Words of Excoriation

 Gentle music and harsh words...

Music:

 

Back in January when I first heard Alex Rex’s stunning third album, Andromeda, I would have been incredulous to be informed that it was not to be my favourite album of 2020. Further, were I to be told that with 4 months of the year to go, that Andromeda would be languishing in joint 4^th place in my personal poll, I’d have assumed somebody was telling lies. However, such is the strength of the competition, this is manifestly the case. Having already ceded pole position to Cornershop’s peerless England is a Garden and Ed Askew’s personally passionate London, the release that has denied Alex’s still brilliant effort a podium spot, is the fragile, spellbinding beauty of Hello Sorrow, Hello Joy by Three Queens in Mourning. This tribute to Will Oldham, aka Bonnie “Prince” Billy, consists of a dozen interpretations of some of the finest moments of Palace Music by Glasgow based trio Alasdair Roberts, Jill O’Sullivan (aka Jill Lorean) and a certain Alex “Rex” Neilson, which is slightly ironic I guess.

 Three Queens in Mourning are the perfect pacific trio, making a stand for the underappreciated, low-fi sub-genre of powerless pop. In this latest creative iteration, Alex is indispensable on drums; his fluent and nuanced, intuitive playing, comprising the deftest of brushes and lightest of touches, acts both as a counterpoint to his own bellowing in the style of a drunken donkey (in a good way), and as the scaffold that supports the understated and almost apologetic musical contributions of Alasdair and Jill, but it is the latter pair’s soaring, fragile vocals that make a virtue of gentility. Of course, the material they have to work with is of an impeccable standard, so they’ve a head start, like Trembling Bells did on their live set The Bonnie Bells of Oxford with the Big Yin himself, where Riding stood out as even more affecting than the original. Here, we have truly blinding takes of Christmas Time in the Mountains, No More Workhorse Blues and Madelaine May, which are then trumped utterly by probably the finest pair of songs of this entire year; Alasdair and Jill duetting on a tear-jerking New Partner, before bringing the curtain down with an anthemic Ohio River Boat Song. Truly, this is a special and superb album that also boasts a quartet of songs with Oldham at the helm; the covers of Alasdair and Jill songs are pleasant, but it is his take on Alex’s heartbreakingly bitter Coward’s Song that justifies his appearance here. The least said of the daft and dirty Wild Dandelion Rose, a kind of Kentuckian rugby song that closes the album, the better.

Having known Alex and his work for approximately a decade and Alasdair’s for a slightly shorter period, I first encountered Three Queens in Mourning live at the Star & Shadow back in October 2018, when I was delighted to make the acquaintance of Jill O’Sullivan. Naturally therefore, I found it necessary to purchase her Not Your First EP under the moniker of Jill Lorean from Bandcamp. What a blinder it is too; 6 tracks weighing in at 22 minutes plus, this half album is really the bee’s knees in psychedelic pop with a driving dirty bassline running rapidly through it. Like a contemporary, Caledonian-based Suzy Quatro, Jill’s great and groovy release packs a powerful punch. The opener Strawberry Moon is a stomping sock to the jaw that grabs your attention and doesn’t let go. Eyes on the Bird, by contrast, has that essential folk-tinged wistful contemplative tone that leaps out from every doorway on Byres Road. I’ve got a strong affection for Your Younger Self and the closing Axe to Grind as well. You probably won’t get this in the shops, other than Monorail perhaps, so I’d suggest you take yourself over to https://jilllorean.bandcamp.com/releases and bag yourself a copy. There’s also Alasdair’s latest project; the acapella outfit Green Ribbons, who are theoretically still slated to play The Cumberland on November 9^th. I am intending to pick up their CD that night but, if as expected, the gig is pulled, then I’ll get my copy from https://greenribbons.bandcamp.com/album/green-ribbons

Wire’s Mind Hive was another early 2020 triumph, which is why it was slightly surprising to hear about the existence of 10:20; a quartet of demos and outtakes from both Red Barked Tree, a decade back when Matthew Simmons was a guest rather than an integrated member of the group, while Margaret Fielder McGuinness also contributed, and Mind Hive. It is the earlier material that is of greater interest; both Boiling Boy and German Shepherds are quality, melodic numbers, unimpeded by any residual hesitancy occasioned by a band feeling their way back into a creative groove. Best of all is Underwater Experiences that is a dead ringer for a hi-tech Pink Flag outtake, with a frantic 2-note lead guitar line, shouted vocals and a ferocious minor chord rhythm part. Fantastic stuff. The modern tracks are less intriguing, but there is no good reason why the 35 minute Mind Hive set wasn’t bolstered by the inclusion of these cuts. Small Black Reptile is 154 reincarnated; catchy, pleasant and lyrically incomprehensible, while closer Over Theirs is a compelling Krautrock pastiche that ends with a powerful drone coda that makes it a memorable cut.  A decent release, but not a vital one; two Wire albums a year is one too many.

