoscenti alike. Hopefully England’s Garden brings them back into the public eye.

An Alphabet of Gigs:

I just fancied joining in with the zeitgeist, so here comes a top of the head list -:

A = A Certain Ratio

B = The Bluebells

C = Cornershop

D = Dinosaur Jr

E = Echo and the Bunnymen

F = The Fall

G = Godspeed You! Black Emperor

H = Husker Du

I = The Invisible Girls

J = Joy Division

K = Killdozer

L = Ludus

M = My Bloody Valentine

N = NoMeansNo

O = Orange Juice

P = The Pop Group

Q = Quin the Eskimo

R = The Raincoats

S = Swans

T = Teenage Fanclub

U = U Thant

V = Violent Femmes

W = Whitehouse

X = X Mal Deutschland

Y = Neil Young

Z = Zoviet France

Restricted View

Some things you just can't be allowed to see.....

There can scarcely be a better feeling of optimism and positivity in the world than that frisson of both anticipation and excitement engendered by the arrival of each New Year. The sentiments are certainly deepened for followers of football, when the vagaries of the fixture list throw up 5 straight home games for your team, including the promise of two magical cup nights under a twinkling frosty sky, augmented by the warm, soothing glow of floodlights, as well as a pair of local derbies with your closest sporting rivals to boot. Or, at least, that should be the case, rather than the desperate, disproportionate and unnecessary state of affairs that either sends you to other grounds to watch games you’re only half interested in, or keeps you in the house; vainly attempting to profess interest in a televised contest you couldn’t care less about (what the hell is a Carabou anyway?), while hammering the phone battery, trying to gain updates on your first and only love’s progress from WhatsApp and Twitter.

A lot of things have happened since issue #13 hit the streets in mid-November, on the day East Hull were routed and I enjoyed the cerebral delights of Dumbarton 1 Falkirk 1; The Sons against The Bairns, when the travelling support barked and howled at their club’s hierarchy, like rabid wolves on a bad acid trip. If you recall reading that issue, my piece was about the unpleasant experience of being forced to resign from my cherished positions of programme editor and committee member at my beloved Newcastle Benfield FC, because of anti-racist comments I’d made in an article in our programme for a 2-2 draw with Guisborough Town in late September and which I still stand by. I quit my position on October 1^st. A month after stepping down, we were due to host Guisborough again, but this time in the FA Vase. In the end, at the request of our acting club chair, of whom more later, I  graciously did not attend this game, preferring to watch the intermittent floodlit semaphore at North Ferriby that seemed to take precedence over the straightforward home win over Swallownest. Of course, I still had one eye on updates coming through on my phone from Sam Smith’s Park.

That day, Benfield demolished Guisborough 4-0 to progress to the next round and I had a blinding day at Ferriby. Consequently, I didn’t feel too bad about missing my team’s game as, about once a month on average, I head up to Scotland to take in a new ground, in my hope of ticking off all 42 league clubs north of the Border. I suppose I’m in a bit of a hurry to get them all done before Jeanette Mugabe erects armed custom posts to repel English refugees from the post Brexit Armageddon that’s arriving like a jail on wheels. As well as Dumbarton, I’ve been to Stirling Albion this season and have both Alloa Athletic and Airdrieonians in my sights before this publication reaches its intended audience, with a trip to Dundee a little further down the road.

Back to Benfield where, Guisborough aside, the nature of my supporting life began to take on the shape of a new normal. During October and November, I attended home games at Sam Smith’s Park against Northallerton Town, Bedlington Terriers and Thornaby, all of which were wins, as well as a comprehensive loss to Northern League title contenders Stockton Town on November 20^th that, as it stands, appears destined to be my last visit of the season to the place I fell in love with my beloved club. I also attended our away game at Ryhope CW, which I mentioned in the last issue, missed the trip to North Shields to watch Stirling Albion in the Scottish Cup and went on the coach to Ellesmere Port, paying my full whack as I’m no longer a committee member, to our FA Vase game against Vauxhall Motors. The whole day was a disaster; we lost 2-0 without having a shot on target, saw 2 players red carded for mindless and unnecessary fouls, then crawled home with only a substantial craft ale carry out for company. Probably the last thing I did for my club was during our comfort stop at Hartshead Services, when I bought a cup of tea and a pack of ginger snaps for Johnny “Tourettes” Innes, Benfield’s octogenarian half time bait commis chef and the bloke with the most creative approach to swearing I’ve ever met. Honestly, he’s one of the best characters in the grassroots game on Tyneside; an absolute hero. It was the best £5 I could possibly have spent. I’d have got Johnny a three course meal if I’d known what was in the post.

