Free Jazz

 I'm still going to games; Whitley Bay SC 2 Chemfica Amateurs 7 last week & Ellington 0 Stobswood Welfare 3 this week -:

Last week, I was in a state of high dudgeon at the NEPL’s dreadful decision to prevent all spectators from seeing Tynemouth 2s in the Banks Bowl Plate final away to Willington. Instead, I had decided to tick off another of the half a dozen unvisited Northern Alliance grounds on my hit list. Seaton Sluice versus West Jesmond was the intended destination, until news came on Friday afternoon of a late postponement, as one of the West Jesmond lads had tested positive for Covid-19. With no realistic hoppable alternatives, the chance of seeing my pal Matty Leadbetter vaping on the touchline for Chemfica Amateurs away to Whitley Bay Sporting Club at Churchill Playing Fields was my only option, though my thoughts were mainly concentrated on events in Willington.

Normally, Tynemouth Cricket Club take a cynical, luddite view of modern scoring technology; live updates on Play Cricket are not normally available, for reasons of principle. However, Willington, despite their remote location, are fans of modernity and presented a ball by ball update on the final game of the strangest and shortest season ever.  Willington batted first and made a par score of 164 from their 40 overs. Williams, Brown and Blackmore all topped 30 but some steady bowling and keen fielding from all of the Tynemouth players held the home team in check. Opening bowler, the bronzed Adonis James Carr took 4/31 from his 8 overs, while skipper Andrew Davison, whose brother Mark conceded a penalty in the opening minute to see Chemfica go a goal down, bowled very tidily with 1/19 off his 8.

In reply 15 year old Dan Thorburn and 16 year old Patrick Hallam began steadily before opening up to build a terrific partnership of 85 for the first wicket before Dan was caught for an excellent 43. Patrick was out soon after for a well-made 32 but then a minor collapse saw us reduced to 135/6. At this point, broadband in the West Durham area must have suffered an outage, as the score wasn’t updated until the following Tuesday. After about an hour of nervous pacing and futile refreshing, news came through that 16 year olds Joe Snowdon, playing with an old head on young shoulders, and Evan Hull Denholm, rock solid at the other end, had seen us home with an undefeated 30 run partnership. Congratulations to those who played and to those who helped get us there in previous rounds. Whilst there were no spectators allowed to enjoy it and no real opportunity for the players to celebrate in the usual way, the half dozen over the age of 18 anyway, nothing should detract from a fine victory nor the outstanding contributions from a clutch of young players who performed well when it mattered. It was a deserved victory and a good way to end the 2020 season. I just wish I’d been able to see it.

Meanwhile, Chemfica Amateurs bounced back from that early blow to take the lead with a couple of well taken tap-ins from pleasing passing moves. Whitley Bay Sporting didn’t react well to this misfortune and almost immediately compounded their task by going down to 10 when one of their players was red carded for an unnecessary and petulant, though wholly unsuccessful attempt at kicking an opponent. It did nothing to turn this game in to an edifying contest, as Chemfica scored at will and completed an emphatic, but ultimately unsatisfying, 7-2 win, to the delight of the assembled throng of 16 or so, including passing dog walkers, a family kicking a penny floater about, a brace of furtively courting teenage sweethearts, and a trio of recuperating cyclists.  Clearly, the public assembly of such an unruly and dangerous mob of ambulant viral infections was the main reason why North Tyneside and Northumberland Public Health Areas are displaying a terrifying dozen or so cases of the Miley Cyrus at the minute.

I’m not a virus denying, swivel-eyed loon, like David Broadmoor or Jamie Tinfoil, but I absolutely and unreservedly condemn the appalling curbs, recently imposed on my liberty by the criminals in power and their lickspittle collaborators in the town halls of our region. I don’t know how many times I’ve said this, but it bears repeating; since the Cummings Episode, the Tories have ceded all moral right to any imposition of restrictions on the behaviour of citizens. Despite their unconvincing rhetoric about safety and stuff like that, all the Tories are interested in is preserving the interests of capitalism. This is why factories, offices and schools are open; keep them at work to maximise profits and keep the bairns under observation to maximise attendance. Fuck the health considerations; let’s make lots of money by exploiting workers. Not only that, but the bars are being shut down early and attendance at sporting events prohibited to stop citizens socialising in an era of dissent.  Keeping students, the stormy petrels of youth, under illegal house arrest, is the evidence we live in a fascist police state. Comrades, let us seize the time…