Books:

 

About 15 years back, once I’d abandoned my faith in The Fall, I began to take less and less interest in most activities to do with Das Gruppe, though I did read Steve Hanley’s masterful account of his two decades of devoted service, The Big Midweek. What struck home most forcefully about that book was the undisputable fact that all musicians who passed through The Fall, after the initial line-up that recorded Live at the Witch Trials disintegrated, were merely employees, who worked in Smith’s backing band. The Fall were not a democracy. After MES passed in early 2018, I thought of reading all those books about The Fall I’d previously studiously ignored but put that thought to one side. As 2020 has been designated the year of reading voraciously, I consented to the inevitable and picked up Paul Hanley’s Leave the Capital, a detailed and persuasive piece of cultural agitprop that successfully makes the case for Manchester being the only viable centre of musical creativity in England outside of London. Did you know The Beatles never recorded a second of music in their own city and that Merseybeat was invented in a Denmark Street office? Well, there you go. Hanley focuses on seminal Mancunian groups and their hometown recordings; The Hollies, 10CC, The Buzzcocks and the whole Factory shebang get more than mere namechecks. The Fall get a mention as well, which spurred Paul on to write an account of the recording and importance of Hex Enduction Hour musically, culturally, and personally, entitled Have a Bleedin’ Guess, which started me off on a journey of discovery.

As a long time Fall fan, I’ve always said the absolute epitome of their art comprised the period from 1979’s Dragnet to 1983’s Perverted by Language. Paul Hanley joined in 1980, just before his O Levels, and left in 1985. Hex Enduction Hour came right in the middle of this period and remains The Fall’s finest moment, by a short head. By almost writing himself out of the narrative, though he contextualises with much autobiographical detail from the pre and post Hex Enduction eras, Hanley is able to forensically examine the individual tracks, while recalling the recording sessions in Iceland and Hitchin and giving an insight to how things were in the band. It’s fascinating, brilliant and drove me straight back to listening to the crucial period of The Fall’s oeuvre, which I was more than glad to revisit. Hanley’s a great writer and, while I’m happy to see him and his older brother forming the rhythm section of Brix and the Extricated, I’d like to read more from him in the future.

Simon Wolstonecroft occupied the drum stool for a decade in The Fall, having previously missed out on the gig as The Stone Roses’s stickman, despite being school pals with Brown and Squires,  though he graciously admits Reni is a superior drummer, and a similar job with The Smiths, because he couldn’t stand Morrissey, which is a good enough reason for me. Known as Funky Si, Wolstonecroft has been an itinerant musician with dozens of obscure Mancunian outfits from the whole spectrum of musical genres from the early 80s to the present day. He tells us about these in his autobiography You Can Drum but You Can’t Hide, as well as fronting up about his failings as a husband and father, not to mention coming clean about a near 40 year skag habit. Obviously, The Fall section was the bit I was most interested in and, in his disarmingly honest way, Si says how much he liked MES, which goes against the received wisdom expressed in just about every other summary of Smith’s character I’ve read. Wolstonecroft, the eternal optimist, is now happily settled with a partner and makes a living on the former celeb treadmill of tribute bands, reformations, and podcasts. Good luck to the lad.

The final two Fall related books I’ve read of late, are Dave Simpson’s exhaustive search to interview every former member of the band, apart from the elusive Karl Burns, The Fallen and Smith’s poorly ghostwritten autobiography, Renegade. With the latter, MES is, as John Peel said of The Fall, “always different; always the same.” His cruel and unapologetic tone reflects the kind of monomaniacal need for total control he exhibited as band leader from 1978 until his death. There are, of course, some laugh out loud interjections, such as claiming his favourite Australian singer is not Nick Cave, but Dr Karl Kennedy from Neighbours, but the book mainly consists of self-justification for terrible acts of cruelty and retribution. Smith wholeheartedly embraces the never apologise, never explain mantra, justifying every act as necessary for the greater good; the cantankerous old pisspot he was.

At least you can laugh at Renegade; the same cannot be said for The Fallen, which is a brilliant idea ham-fistedly executed.  I’m really sorry for Dave Simpson that his then partner left him while he was writing the book, but it really wasn’t important enough to have the whole story of a relationship breakdown in a book about as important a band as The Fall. Simpson does succeed in tracking down almost all former members, but despite interesting revelations from the wonderful Una Baines and tetchy Martin Bramah, what all Fall fans want above all else, are the unexpurgated memories of Craig Scanlon and Karl Burns. We need them and I need to read Brix’s autobiography to understand the full picture.

I’d had my eyes on Give Us Tomorrow Now, David Snowdon’s detailed examination of the Alan Durban era at Sunderland, for some time. Detailing the period from 1981, after Ken Knighton’s dismissal to the appointment of Len Ashurst and his incredible fringe in 1984, Snowdon forensically deals with the travails of a manager who may have aspired to be Brian Clough revisited, but ended up resembling a kind of slightly less belligerent Dennis Smith. Sunderland spent 5 successive seasons in the top flight from 1980 to 1985, without ever finishing top half, struggled to attract 20,000 fans on a regular basis and were eventually undermined by the boardroom incompetence of Tom Cowie. In retrospect, as a Newcastle fan who didn’t keep both eyes on our nearest and dearest, I didn’t appreciate just what an absolute shithouse of a man Cowie was; he combined the loudmouthed, empty headed bullshit of John Hall with the seemingly deliberate attempts to alienate support and sabotage the team that Mike Ashley has a reputation for. The small-minded parsimony and abrasive manner of Cowie ensured Durban was doomed to fail, though the karmic conclusion was the club’s relegation under the hapless Ashurst, who also received his marching orders. This ushered in the era of Lawrie McMenemy; what could possibly go wrong?