On the Tuesday after, without any warning or indication there was anything in the air on the Saturday, I received a lengthy Twitter DM, effectively stating I was no longer allowed to attend home games, because of complaints made against me by certain of the new committee members, suggesting that I had brought the club into disrepute with some of the political statements I’d made on social media and in real life. You’ll be aware there was a General Election last year. You’ll presumably be aware that politically I am at the extreme left of any axis of opinion on each and every subject you care to mention. You’ll sadly be aware that vast swathes of voters in the former Labour heartlands have defected to the extreme right, with disastrous electoral consequences for us all. While Newcastle East and Wallsend returned Nick Brown as MP for the tenth election in a row, since he first stood in 1983, there is still a significant groundswell of angry, bitter, working class voters in the constituency who embrace and espouse authoritarian populist positions on topics such as militarism, Islam and Brexit. Inevitably, I sharply diverge in an ideological sense from all populist positions on this and many other topics, from immigration to Irish reunification. The worst part about the current level of public debate is the fact that people holding what I consider to be reactionary ideals not only disagree with me, but seek to deny my right to express any political opinions that they do not share. It’s a terrible state of affairs, in the whole country, not just Benfield clubhouse.

To put things in a Benfield context, as a way to explain my expulsion from the inner circle, the most important thing to note is our club’s founder and ex officio chair Jimmy Rowe tragically passed away after a short illness in early September, having closely nurtured the club for more than 30 years.  Jimmy was the most benevolent dictator any team could wish for and I’ll state two things here; firstly, he is the man I have respected the most all the time I’ve been involved with non-professional football. Secondly, he would not have given house room, much less credence, to the opinions of several of those who have been denigrating and decrying those who have been at the club far longer than they have. Especially as the points of contention are either deeply personal or rooted in the undemocratic wish to suppress opinions at variance from their own, like a miniature military dictatorship or putative police state.  This does not sit easily with someone like me who instinctively distrusts any form of authority.

The hammer blow of my banning order was tempered a day later by further detail in a follow-up DM that stated I was banned until the end of this season, but could apply in writing to be allowed to return next year, unless I caused “further disruption”  in the meantime, which would result in a life ban. Now remember, we’re talking about volunteering at a club at Level 5 in the non-league pyramid, not full-scale rioting on a Euro away trip, but at least there is a potential resolution to this. All I want is to watch my team and thankfully I still can, away from home (other than at Guisborough of course). Since the home ban was instituted, I’ve seen us win at Whickham, Seaham and Northallerton as well as drawing at Consett. Some committee members talk to me pleasantly enough, while others pointedly avoid me, not that I’m bothered to be perfectly honest.

When it comes to home games, I’ve been able to keep myself entertained at Hebburn 2 Billingham Town 4, Whitley Bay 7 Seaham 1 and West Allotment 0 Redcar Town 1, while we faced West Auckland (1-1), Hebburn (1-3) and Whitley Bay (2-1), though the Leicester v Villa League Cup semi was nowhere near as absorbing as our 8-0 drubbing of Brandon would have been. At the time of writing, I had home games left to miss, of which 7 were played before football was suspended. My initial trip to Alloa, which coincided with a rearranged home tie with North Shields, was booked when we went out of the FA Vase and our scheduled opponents Hebburn won their game. The first irony is that they’re heading to Ellesmere Port and a meeting with our conquerors, Vauxhall Motors. The second is I’m exchanging the Hornets (Hebburn) for the Wasps (Alloa). A far bigger irony was that the 4G pitch at Recreation Park was waterlogged, meaning I had to take in Stenhousemuir 2 Brechin City 2 instead.  The least said about 120 minutes of sterility at Bedlington Town 0 Rothbury 0 in the Alliance Combination Cup semi-final the better.