 

Anyway, in this context of social repression, the idiocy of those involved in the charity game at Fencehouses that resulted in 300 plus Covid infections would inevitably result in ostentatious, public repression. While Nick Forbes squealed and sobbed loud enough to ensure Newcastle was seen as the most willingly compliant, quisling council, actually welcoming this latest wholly unnecessary, repressive lockdown, the Durham FA’s John Topping maintained his reputation as a Machiavellian, back room operator who can peel oranges in his pocket with a boxing glove on, by drawing up a document that seemed to be not so much a response to a second wave, but a blueprint for football under Martial Law. Zero debate with local leagues was allowed; compliance was compulsory and the Northumberland FA, still smarting from the Clive Oliver debacle, willingly signed up to the worst infringement of my personal liberty I’ve ever been forced to ignore. Here’s an extract from the document that Topping forced the NFA, Northern League, Northern Alliance and Wearside League, not to mention a myriad number of recreational leagues, to adhere to -:

National League System Steps 3 – 6

-          Spectator numbers must not exceed 15% of the minimum ground grading capacity.

-          All spectators should wear face coverings at all times, as stated in line with government advice

All Adult Football Outside of the National League System

-          No spectators at training or matches.

 

Let’s not kid ourselves; this is utterly ludicrous, not to mention completely unnecessary. For a start, any pub, restaurant or shop that isn’t dying on its arse will have more punters than your average Northern Alliance game, Killingworth v Blue Star excepted, in any 90-minute period. Secondly, the number of Alliance teams who play on public parks, or afford unhindered viewing from an adjacent location, is almost certainly in the vast majority. Whose responsibility is it to police these restrictions? The home club’s Covid-19 officer? The referee? The local flatties, who should be out dealing with real criminals without masks in the local Spar? Finally, what on earth is the point of a face mask on the touchline of an open air, uncovered Alliance pitch? Be realistic; it must be nigh on impossible for the virus to stay in one place to create infections when Force 10 gales batter exposed football pitches from all angles.

Consequently, having selected Ellington v Stobswood Welfare in Alliance Division 2, I thought I’d be sure it would be possible to actually see the game. So, using my writer and journalist credentials, I contacted Ellington, who could not have been more helpful and hospitable. A conversation took place via Twitter and, despite the ferocious downpours of Wednesday and Thursday, the pitch was pronounced immaculate and I set off on Saturday morning, a mere 3 and a half hours before kick-off. With the Metro having one of its rest weekends between Tynemouth and Shiremoor, I walked to Shields and took a train to Monument. It was Record Store Day (Albums), so I nipped into the original indie paradise, JG Windows, to lash out a scandalous £30 on Dinosaur Jr’s Swedish Fist; a live album, recorded in Stockholm. No doubt I’ll discuss it at length in a later blog.

To get to Ellington from Haymarket, the hourly X20 is the best bet. In fact, it’s the only bet. The journey up to Ashington is standard stuff, but once we head out past Woodhorn Museum, I’m in uncharted territory. The old Lynemouth Biomass Power Station is as scenic as ever; a grey concrete sentinel, whose enormity almost masks the world effects of the gusting winds that howl in from Norway. Fringed by caravan and motor home storage facilities, Lynemouth serves as a warm-up act for Ellington. I disembark a mere 40 minutes before kick-off and struggle to fill the time. When the wind blows, it is freezing; those rare seconds when it abates are warm and temperate.

Having spotted the sign for Ellington FC, I take an unfinished road, past the edge of an estate too new for Google maps, winding round unused fields to the entrance. Ten yards on, I check in with the NHS Covid app, sanitise my hands and cast a glance round the facilities. My goodness, this is an impressive facility; loomed over by a dozen enormous wind turbines that spin like a Sopwith Camel propellers before take-off in a grainy, First World War newsreel, it boasts: a full-size floodlit 4G pitch, a small-sided grass pitch and two full-sized ones, the main of which has been furnished with a solid, wooden, perimeter fence, ideal for leaning your elbows on. It would have been a great place to balance my notebook to write down pithy anecdotes, except it was so cold I had Thinsulate gloves on, making the manipulation of a pen somewhat difficult.