Tony and Penny Miles compiled Smiles from the Summer Game, a short but engaging anthology of cricket writing from pre-WWII Punch. Sure, the jokes and stories are anachronistic to the point of incomprehensibility, but the sketches of late Victorian county games and the players involved provide a diverting and charming way to lose yourself for a couple of hours when bad light stops play.

Sean O’Callaghan’s autobiography The Informer tells of how he was a PIRA volunteer from Tralee in Kerry, a Republican stronghold during the Free State’s birth and adolescent agonies. His father had been involved during the 1957 Border Campaign, so when the whole of the Six Counties exploded into bloody civil war in the late 60s, O’Callaghan did his duty and signed up. Showing a flair for planning and organisation, he moved on from doing jobs to ensuring others did so. However, in what I found to be a surprising revelation, he quit the Ra in the mid-70s, convinced of the futility of the Armed Struggle and moved to London with his Glaswegian hippy wife, to run a contract cleaning business. Unfortunately, their marriage fell apart and he headed back home around the time of the Hunger Strikes. In a less-than-convincing plot turn, he rejoined the Provos, having established contact with Gardai top brass, for whom he acted as a tout. Alas, this is as far as it got as I left the book on the bus from Lanchester to Durham. Oh well… 

 

 

 

 

Cancellation Culture

One single, solitary game; that's all summer 2020's Tynemouth Bad Boys cricket season consisted of.....

 

We started up our long-running, Monday night six-a-side game again on July 20^th. First time out, bearing in mind I’m 56 and we’d not played since March 17^th or thereabouts, I wasn’t exactly agile, or even competent, between the sticks. However, we’ve played 5 successive Mondays since then and finally, on August 17^th, I felt like I knew what I was doing once more; we lost 4-1, but none of the goals were preventable, much less my fault and I pulled off a dozen saves, some of which were more than just instinctive blocks. I suppose the point I’m trying to make is that after a long period of inactivity, even the best of us (which I’m not) can lose their touch and only practise can bring it back. So far, so good in my quest to play until I turn 60.

 There is a stark contrast between my football and my cricket playing experiences this summer. Initially I’d not imagined we would play any cricket in 2020, so it was a lovely surprise when the greatest game returned on July 11^th. Even better, the NEMWCL announced that, while league cricket was not feasible at that stage, cup competitions would go ahead, giving all sides a theoretical minimum of 2 games and a maximum of 5. The main competition is the Just Sport Cup, which 24 of the 28 teams took part in, with the 12 winners advancing to round 2 and the 12 losers dropping into the Paddlers’ Plate. Interestingly, unlike most captains who tend to think along the lines of whether to bat of bowl, this year’s Bad Boys skipper Dan Storey’s first thought always seems to be “should we concede?” He inquired as such after our first attempt to play our round 1 cup tie at home to Belmont Tigers was rained off on July 23^rd. He asked again when Belmont initially refused to play the following Thursday, as it was the end of Eid and they were celebrating. Thankfully, league supremo Don Catley intervened, and the game went ahead on July 30^th.

Despite Belmont being from the division below us, they won easily; their 122/3 far outweighing our 90/9. Speaking personally, my personal performance was a disaster; a disgraceful, humiliating parody of cricket. I bowled one over at the cost of 20 runs, the only consolation being their scorer didn’t catch my name, so I’m down on the Play Cricket scorecard as Unsure. Perhaps that summarises my bowling performance more gently than Incompetent or Shit. It could have been a bit different of course; having been clouted for 3 boundaries by their big boned and big mouthed wicketkeeper batsman, I bowled one ever slower than usual, which is the nearest I ever come to a plan. Sure enough, he races down the pitch and hits it straight up in the air. He doesn’t initially try to run; whether because he thinks it’s over the rope or a catch, I don’t know. It really should have been a catch, which is how I’d imagined the scenario panning out, but the ball fell between two stationary fielders and the batsmen ran 2. The last ball goes for 6, obviously, and I go off to self-recriminate at Backward Point.

It didn’t get much better when I came to the crease. Bear in mind I scored 6 runs in 2018 and 2 runs in 2019, there was little tangible reason for promoting me to 10, other than the fact Benno hadn’t got his pads on. Normally my innings are as brief as my scoring is negligible; this time I faced a marathon 7 balls. The first four I missed completely, the fifth I somehow hit back to the bowler, who missed it and so I called the skipper through for a run. Clearly the fielding side knew the best way to go about wrapping things up, so they tried to run Dan out, not me. Somehow it didn’t happen and, not only was I off the mark, I’d successfully farmed the strike. Next over, the first ball sailed past me, as I didn’t even see it. The next one I saw, took a swing and missed by a mile, hand to eye co-ordination being tough at my age. I didn’t just miss the ball though; I fell over, landing face first, before attempting to right myself and successfully taking the arse in a gesture unlikely to be replicated anywhere in a sporting context ever again. When I opened my eyes, still prone on the deck, I knew I’d more than likely been stumped at some point during the intervening 30 seconds, though the scorecard erroneously lists me as being caught behind. As if… Creeping sheepishly from the field to gales of derisive laughter from my team mates, I cast a backwards glance at Benno belting the first two balls he faced for maximums. Still, at least my performance gave me something to reflect on, other than the scandalous £5.50 The Spread is charging for Beavertown…