I should have been at Billingham Town 1 Benfield 2 on January 25^th but kick off was moved to 2pm because of their dodgy floodlights, so I ended up at Ryton & Crawcrook 5 Bedlington Terriers 0 instead. On February 1^st, Benfield hosted Bishop Auckland, losing 3-2 after being 2-0 up, while Laura and I were in Glasgow for a gig. In the circumstances, a diversionary outing to Hampden Park for Queen’s Park 1 Cowdenbeath 0 was most appealing and appropriate, though Chemfica Amateurs Heaton Stan A 0 in the Alliance a week later had only its proximity to my house to recommend it.

Stockton Town 4 Benfield 0 was the usual massacre, as we’ve had that score 3 years in a row now. I wish I’d been barred from that one and not the encouraging point at Guisborough the week after, while I slithered in the mud at Blue Star 1 Winlaton Vulcan 3. Leap Day saw Canadian Dave and I finally get to Alloa; a great day, even if they lost 2-0.  The first Saturday in March was also a great day; being 20% of the travelling support with Benfield to Northallerton, where we won 2-1. That was Benfield’s last game before this current emergency. The last game I saw before everything stopped was the brilliant tussle at Purvis Park, when Percy Main bested Winlaton 2-1.

With no football happening at present, we have other things to worry abput. However, my mind still strays to Newcastle Benfield on a regular basis. Things aren’t devastatingly bleak for me, but I do feel as if I’ve been treated more than unfairly. Certainly, it has made me more than a little cautious about offering my services to Benfield or any other club in the future, though I hope my cautionary tale doesn’t put anyone off getting involved with their club of choice. Also, I sincerely hope to be cheering Benfield on at home games next season.

Wuhan Clang

Coronavirus, social control & the suspension of non-league football....

I think it was on my fourth pint of Tiny Dancer at Flash House last Saturday when the reality of the situation dawned on me. Yes, I’ll readily admit it; I’m shit scared of Covid 19 and the destructive power it appears to possess. I’m truly terrified for all my loved ones, friends and acquaintances, but what frightens me most is that I don’t have any answers or an understanding of how all this will play out, mainly because we’re being fed an unending tissue of contradictory horseshit by the ruling elite. That makes me very angry; while recognising we live in unprecedented, fluidly evolving times, I’m angry that there is no clear, unequivocal world wide set of guidelines to follow.  Why can’t the United Nations take the lead on this? Or the European Union?

Tell me, if I wear short sleeves, how far up my forearms do I need to wash? Explain to me why, if coughing and shaking hands are to be avoided, why do we allow smoking and spitting in public? Ban those two disgusting habits and 95% of social housing residents will see their chances of infection slashed dramatically. After all, it’s not remotely likely that such sorts will be economically active is it? Same as the elderly; it looks like those pinched-faced, xenophobic, curtain twitchers who fell for Farage’s lies, the Brexit Pensioner Crew, are about to be cut down in droves, as leaving the EU hasn’t done all that much in terms of securing the borders. Rather it is serendipitous eugenics getting real in the care homes and mortuaries of Little England. Oh well, once we emerge from the other side of this pandemic, we can rejoin Europe PDQ.

Obviously, there are different statistical interpretations and epidemiological models as to how this crisis will end, but the lack of authoritative information leaves me scared for others and angry at the nature of the capitalist world in which we live. You can’t watch sport and you can’t go to the pub, because this involves the kind of unnecessary social mixing that may spread the virus. There’s no ban on Freemasonry yet, despite the amount of handshaking that goes on, which can’t do anyone any good.