Thankfully there is very little to write about during the game. To clarify, there is no lack of effort, but the hurricane that gusts across the pitch ruins all attempts at fluent football. It is a raw-boned, red-toothed Northumbrian derby, where constant volleys of the F word, for both emphasis and in anger, swirl and fly off into the vast beyond at speed. Neither keeper is forced into a serious save in the first half before Stobswood captain Jake Baker sweeps in a loose ball on the edge of the box in the 43^rd minute. I can concede that Stobswood play with a fraction more finesse than the home side, whose endeavours are inspired by an admirable esprit de corps.

 

When the whistle goes for the break, the players stay out, discussing tactics in a tight huddle, while I nip off for a loo break, regretting my choice of short trousers as I appear to have frostbite of the shin. The clubhouse and changing room is covered of proud posters, exhorting us to #HallaElla. I must admit I’d hoped their nickname was the Dukes, or the Fitzgeralds, but I see no references to trad, bebop, cool or any other style of Jazz, perhaps predictably.

By the time I get back to my pitch side eyrie, Costello has doubled the Stobby lead. Fair play to Ellington, they respond positively to such misfortune. The home side never stop and push their visitors back for the rest of the second period, but without tangible success. Instead, Stobswood wrap things up with a quick break and eye-catching finish in the last minute. Soon after, the whistle blows and I half hobble, stiff-legged and frozen, for the bus. A great day, but not a great game; I’d love to come back if the weather is ever better.

 

Next week, I had hoped to visit Wooler with Chemfica Amateurs, but Matty has opted to go on the gargle for his birthday, so I’ll have to beg either Rothbury or Whitburn to allow me a safe watching berth. Five grounds to go and the NHS app tells me I’m safe.

 

 

Timed Out

 My cricket adventures have been unfairly curtailed because of COVID-19 hysteria, so here's all I can say about cricket for this year -:

I had hoped to be writing this blog next week, so as to include an account of Tynemouth 2s in the Banks Bowl Plate final away at Willington. However, this has not been possible as the new and, in my considered if uninformed opinion, wholly unnecessary set of lockdown rules and recommendations, mean that the game can take place, but only behind closed doors. In other words, this recreational club cricket game is being treated in the same way as Sunday’s Chelsea v Liverpool Premier League game.

Now, other than this will be the only Saturday I’ve not seen Tynemouth all season, the fact this game is going ahead in these circumstances is frankly barmy. The NEPL had scheduled 7 finals for the final weekend of the season. When Hopeless Hancock’s contradictory crap finally dribbled into the public realm, the NEPL abdicated all sense of responsibility, never mind leadership, by putting the onus on to the home teams, not the away ones, to decide if they wanted to play the game. South North decided their 2s couldn’t play the Banks Bowl against Benwell Hill and the Academy wouldn’t fancy the Banks Cup v Washington on the Sunday. Ashington and Blaydon similarly declined the chance to host the Banks Salver Plate versus Sunderland the Banks Salver Plaque v Lanchester, respectively. However, we didn’t get unanimity, as there are 3 games going ahead: The Banks Salver, comprising Chester-le-Street v Burnmoor, the Banks Bowl Plate that we already know will be Willington v Tynemouth, as well as the neighbouring Banks Bowl Plaque at Crook Town v Philadelphia. The latter games includes two new entrants to the NEPL  and, despite me being denied an opportunity to see JED Carr win the Bowl Plate singlehandedly, the biggest injustice of the whole season is that not one of their club will be able to watch, other than the scorers presumably.

While the T20 first class competition and the final of the Bob Willis Trophy represent a few more games of cricket, it now means my spectating season is over. Obviously at one point, I’d not imagined I’d see any cricket this year, so to have caught all or part of 26 games at 10 different grounds, 4 of which I’d not visited before, is something of a triumph and not a set of memories that should be sullied by the closed doors final. Therefore, picking up the thread from my last cricket blog, we must take ourselves to Shiney Row on a sunny Thursday evening. Having embraced the start of the football season with Whitley Bay 2 North Shields Athletic 0 the night before, I took the X1 from Eldon Square to the magnificently named settlement of Success; an estate where my dad’s equally magnificently named mate Bryan Ferry used to live. He was a council electrician and looked nothing like the Roxy Music frontman; in fact, he looked like the actor William Conrad from Cannon. He’s probably dead now; the old Shiney Row site of Sunderland College has definitely gone, transformed into a swanky new build estate. The Philadelphia pub remains, but I didn’t drop in, heading instead for the adjoining cricket club, where the game was slated to begin at 5.30, on account of the nights cutting in.