Having ended our Just Sport Cup involvement, we dropped into the Paddlers’ Plate, to face Eaga Odd Boys, who play home games on a Tuesday at Seaton Burn, with ours scheduled for 4^th August. Typically, in a summer that took ages for cricket to arrive, bad weather has become an increasing menace, meaning another postponement for rain was not unexpected. The really glorious thing about the rearranged date, a week later, was that it was my birthday. As a nod to my team mates’ unflagging support, I splashed out on 4 bottles of Prosecco for a pre and post-game toast. Then, things went rapidly down hill as Captain Storey lobbied for concession rather than replacements as 5 of the team dropped out. The bitter irony was that they dropped out to go and see Sam Fender at this socially-distanced arena by the Racecourse. Not only were they within 2 miles of Seaton Burn CC, but Tinfoil’s nephew had cancelled just about every gig he should have played in the last year!! This one went ahead, Eaga understandably wouldn’t reschedule, so the skipper got what he wanted, a 0% win rate, and our season was over after a single measly game. If I’d known the cricket season was going to be so miserable and unfulfilling, I’d sooner have died of Covid-19 in the Spring. If I don’t succumb to the virus this winter, I hope to be making a complete show of myself in 2021.

Thankfully, there’s been plenty of stuff to watch, mainly involving Tynemouth, to keep my mind occupied. Saturday July 25^th saw the start of the Banks Salver North Group, with the visit of Newcastle to Preston Avenue. Unlike the previous week at Jesmond in the Smithson Cup final, there was to be no pulverising assault by the visitors. With a celebrity pair of umpires in Phil Mustard and Chris Rushworth, our slow bowlers held the opposition in a vice-like grip; Polly got the prize scalps of Oli Hairs and Kieran Trevaskis as part of a 2-14 return, while Mark Watt and Ryan Macciocchi posted 1-12 and 3-28 respectively. After Newcastle fell to 156 all out, skipper Matty Brown and former skipper Ben Debnam put on 154 for the first wicket, with Ben chipping in with a tremendous 79 before a daft run out, allowing Ben McGee to post a stylish 0* from 0 balls, as we won by 9 wickets with 17 and a bit overs to spare. This early finish allowed me to pop over the back field and watch the 3s snatch defeat from the jaws of victory against Blagdon.

On the Sunday, being at a loose end, I struck out to do some cricket groundhopping. Despite having visited all top division NEPL grounds, I’d only been to half of those in the second division. Two pieces of low-hanging fruit were the proximate double of Crook and Willington, thus I set off early and spent 3 stifling hours in a mask, on the Metro to Gateshead, X21 to Durham and X46 to Crook for the Banks Cup game against Washington. Crook Town’s Millfield is a decaying jewel of the Northern League, while the compact cricket ground is in much better condition. Basic, modernised and quaintly rustic, it’s a good place to watch a game. I saw the home side, older and chunkier than the young, spritely visitors, capitulate from 102/3 to 131 all out. It would have been good to hang around and see how the response went, but I had work to do. This involved another journey on the X46 back to Willington for their game in the same competition against Burnmoor.

 I’ve been to Willington many times for football; the first time involved much confusion when trying to meet up in the pub as there were 2 Black Horses, though the one of them, which still exists, is theoretically in Low Willington, which is the closer to the cricket club, while the other is now a Vape Superstore.  Crook has always seemed to me to be a pretty little market town, while Willington is as friendly and prosperous as Katowice in the early 70s. I’ve no idea of its community value, but I can state Willington Cricket Club is twice the size of Crook CC and an impressively modernised and maintained facility.  It also boasts scenic views of rolling hills beyond the boundary fence. Unlike Crook, they took COVID-19 conspicuously seriously, by taping off benches, denying access to the pavilion, bar the umpires’ bog and only accepting card payments. It didn’t bother me, but I’d like to return when things are back to normal. I plonked my arse on the grass just as Dwight Gayle gave Newcastle the lead against Liverpool, as Burnmoor began their chase of 160. Their batting line-up consisted of more swingers than the St. Mary’s Lighthouse car park after dark, but for every couple of boundaries, a wicket fell and, from a position of strength, the home side won by 9 runs after a suitably calamitous run out, allowing me to catch an earlier X46, X21 and terminal Metro, to end another fabulous day exploring the sporting hinterland of West Durham.

The following Saturday was August 1^st; on the 11^th anniversary of my dad’s passing, it was perhaps appropriate Tynemouth were at Felling. That said, I made initial attempts to watch the first innings at newly promoted Philadelphia against Burnmoor. However, the skies grew increasingly dark and by the time we reached The Galleries, it was bucketing down. I escaped the X1, taking the 56 back to Heworth. A short walk later and I was watching Sean Longstaff collect an impressive 3-23, while his Matty sat watching, often being gently pestered for selfies by bairns in NUFC shirts. Aside from Sean, only Polly showed any control, with 2-16, allowing Felling to recover from 90/6 for 172 all out, including Trotts contributing a first-baller that made me feel better about my batting performance and the lad himself advising they declare 9 down in future.

However, when it came to bowling, I don’t believe I’ve seen Trotts bowl as well as he did in this game. He acted as able support to Paul Leonard who was running through our top order at the other end, by bowling through and looking dangerous with almost every ball. The other Felling bowlers did their bit, while the whole team fielded ferociously as we didn’t get close to the total and they fully deserved their win. Same was true of Newcastle Academy on the Sunday, who got the 173 required with 3 down and 3 overs to go. Nice to see Dan Thorburn contribute a superb 77 for the young side though.