Of course attending work, and in the process making rich people even richer, or going to school, where you are psychologically prepared to make people even richer and teachers, often unwittingly, act as the jailers of the working classes, by babysitting children who would otherwise need to be minded by their parents, having voluntarily withdrawn from work . This disrupts the needs of capitalism and is thus prohibited by the ruling elite. The alternative, whereby adults are mandated to remain at work, would result in thousands of feral youths roaming shopping centres and thieving like Fagin’s 21^st Century descendants. Perish the thought.  No, until such time as BoJo and his pals have another unexpected 90-degree policy turn, it's carry on serving your masters as usual. It’s alright for the likes of Boris Johnson and the rest of the Tory Party; they all own vast country estates, with sensational wine cellars in which to closet themselves in the name of self-isolation or social distancing. For us ordinary types, the truly vicious nature of the capitalist system is laid bare, though the selfish venality of those engaged in unnecessary and obsessive panic buying is a symptom rather than a cause of imminent social breakdown. Witness the specky loser I saw in Sainsbury’s the other day, buying 12 multipacks of Quavers, as if 72 bags of cheese flavoured maize snacks will keep your lungs clean.  Then again, you could probably imagine the Government trotting out such bollocks as the best way forward.

I’ve said many times before that I have enormous affection and respect for the people in my team at work. This is not the case for the various types of cretin who share our building, allegedly employed by other companies, though mainly they seem to spend their days smoking and swearing on the back step. Fat, slatternly women with dirty hair, bad teeth and half a dozen assorted brats at home or in care, spend their compulsory 2 days of work that gives them access to munificent benefits, idly loafing, spitting and exchanging implausible lies in the shape of gossipy truths in the fetid smoking shelter. To be fair to them, their employer has utterly failed them. There are absolutely no guidelines in our building about what to do to avoid, contain or mitigate Coronavirus, other than a series of bland, laminated screeds taken from various less than scientific websites, one of which implores people to “avoid stress” by not listening to gossip, as if that will act as a kind of moral vaccine.  

The truth is, the main motivational factor for people continuing to attend work isn’t a pressing need for social intercourse or unconditional love for the slave-owners who employ us, but the economic imperative. In this hideous gig economy where so many of us struggle to eke out a living by pandering to the whims of cash rich clowns, sick pay didn’t exist until a fortnight ago. Now the Government has deigned to make SSP payable to all those self-isolating or worse. The maximum payable is £95 a week. It makes me relieved on the one hand not to have a mortgage any longer, but it also disgusts me that such a meagre subsistence bundle was denied millions of workers until last week. The fact is, we need a minimum living wage of £300 a week and fuck the bleating of vermin like Richard Branson. Capital, it fails us now; comrades let us seize the time. Well, apart from the fact we’re not supposed to be in gatherings of more than a dozen people…

After an initial, wholly unsuccessful period of “containment,” which appeared to consist of major public officials and unelected brass hats re-enacting the very worst bits of Dad’s Army in the style of Alfred Jarry or Georg Buchner, we’re now enacting the “mitigation” strategy of martial law enforced through emotional blackmail rather than the trigger of a gun. It was bad enough when they shut the football down, as that removed access to approximately 50% of what I normally think about, but the imminent proscription of gigs and pubs will destroy the rest of my cultural life. As regards professional football, I was absolutely devastated when Jeanette Mugabe put the block on all Scotch football, especially as I’d planned to hit East Fife on Easter Saturday and Airdrie a week later, but on reflection, I am now wholeheartedly behind the suspension, and probable abandoning, of the 2019/2020. Being realistic, the only fair way to sort things out is to prepare final league tables on a PPG basis and award the FA Cup to the top scorers. Of course, there will be winners and losers in this scenario, but what else are we supposed to do? Anyway, congratulations to Celtic, Liverpool and Newcastle United on your silverware and commiserations to the Huns and the Mackems for missing out. Again.

When I think of my beloved non-league football, the fiasco of the Northern League not making a public pronouncement until after 6pm on Friday 13^th March becomes ever more inexcusable. I know the League respond to any form of criticism or dissent like the Soviet Politburo under Smokin’ Joe Stalin,  but it has to be said that the utter absence of leadership or guidance and the kind of press silence Howard Hughes, tissue boxes on his feet, would have been proud of, leaves me in absolutely no doubt that the current management committee need to learn from this and fast. Compare this with the decisive and proactive conduct of the Northern Alliance leadership. They gave clubs the choice to play or not, as there was no clear advice to cancel grassroots games on Saturday 14^th March. Consequently, my last game before the 2^nd Dark Age was the splendid meeting of Percy Main and Winlaton Vulcan. In front of a larger than usual crowd, The Villagers won a rip-roaring contest 2-1. There were brilliant saves, terrible misses, fantastic hot dogs and great company. This was the true spirit of grassroots football.  If I’m not to see a game again this season, this was a fitting, fabulous finale. Thanks to Andy, David, Gary, Norman and Paul for being such great company; I hope to see you again soon.