Philadelphia is a neat, compact, and enclosed ground that reminded me of a more urban Sacriston. As the Banks midweek Shield is an entirely Durham based competition, I’ve seen very few games in this tournament, though I do recall seeing Whitburn win it about 3 years back. They were tonight’s opponents, and in the absence of any other evidence, I thought they may be favourites, so the fact they skittled the home side for a meagre 81 seemed to back that up. How little I knew; 20/3, 21/4, 23/5, 24/6, a recovery to 32/7, 36/8, 39/9 and finally, 41 all out in 12 overs. Whitburn only managed 50% of Philadelphia’s total. It was a great game if you like wickets; not so good if you like batting. Unfortunately, the night was ruined by having to wait an hour and a half for a bus home, as the hourly X1 let me down, meaning I got into the house around 11 o’clock, starving but totally sober, though I could have got shitfaced on the exhaled air of plastered, unmasked 16 year olds, celebrating their GCSE results.

The best thing about the Philadelphia trip was that I reduced my target list to 2 clubs; sadly, Shotley Bridge and Castle Eden must wait until next year, pending NEPL approval, of course. I had, whimsically, thought of Castle Eden v Philadelphia for the Saturday following, but with trains to Sunderland off, I stayed closer to home with Tynemouth’s visit to South North, which was threatened but not visited by rain. Incredibly, for the second week in a row, we lost off the last ball, this time by 1 wicket. We didn’t really get started batting until George Harding came in and started hitting a few lusty blows, enjoying a great stroke of luck when a fielder on the boundary misjudged a catch and chested the ball over the rope for 6. Without George’s half century, we wouldn’t have been competitive, though at 48/0, the game seemed up. Suddenly, they were 73/7 and we’d won, or so it seemed. Alas, these South North lads have a will to win stamped through their DNA like a stick of rock. Ben McGee may have run Oli out, making up for being bowled by his brother, but the last wicket pair brought it home with 12 off the last over, including successive clubbings over cow corner by Jonny Wightman. The trip home with Di and Liz was akin to a ride from the crematorium to the pub. On the Sunday I headed up to TCC for the inquest, but a biblical flash flood curtailed proceedings with the Academy 83/3 against Gateshead Fell.

The next week was the coldest recorded day in August for something like 50 years, but I still attended the visit of Ashington in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, like any normal person. Rain during the week restricted the game to 34 overs a side and a wet outfield hampered run scoring, so our 132/4 seemed a decent score, especially when we’d reduced them to 10/4. At this point, the younger Harmison brothers came together and steadily rebuilt the innings.  It came down to Ashington needing 2 off the final ball, with which Ben Harmison connected powerfully, thus a four seemed a certainty. Out of nowhere, Polly leaped and stuck out a hand, somehow clutching on to a catch, then celebrated like Maradona at USA 94 as we reversed recent misfortunes to win by a single run. Meanwhile the 3s crushed Monkseaton 2s on the back pitch. As their 1s were off with a wet pitch, I was surprised they didn’t stiffen their team, so fair play to them for playing in the spirit of the game. Mind, after we’d posted 162/4, it seemed a little unbalanced as a contest when they crawled to 39 from 26 overs, though they put on a smidgen of a spurt to end up 66/6. Perhaps they thought a losing draw was an option.

And so, we moved on to Blaydon on Bank Holiday Monday, where we needed to avoid defeat, not necessarily win, to reach the knock out stage of the Salver. The first thing that confused me was why the club is called Blaydon, when their home is in Winlaton? On a glorious morning, the adjoining chip shop was packed out with hungover proles seeking a trans fat cure. A good crowd, a recurring theme of the 2020 season bar finals day of course, gathered to watch an intriguing contest. My favourite event was my old mate Trev Robinson showing up for a much needed chat and catch up, even if cricket isn’t his sport. Apparently, rowing is what floats his boat these days, which shows that you can’t take the FPX out of the lad.