August 8^th was a glorious day, ideal for glorious hitting. Or perhaps not if you were Tynemouth 3s who batted like they were auditioning for a Robert Altman movie, crawling to 90/5 from 30 overs, which Benwell and Walbottle saw off in short order. Thankfully, there was more enjoyment to be found on the front field. Against a modest Gateshead Fell, Tynemouth accumulated 303/4, though Ben Debnam’s first baller didn’t suggest we’d do so well. Luckily Mike Jones, Mark Watt, Ben McGee and David Mansfield were in good form. In response, Gateshead Fell never really threatened, ending up on 191/9. Not that I saw much of it, as the massive queues at the bar saw me called into action, while my colleague Paul Lonnberg bathed, and indeed almost drowned, in a tsunami of Moretti.

Come Sunday, despite the night before’s carousing, I felt the urge to travel again, with distant Lanchester my destination. At Eldon Square bus station, I met Glenn Wallace who was off to Billingham for an NYSD cup game. He admired my desire to travel so far. Let’s face it; anywhere that’s half an hour outside Consett is seriously in the sticks. Mind at least travel broadens the mind; an hour in closed Consett without any sign of a bog was torture in the sunshine. However, the second bus journey was super smooth and with no subsequent navigational issues other than getting off a stop too late, I found the gloriously picturesque Ashley Park without any difficulties, incredibly enough. Despite the distraction of reflected traffic noise from the adjacent A691, Lanchester is a lovely settlement, affluent and consequently unlike most villages of a similar size in County Durham. The home side batted first and made a very steady 192 in a mild breeze that contrasted with the stifling masked atmosphere of the buses. It was more than enough to beat a disappointing Chester le Street who were skittled for 129.  Game over, I took the last Sunday bus to Durham and thence an express to South Shields that appealed to my sense of adventure, allowing the gentle breezes coming in from the North Sea to caress me as I took the Ferry across the water and thence a short walk home. Another tremendous day and only 3 grounds left to go, although Shotley Bridge’s year off make Castle Eden and Philadelphia my only realistic targets.

There were no inroads made the weekend after; instead I enjoyed 3 straight days at Tynemouth. On the Friday night a 20:20 friendly versus Durham Academy took place in dank and miserable conditions, when any NEPL game would not have started. It was a good workout in front of about 200 punters and thus a decent payday for the club, even if the bad weather kept the same amount again away from the place. Personally, I was delighted to meet up with my old pal Dave Jameson, making a solid recovery from cancer, and Michael Noble, who kindly accompanied me to the Enigma Tap for my birthday sup. Before then, Tynemouth had amassed 142, thanks mainly to Graham Clark’s hitting, before dismissing Durham, including 3 first team players, for 68. Thankfully, it was our lads who took the wickets, including 3 in an over by Ryan Macciocchi.

 Unfortunately, not taking all the wickets was the main reason we lost against Benwell Hill on the Saturday. A fairly sedate, stop-start innings saw us close on 147, but a fine unbeaten knock by Peter Halliday and a determined supporting 32 by Phil Nicholson saw The Hill home from the penultimate ball, despite Andrew Smith’s impressive 4-30 in his first game of the season. In the Sunday game, The Hill recovered from 22/4 to beat us with 3 overs to go, though I’d bailed out halfway through, either still suffering from my birthday celebrations or stunned by skipper Richie Hay’s memorable 44* and 2-5 for the 3s in their 80 run win over Kirkley. Fair play to the lad.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Birthday Greetings....

 

It’s my birthday; obviously I’m not having a party, not just because of social distancing, but because I’ve got hardly any mates, on account of multiple fallings-out over the years. As I turn 56, I’ve decided to make a fictional list of adversaries, meaning all resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental…

Scandinavian Mug Punter: Took the huff after I went public with comments about how boring I found his publication. As I had nothing in common with him, bar this, it’s no great loss.

The Ouston Problem: A particularly bitter one this. He’s the former editor of a former fanzine and a self-elected super fan whose pride came before a terrible fall in 2019, when he suffered sustained bullying on Twitter. Ironically, it’s the exact treatment him and his one-time crowd of acolytes handed out to me from 2006 to 2015. He can be either a swaggering bully or a complete social introvert, not to mention permanently erroneously opinionated and bald. A bad penny.

Smarmy Overbite: Somehow still making a living as a journalist, despite breaking loads of stories that never came to pass; Muslim players deserting NUFC in droves after the Wonga sponsorship deal being the most notorious of his fictional fables. Threw a hissy fit when I suggested his book on Benitez was a blatant cash-in on the gullibility of Newcastle fans.

Baldy Grump: For some reason he’s been in a strop with me for a few years. Low spot was him attempting to start a fight in the Left Luggage Room. Still not sure of his beef, which is a shame as I liked him.

Strawberry Blond Sturmabteilung: Sometimes, you just have to stand up and tell it how it is. He was a pal for many years, but the older he got, the more intolerant and censorious he began. Anyone disagreeing with him was excommunicated, as he sought to surround himself with sycophants of limited intelligence. If he climbed off his high horse, cut down on the self-mythologising and playing to the gallery, he could be a decent person, like his brother and his dad. Unfortunately, he seems to enjoy being pompous and inventing a personal history of impeccable proletarian credentials.

Coffin Dodgy: Autodidact ingenue who initially came to fame after his MAOC stunts. Joined NUST and was swallowed by the bureaucracy; fell out with me when I pointed out he’d been compromised and manipulated. Fell back into obscurity. Now driving a taxi, I believe.