Third Time Unlucky

Cricket can conquer Corvid-19. I'm telling you.....

You know what’s really worrying me about this Corona virus pandemic? The impact it could have on my projected trips to East Fife against Forfar Athletic on Easter Saturday and Airdrieonians versus Peterhead a fortnight later, especially as Jeanette Mugabe is putting a blanket ban of gatherings consisting of more than 500 bodies. No doubt this is because of the groundswell of opposition to her dictatorial rule and unquestioning support for the SNP sexual deviant tendency. If she has her way and all games are postponed or played behind closed doors, this will probably render my budget train tickets to Kirkcaldy and Airdrie respectively, utterly useless. However, I do have a cunning plan. Mum’s the word eh?

Like politics, the wielding of power under the aegis of sporting administration, as I learned during my thankless rule over the Tyneside Amateur League, is desperately frustrating for all concerned.  Having just avoided the immediate suspension of professional sport in England and Wales, undoubtedly the next meeting of Premier League and FA top brass with emissaries of COBRA will be just as tense as the 3 cricket AGMs I’ve been to over the past month. Firstly, the Midweek League’s meeting at Blue Flames demonstrated the selfless dedication of elderly people to keeping the spirit of recreational cricket alive; it was just a shame some of those participants present couldn’t keep quiet when other people were talking. Their appalling lack of manners and rude demeanour fair brought out the teacher in me, but I relaxed when I learned the composition of the middle division will involve visits to 5 new grounds in 2020. Let’s hope the weather is more clement for us this year.

Next up, the Tynemouth CC gathering took place on a dreary Wednesday night and, unlike football pow-wows which were almost invariably an excuse for Epsilon Males to rant incoherently on subjects they knew nothing of; this one ran smoothly and professionally. In fact, it was properly productive and decorous. We had a power point presentation to guide us through the successes and otherwise of the last 12 months. On the whole it went smoothly, other than Benno quizzing Peter Brown about the club’s expenditure on players in the manner of the Commons Select Committee quizzing a shady backbencher about a dodgy expenses claim.

Other than that, all the elections went through on the nod, I took my place behind the bar and Fanta channelled his inner Greta Thurnberg by suggesting we avoid the need to do the washing up at the end of each game, by moving to plastic plates and cutlery, which we’ll presumably integrate into the marine eco system by pitching them into the sea from King Eddy’s Bay on a daily basis. The priorities for next season are sorting out the coaching and tidying up the home changers, which often resemble a cross between Glastonbury after the festival and Bobby Sands’ cell. Best of all were the quality hot pork and roast beef sandwiches that Kelly produced as the post meeting buffet. There was no lamb, but a little baldy bloke was sat sheepishly in the corner.  The gathering broke up at 8 and I headed home as I was on earlies, looking forward to the start of the season proper on April 18^th, with a friendly against Cleethorpes the week before.

The week after, on the Monday we endured the first snowfall of the year, I was at Jesmond for the Northumberland CCC AGM. Some things never change; the attendance (17) was the same as last year, and so was the message that the county is financially sound, but aware of the need to improve on the pitch. New coach Dan Shurben talks a good game and the first thing I did when I got home was renew my membership; £20 for 10 days cricket is fantastic value. I’m proud to support my county and find it incomprehensible that some clowns glory hunt, by supporting counties they have zero connection with.