Blaydon posted an impressive 192, but it appeared as if we’d win with ease when George and Mike Jones were knocking it around the place. Suddenly, when umpire Peter Woodley harshly gave Mike out caught when he didn’t appear to get a nick, we fell to bits.  With 14 needed from the last over and our last pair at the wicket, all seemed lost. However, a straight 6 onto the road from Polly gave us hope, which was increased when they were no-balled for having too few in the circle. Polly then repeated the shot from the free hit and the scores were tied with 2 balls to go. The next one was a full toss that Polly hit down mid wicket’s throat and the game ended in a tie. You can’t say Tynemouth haven’t provided entertainment this Summer and this result gave us another fixture; away to the Burnmoor Globetrotters in the quarter final.

Sadly, after 4 incredible tight games, we ended up suffering in a very one sided encounter. Fielding a very weak side, only Ben Debnam and the renaissance man Polly, with a startling unbeaten 27, offered any real resistance. It’s a big ground at Burnmoor, with 3 scenic sides, including the former school turned clubhouse, on a lovely day when there was no smell of anthracite in the air. We quickly lost by 8 wickets, while in the reverse game our 2s dismissed Burnmoor 2s for 38 and knocked them off without mishap in 6 overs to set up a home semi against Sunderland. We weren’t back quickly enough to see the end of that, but we did see the dying embers of the 3s easing out Newcastle 3s, courtesy of two magnificent catches at the end by Benno.

The last game I saw in the 2020 season was our 2s posting 200 and dismissing Sunderland for 179. Anthony Turner top scored with a watchful 42 and skipper Andy Davison weighed in with a useful 40. Matty Walton was the pick of the bowlers with 3/22 and JED Carr ended proceedings with the last wicket, caught by Andrew Linehan to the noisy approval of our half pissed first XI, who were downing alarming amounts of Guinness on the players’ balcony. It looked like everyone was on for a good session, with the Newcastle game on at 8, but I went home, hoping to conserve energy for after the final. The best laid plans eh?

Roll on mid-April 2021…

 

 

 

Masks & Anarchy

 Television is an effective vaccine against reality.......

I’m going to have to get up early in the morning, as I need to talk to my GP. The reason being is that my anxiety levels are rising rapidly, and I think I need to double my Propranolol prescription. What has caused the increase in anxiety is the fact I’m soon to start grafting again. No chance of me revealing the identity or location of my new employers but suffice to say they can’t be any worse to work for than Tyne Met or Sitel. The anxiety isn’t about the work I’ll have to do, which I’m sure I’ll complete with ease, but simple things like meeting a whole load of new people for the first time, managing to realign my body clock so I can deal with the working week and, most frightening of all, coping with public transport and the possible effects of sustained close proximity to the great unwashed.

I had intended that this piece would be a light-hearted account of all the different ways I’ve found to waste time during lockdown, home working, furlough and unemployment, but circumstances meant that just wasn’t possible. You know the sort of things I’d be talking about, feeling proud of myself for lousing from my pit any time before noon, achieving Free Cell level 463 on the laptop and becoming a connoisseur of shite television. In the afternoon, I’ve developed an affection for Everybody Hates Chris, Modern Family (that Colombian character is brilliant) and Parks and Recreation, where the opinions of Ron Swanson provide me with a daily dose of hysterics.

I hope this doesn’t come across as Requiem for a Dream relocated to North Tyneside, but around tea time, I turn the clock back thirty years to visit Erinsborough and Summer Bay. Let’s face it, both Home & Away and Neighbours are and have always been a load of fucking shit; they still are incidentally. However, Home & Away has now adopted an almost cerebral undertone, whereby Alf Stewart, probably the only character other than Marilyn, not to have been eliminated in one of those typically preposterous soap opera deaths, has evolved into a gnomic, gnostic soothsayer, wandering the streets of Summer Bay, dispensing takes on moral philosophy and interpersonal ethics.  It’s bizarre, boring and the only thing the show has to recommend it. Meanwhile, there’s still a few of the originals aimlessly dropping into Lassiters at inappropriate times in the working day, including former aspiring Hell’s Angel turned criminal defence lawyer, Toadfish Rebecchi. The ponytail has gone, but the gormless expression, vital for courtroom advocates the world over, remains. The plot, such as it is, seems to continually consist of Karl Kennedy, GP turned landscape gardener turned pop star turned GP again, and his wife Susan, who is still a pain in the hoop teacher, getting married, then divorced and then married again. Four times they’ve been down the aisle together, as well as getting their kit off with all and sundry, as Ramsey Street mutates into a Pier Paolo Pasolini buttock ripper. What they need is some proper relationship counselling from Alf.