Sandy Horologist: Dubai based mouth worker. NHS-trained before chasing the Petrodollar in the desert. While his pals stayed on Tyneside, many working endlessly for the NUFC Foodbank on a voluntary basis, he spent his time showing off his gaudy watch collection on Twitter, not to mention establishing a media career, founded on his supposed knowledge of the Staveley bid fiasco. Feel sorry for any of his patients who must have been left twiddling their thumbs in the chair while he did another podcast or bought a Rolex on Ebay.

Imbarrathin Body: Radgepacket with a hair-trigger temper, who enjoys public slanging matches. Didn’t appreciate me pointing out to him that 6 pints of Woodpecker snakebite isn’t appropriate refuelling for a designated lorry driver.

Private Mainwaring: Boring, bong-eyed, thick camp follower. Hasn’t found a bandwagon he can’t join in music, football and cricket. A joke.

Cyber Groomer: Message board warrior who enjoys spreading vitriol to random single women behind his wife’s back. Never even met the bloke.

Forest Grump: Lachrymose Richard Fairbrass body double with a persecution complex. Has a memory longer than an elephant.

Monkey Con: Borderline illiterate old lag. Objected to being brought to book for turning rebellion into money.

Hosiery Hitler: Former fat fanzine lad turned paranoid entrepreneur. Took umbrage after being criticised for kicking Simon Pryde up a height in a charity 5-a-side. Vexatious litigant who has had the Polis at my door almost as often as Elaine Gray-O’Connell.

Permed Hun: Former Liverpool, Carlisle and Newcastle fan who fell head over heels in love with Loyalist iconography. Extreme homophobe and collector of Nazi memorabilia.

Dirt Box Dickhead: Another ex-con. Doesn’t understand irony and harbours a grudge. Can start a row in an empty room.

The Man With No Hair: Survivalist prepper with a set of clubs in the back of the car. Bald, 19^th hole bigot with a single-figure IQ. Could be dangerous if society breaks down. Alarming sexual fantasist.

Dole Dullard: Empty-headed former Gremlin. Struggles to comprehend the opposite point of view. Fights words with fists, but often comes second.

PC Doyle: Corrupt intellectual pygmy. Fond of accessing PNC and telling stories. No longer on social media.

Gillsbridge Podiatrist: Boneheaded Mackem grass who can’t accept the truth about the Central Station.

Denver: Brainwashed, discarded Vanguardista. A waste of a life.

Big Chef: Hysterical barrage balloon, still holding a candle for a dead dog.

The E Generation: Hertfordshire acid casualty and social media liar.

Fumima Fumami: White haired heed the ball and grass. Made a career from forging wills.

Chirton Walrus: Pisspot dictator with a Messiah complex. Hates being challenged.

18% Hydrocephalus: A massive, empty head and an incessant paranoid rewriter of history.

Big Psycho: Fat liar.

Sordid Dwarf:  Geriatric lothario.

Cathedral Nonce: Dead paedo.

Hardface Homeperm: Hysterical harridan with 999 on speed dial.

Moody German Pig: Sly nutter.

No Tits Fan: Flat chested, scheming witch.

Milky Lipley: Small, inadequate man in a donkey jacket.

Cash Converter: This isn’t science fiction, it’s art after music.

Moaning Banjos: Big-eared, conformist loser. Destined never to be a musician while he’s a hole in his arse.

The Ventriloquist: Hopeless cineaste turned hopeless restauranteur.

Pip Punter: Loud, arrogant bookie’s mug with a liking for takeaways.

Bonfire Bonehead: A factotum who refuses to surrender and always grabs the wrong end of the stick to beat people up with.

Smiling Assassin: Self first, self last and self again if there’s anything left.

Keyhole Kate: Shrill-voiced, bong-eyed, authoritarian witch.

The Big Florist: Vengeful, aggressive dictator, with the eyes of Caligula and the mouth of Caligula.

Airborne Roy Whiting: Modern day Victorian mill owner, with a hatred of the NHS & an obsession with exploiting workers

Scabby Weasel: Strike-breaking hypocrite with an unconvincing combover, whose shit band play the Big Meeting as often as he crosses a picket line.

 

 

 

 

Truckulence

So, the story so far is that I’ve lost my job because I was grassed up for a blog I wrote about dangerous working conditions during the COVID-19 pandemic, Northumbria Police refused to take my complaint against the rogue cop PC Doyle seriously, because they’re corrupt fascists and I’m still barred from my beloved football club on account of my left-wing political views, having been sacked as programme editor by the weak and contemptible clown of a chairman for standing up to racism. None of the three situations could be controlled by me, but I did my best with the last one.  As required in the terms of my interim banning order imposed last December, I sent in a letter, begging to be allowed back to home games. This is it -:

 Dear members of the committee,

 As you’ll remember, on Wednesday 4 December 2019, you collectively decided to ban me from attending home games with immediate effect, until at least the end of the 2019/2020 season. It was a decision I profoundly disagreed with, but one that I respected, accepted and abided by, meaning I did not attend the remaining 12 home league and cup games before the season was curtailed on Friday 13 March 2020. However I did attend 6 of the 8 away games that took place during that period, without any incidents or confrontation, as I concentrated on doing what I want to do above all; actively support the team, as I have done since 28 September 2003 when I first attended a game (a 4-0 win over Thornaby in the FA Vase to be specific).