Sadly, one sporting event I won’t have to worry about is the National Indoor Club Cricket 6-a-side Finals Day at Lords on March 29^th, on account of Tynemouth bowing out in the Northern Final against Woodlands CC from the Bradford League at the Bolton Arena on March 8^th. Having got through the two Northumberland rounds before Christmas, hostilities resumed on February 23^rd at Chester le Street against South Shields, courtesy of a lift to the contest from Captain Poll. I’m not a seasoned indoor fan, but after watching 3 campaigns, I must admit the Riverside is the best place I’ve seen the indoor game played, probably because the playing area is the biggest, I’ve come across. Unfortunately, it’s also the most popular. Squeezed for time, the contest was reduced to 10 overs and they scored an impressive 131/3, with Sam Robson taking a smart caught and bowled and pouching another smart catch. He made himself the hero of our innings, with successive sixes as we made it home with 3 balls to spare, resulting in another trip to Lancashire in search of a berth at Lords.

It’s the third year running we’ve lost at this stage, but while the other two losses were at Old Trafford, a certain other sporting event in the area sent us up to Horwich, across the car park from the Reebok Stadium, or whatever it’s called now; Bankruptcy Park probably. The other 2 losses were at the semi-final stage, to Shropshire Grasshoppers last year and Woodlands in 2018.  This setting was totally unsuited to indoor cricket; a blue tennis court with a matting wicket taped on top in a wrongly shaped hall that made setting a field a confusing task. We lost the toss, but Nick Armstrong and George Harding, up from his Cheshire home in place of the eternally reluctant indoorer Matty Brown, did the business as we assembled a decent enough 126. Grasshoppers never once threatened and we dismissed them for 92, before a disappointing buffet of jacket spuds and wilting salad that was far inferior to the sumptuous repast provided by Lancashire CCC at Old Trafford.

Woodlands had a walkover to the final as their opponents couldn’t raise a team. Things looked promising when we won the toss and Polly put them in. After 9 overs, they were 70/3 and floundering, when they suddenly went berserk, closing on 136/3. At 12/4 from 3 overs, we were effectively halfway down the M62, though George and Poll had a go to get us to 62 all out. While the immediate effect was that we were at Scotch Corner by the time Man United scored their second, the journey back allowed us to muse on the fact that compared with last year, we’d given a fine account of ourselves and were beaten by a side who will probably win the tournament at Lords. The best team won.

Such Corinthian sentiments can only mean one thing: roll on the outdoor cricket season. Surely Corvid can’t restrict the world’s greatest game at club level? Can it?

Recreational Users

I went to Alloa Athletic v Ayr United last weekend. Here's what happened -:

I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned it before, but the best thing about my particular section at work is that not one of the dozen of us are active Newcastle United fans, which means I don’t have to sit through endless days of ignorant and ill-informed griping about Ashley and Broooootttth. That alone is reason enough to get out of bed in the morning.. There’s a couple of  armchair Mackems, a disenchanted Mag and a Man United fan who opted to go to the dentist rather than his lot’s home game against Norwich earlier this season, which tells you everything you need to know. Finally, there’s Canadian mate Dave, who is a devoted Calgary Flames hockey fan and a long time NUFC supporter from back in his early days in Ontario; quite possibly because his dad Big Al hails from Barnard Castle and follows the Black Cats.

Throughout my working life I’ve always viewed management as the enemy, questioning the motives and integrity of anyone who sought to climb the greasy pole. Indeed most of the very worst examples of humanity I’ve had the misfortune to encounter have been in supervisory roles that enable the weak and inadequate to wield instrumental power over their moral and intellectual superiors. The Guardian’s recent obituary of Hosni Mubarak had cause to use the following adjectives to evaluate his life: ruthless, autocratic, stubborn, uninspiring, dictatorial, venal, thuggish, authoritarian, squalid, corrupt, ambitious, entitled, impassive, deluded, unpopular, hated, impulsive, callous, incoherent, detested, abusive, cruel, farcical, tragic, intimidatory, incomprehensible, crude, oppressive, repressive, violent, intolerant and nervous. All the characteristics of a typical boss eh?  The opposite opinion has been my attitude to co-workers, comrades in the class struggle, who I regard with respect and affection, providing they aren’t grasses, lickarses or Tories.  David is none of those things, so I decided he would be the lucky one to accompany me on my latest Caledonian jaunt, with Alloa Athletic versus Ayr United our ultimate destination.