 The instruction I received with my banning order was that I should write to ask if I can be allowed to attend home games, hence this letter. The time I’ve spent, metaphorically and literally, outside the club family has not only allowed me to reflect on events, it has reinforced my desire to follow my club for the rest of my life. I am asking therefore to be allowed back once football starts up again.

 I am, of course, aware of the fact that the current situation involving COVID-19 makes any time-referenced concept of the 2020/2021 a nebulous one at the time of writing, but I have several thoughts I would like to share with you about what a return to attending home games would mean. Firstly, I have no wish to be involved in the club as anything other than an ordinary fan, sitting in the stand, in a responsible, socially distanced manner with other ordinary fans. As such, I would seek to purchase a season ticket, sponsor the match ball for the first home game after the resumption and book the executive lounge when possible, to bring family and friends to the club. I am more than willing to transfer this money to the club bank account immediately if required.

 Of course, I realise that there are some restrictions which may need to be imposed. For a start, I undertake not to attend any fixtures identified as problematic by yourselves. As regards away games, it is my intention to complete the remainder of the Scottish League grounds that I’ve not visited as soon as possible; thus, I would imagine I would not be present at many Saturday away fixtures. If there are any other conditions you would wish to add, I am more than happy to agree to them. Basically, I’m desperate to start attending home games again and I’ll do anything to make that possible. Thank you for your consideration of this matter; I hope we can all meet again in positive circumstances.

 As you can imagine, despite the urgings of the manager and the secretary to reintegrate me into the fold, it was unsuccessful. Once this decision was communicated to me, I sought further clarification, specifically:

1.         Is the ban indefinite or does it have a fixed end point?

2.         Is there any right of appeal to yourselves or the whole committee?

3.         Was my letter circulated to all committee members in advance of the AGM?

4.         Is my attendance at away games seen as a positive or a negative?

A few days later, I received a less than satisfactory email from Victor Orban the Truckerman. It began in reasonably comprehensible fashion, saying my ban had been renewed for the 2020/2021 season, rather than the imposition of a lifetime ban. Somewhat inaccurately the Recep Tayyip Erdoğan of the Fossway claimed the decision to keep me barred was a unanimous decision, though I know it wasn’t, which was the spurious justification for refusing me the right to appeal. The answer to question 3 was evasive, suggesting all members were aware of the content of my letter, meaning they definitely hadn’t been sent a copy each and almost certainly hadn’t had sight of it either. The amount of time I’d wasted on penning what I thought was a persuasive and respectful does annoy me, but not as much as the answer to question 4. Worshipful Brother Jair Messias Bolsonaro announced, without any justification or evidence, that my attendance at away games would not be helpful, for reasons that are not apparent… 

After this, the content became more than a little disturbing, as the dread hand of PC Doyle’s malfeasant campaign against me dripped from every syllable. For some reason, Orban the Truckerman claimed he knew that PC Doyle hadn’t grassed on me to work; a bizarre claim considering the domain from which the poison pen email that did for me originated. Next up, not only the content but the subject of my blogs came under attack. Rather like Sitel, Bolsonaro Erdoğan seemed keen on dictating what subjects I am allowed to write about on my personal blog, on top of having removed the option of writing in an official capacity after I stood up against racism in print.

Perhaps the most incredible comment was that I had to stop dragging the club’s reputation through the mud on social media. Now hang on just one minute; this is the same bloke who got himself involved in a whole litany of  unseemly spats on the Sunderland forum Ready to Go when he adopted various aliases to try and pretend he was a disenchanted Mackem from Seaham, ought to have been enough of a reminder of how things can get out of hand. Back then, some irritated posters found out his name, uploaded photos and divulged the address and nature of his business.  Surely this particular pot should not have been blackguarding any kettles. I remember at the time being shocked at how such a supposed respected pillar of the community could end up in such a swamp of on-line sedition.

If that was poor, personal judgment, one wonders exactly what thoughts went through his head before going on to Twitter to abuse Hope Not Hate for posting footage of  the attack on the peaceful Black Lives Matter protesters by a load of Stone Island clad radgies and ultra-right wing counter demonstrators at the Monument in June. This was after he had wished the geriatric Gremlins good luck on Facebook on the morning of the disorder. How do the black players at the club feel about a chairman who goes on like Oswald Mosley on Tyne? The fact is, Orban the Truckerman has moved more and more to the extreme right over the last few months; anyone who claims Alastair Campbell was a left winger has seriously re-calibrated their political compass, though I wonder whether he is aware how these posts are coming across on social media. I know Bolsonaro Erdoğan has been unwell, but that is no reason to condone his vicious social media persona. It’s a shame as he’s a bloke I used to have a lot of respect for, unlike Doyle who I’ve always thought was a subnormal gobshite.

The email I sent Orban the Truckerman, asking further questions and making observations about the previous communication, remains unanswered. However, I did get a pathetic response to my complaint about Doyle from Northumbria Police from Inspector Hall. Her words are in italics and my response is in bold.

Mr Cusack alleges an officer off duty has been bullying and harassing him via the means of social media.

Not only on social media, he has denigrated my name and trashed my reputation as part of his concerted campaign of negative propaganda against me.

A complaint can only be made against an officer for conduct off duty if certain criteria are met. Officers are entitled to a private life and opinions on personal issues however officers should not use their position or role to influence any matter and at all times should act within the expectations of the Standards of Professional Behaviour. The officer is entitled to do this even if you disagree with his point of view, provided this is raised in a manner that is without threat and uses appropriate language.