The train tickets were cheap; £25 return, though that’s more than the £18 I paid for January 11^th’s unsuccessful trip, when I got as far as Stirling before learning that Alloa’s 4G pitch was flooded, necessitating me doubling back to Stenhousemuir versus Brechin City to see balls kicked in anger. While the weather had been rancid, with improbably named weekly storms decanting torrential rain, sheet showers and howling gales across the land in the week leading up to our trip, this game was always going to be on.

Laura’s flair for catering and inherent Canadian goodness caused her to prepare a sumptuous repast for us two travellers; a treat so fantastical I didn’t introduce David to the delights of a steak and haggis pie, tragically enough. I could hardly carry our picnic as far as Central, where I met Dave. Our platform was thronged, but mainly with disappointed passengers for the massively delayed 10.35. Our train was the 10.41 and it was deserted, so we arrived in Waverley a couple of minutes early, enabling us to walk on to the  12.20 to Stirling, where we cracked open bottles of ready mixed Fentiman’s G&T, enabling us to watch the world slip by and toast Bella Caledonia . Getting to Stirling at 1.00, we chanced a very quick pint in an Irish pub that was showing the Brighton v Palace game. It didn’t entice us to stay and soon we were making our connection with about 50 Ayr fans and a bloke in a British Sea Power hat, for the single stop to Alloa.

Despite having a reputation as the ancestral home of Scottish brewing and the place of birth of the mighty Joker IPA, Alloa doesn’t seem to be awash with real ale pubs.  There was the ubiquitous Wetherspoon’s that I obviously wouldn’t set foot in for ideological reasons, and the apparently sterile Old Brewery in town centre. Neither of which appealed, so we navigated the outdoor swimming pool that the main car park had become, to find ourselves in the distinctly unpretentious  Station Bar.  The presence on tap of Schiehallion, Harviestoun Brewery’s delightful craft lager from Alva, barely 10 miles up the road, meant our presence among the crowd of loud and lively semi-jakeys on canned Tennent’s with large voddy and coke chasers, was compulsory until 14.40 or thereabouts. We met half a dozen of Alloa’s Young Team, who gave us directions, and a very friendly Ayr fan that we had a couple of pints with. Not the most luxurious boozer I’ve ever been in, but friendly enough.

And so we struck out, in the face of a gusting wind, towards Recreation Park, or the Indodrill Stadium as it’s known for sponsorship purposes. Rather like the Station Bar, it isn’t the most luxurious of grounds, but certainly one of the friendliest.  Like Stenhousemuir and Stirling, it offers a glorious view of the Ochil Hills which today, blessed by a thin covering of snow, looked almost sugar-dusted. Having paid our £18 entry, we took our place, leaning against the fence in front of the main stand, among a gathering of 915, at least half of whom appeared to be Honest Men who had journeyed east from Ayrshire. I regret again not asking an Ayr fan the important question as to whether their women’s team is nicknamed The Bonnie Lasses.

Just before kick off, David asked me for a score prediction; I said 0-2, reasoning that as Alloa had not lost in 2020 and Ayr had been stinking in a home loss to Morton in midweek, the two sides would resort to league table type. So it came to pass; a stuttering nervous Alloa offered precisely nothing in the opening period, allowing Ayr to get ahead with an impudent back heel by Drinan after home keeper Wright got into a dreadful tangle with the ball at his feet.  Wasps’ manager Peter Grant was animated and agitated on the side-lines, steadily upping the ante after the break when a vastly improved showing from the home side repeatedly hinted at an equaliser. Sadly for Grant, all the hope was crushed when Alan Forrest curled home a precise finish on 82 minutes. Game over; Ayr moved up to 3^rd and Alloa stayed 8^th, a point above Queen of the South who inhabit the relegation play-off spot.

As the train for Waverley didn’t leave until 18.20, we got a preparatory craft ale carry-out from Aldi, before a return trip to The Station Bar, where I laced David at pool, in a contest apparently decided by who potted the cue ball the least. We caught the train, arrived in Edinburgh and risked a quick pint in the glorious Guild Ford Arms, before catching the 20.00 south. It appeared to fill up as we journeyed further, pouring ourselves off around 21.40 at Central. One last, frankly unnecessary, beer at Box Social and then off home.

Roll on April 25^th and Aidrieonians v Peterhead!!