Would you say that describing me as a “scruffy, fat, annoying keyboard warrior” is appropriate language and an example of the Standards of Professional Behaviour the force expects? He tweeted that about me. Surely that is an attempt to influence opinions against me.

Ch/Insp Lowther has discussed this matter with PC Doyle who confirms that he knows you through a mutual association with a football club. There has been very little contact between you both and any contact has usually been via the club or events associated with the club, mainly football matches. The last direct contact between you both was during the 2018/19 season (month not known) when PC Doyle came to your aid during a football match where rival fans were threatening to assault you.

Either PC Doyle and C/Insp Lowther are liars who concocted the false narrative above, or Doyle has groomed Lowther to parrot lies. I have never said Doyle was directly bullying towards me; he is too subtle for that. He has always carried on his vendetta behind my back. He is lying about ever coming to my aid. He is also lying about me being threatened during that season. Doyle’s friend, an inveterate drink driver, threatened me in January 2018. Doyle did not intervene.

Since then no direct contact has been made between you both and you have since been barred from the club for 12 months due to social media posts although you both still have access to Twitter and other social media accounts associated with the club.

The Social Media posts Doyle got me banned for were political ones. As he is an ultra-right wing authoritarian, who himself was censured by the club for retweeting a Britain First post on the club account, he responded to my Remain voting intentions, pacifism, support for a United Ireland, positive attitude to LGBT+ issues and membership of the Labour Party with aggression and hatred. He got me barred from the club because I was canvassing for Jeremy Corbyn at the last election.  As regards the club’s Twitter account, he blocked me from seeing it and it was only once he’d left the club I was unblocked. I am still barred from the ground.

PC Doyle has stated that he is unsure why you have made this complaint against him as at no time has he made any direct contact with you or been abusive towards you. Any comments that he makes on social media are topics that are being discussed as a forum with others associated with the club and not with you directly and these have not been abusive or threatening in any way and relate to topical issues being discussed.

Absolute and total hogwash. Doyle is lying and Lowther is compounding the lies by repeating them. Northumbria Police have no interest whatsoever in investigating any complaint against them, especially by me. All that happens is incidents are swept under the carpet and a bland, platitudinous response is issued, intended to make the complainant look like the one in the wrong.

It is acknowledged that there may have been comments that you feel may have been directed towards you or feel that PC Doyle does not have a good relationship with you but I can see no evidence in his posts that he uses the fact that he is a serving police officer to influence or abuse his authority. PC Doyle is entitled as a member of public to have opinion and upon review of evidence presented I do not believe this would meet the standard to show a clear breach of the Professional Standards of Behaviour and under the Complaints and Misconduct Regulations, as an employer we have no power to prompt or force an apology to you.

Utterly pathetic. He used the PNC to gather information about me. Have a check on my file; bearing in mind the incessant harassment and persecution I’ve endured at the hands of Northumbria Police in these last 7 or so years, it will be an extensive one. To me, Doyle’s conduct is the latest series of attacks in a cycle of oppressive behaviour towards me. This is the problem with you lot “investigating” complaints; you’re all fundamentally corrupt fascists who treat those who object to living in a Police State as lower than vermin.

Ch/Insp Lowther has however given PC Doyle clear advice on social media usage and Force Policy standards to ensure he understands the expectations placed on him, PC Doyle has agreed to not engage with you further and will remove himself should any other person make comments on social media so that he is not linked to any perceived behaviour in the future.

Empty, worthless words. You disgust me, you really do.

I am sorry that you feel this way, PC Doyle will not be sacked or arrested, a proportionate response of speaking to the officer and giving advice has been completed. I will not be responding further to your emails, as I have provided you with my decision and outlined the reasons why. You have no right of review to my decision however you have the right to seek legal advice should you wish to do so.

I find it risible that you feel a proportionate response is having a cosy chat with Doyle, considering he is still abusing me on social media. If I had done this to him, a gang of riot cops would have had my front door off the hinges before dawn, me physically assaulted to the point of unconsciousness and flung in a cell for 48 hours. I wouldn’t put it past Northumbria Police to have me killed for complaining about you. Doyle gets away with bullying and intimidatory conduct and I’m told to like it or lump it. Absolutely sickening.

No wonder everyone hates the cops. No response. No wonder I’ve had as much as I can take in this life.

And getting back to Orban the Truckerman, here is one final example of his petty, vindictive, small-minded vendetta against me. In a couple of weeks, Harry Pearson’s revisiting of The Far Corner twenty five years later, named The Farther Corner will be published. Chapter 1 deals with my beloved team against Stockton Town in the FA Cup a couple of years back and there are several other chapters that deal with us. Bearing in mind my friendship with Harry, I had tentatively suggested we do the launch at our club. When I mentioned this to Bolsonaro Erdoğan he showed absolutely no interest in it, despite the fact this book is probably going to be the best-selling sporting book of 2020 and that 99% of Northern League fans will buy it. It could have been lucrative for the club, both financially and reputationally, but Orban the Truckerman decided not to have anything to do with such an undertaking, simply because it enabled him to distance me from the club. I’m glad in these straitened times that he is able to turn down cash money that would have benefitted the team.

Rest assured, I’ll be at every away game possible, once the cricket season is over.