At night, I’ve been watching Doc Martin, which I use to find repugnant, but I’m actually thoroughly enjoying, though the fact that ITV4 and UK Gold are showing different series simultaneously can be confusing.  Him and Louisa are, by turns, unmarried, married, split up or back together. They have relationship counselling, but that’s not something Barry Foster needs; in Van der Valk, Piet and Arlette (played by 3 different actresses) discuss confidential police business over vats of Genever, cheroots and numerous half litres of Amstel in wood-panelled restaurants and dingy brown cafes. Piet generally has an epiphany then solves the crime 10 minutes from the end, allowing for metaphysical ruminations over the impermanence of human life in a socially liberal society.

The one thing all these television series have in common is a far greater sense of reality than Her Majesty’s Government have displayed in their response to the Covid-19 situation. I’ve not written specifically about the pandemic for a few months now, but it is obvious the incompetent clowns in charge need to be brought to book once again. First and foremost, anything that Matt Hancock says can be safely disregarded as ludicrously preposterous; it often appears he’s been set up to talk bollocks on camera as a way of distracting the general public from the imposition of a fascist dictatorship by stealth. Then again, I’ve never particularly subscribed to the conspiracy theories about a shadowy secret super state, mainly because this shower of moral degenerates couldn’t find their arse with both hands. Perhaps Hancock really is as thick as he seems, though he’s a Mensa shoo-in compared to Gavin Williamson. Interestingly, the Education Secretary described doing his A-Levels as “the hardest decade of my life.”

As far as the Brexit five act tragedy is concerned, I’d expect the EU to launch a pre-emptive nuclear strike on the Palace of Westminster if that cunt Michael Gove insists on reincarnating Ian Smith’s 1965 declaration of UDI in Rhodesia. It simply is not acceptable to ignore international law and will result in blood on the streets. However, it is unclear whether face coverings will be mandatory during the inevitable forthcoming dystopian civil war. They still are in shops and on public transport and I’d like to remind some of the tinfoil hat wearing anti Vax lunatics of that. I don’t necessarily believe in the efficacy of face masks, but they simply don’t do any harm, so there’s no harm in conforming to regulations.

My uninformed opinion about Covid-19 has moved slightly from the apocalyptic fear I endured during the first three months. While I still believe it is a highly dangerous and destructive condition for us old, fat bastards, I really don’t see it as being the catastrophic end of days plague it was originally marketed as. The medical profession, from front line practitioners to back office researchers, are geniuses; in 6 months they’ve got a handle on the virus and how to ameliorate the effects if not the symptoms. Of course, cases are rising, we’ve got better quality tests now, just not enough of them. The majority of those contracting Covid-19 will suffer mild symptoms, the overwhelming majority will not require hospitalisation and only a tiny minority will die. I can accept that as a new normal. Life must include an element of risk and another complete shutdown of society is not a tenable proposition for two main reasons.

Firstly, the Dominic Cummings fiasco removed any moral authority the Government had. A second lockdown will be ignored for that reason alone. Secondly, the Government’s only loyalty is to the capitalist system that lives for profit and profit alone. They want everyone back at work to fill the pockets of the bosses and the schools open so teachers can continue to act as childminders and gaolers of working class youth. Interestingly universities, long the cradle or organised political dissent, are being encouraged to use on-line tutorials to stop gatherings of intelligent young radicals. Pubs and shops will remain open, with bafflingly different distancing and PPE regulations, for the purpose of maintaining a flow of money into the economy and liquid opium for the masses. As long as there’s beer to be supped and free to air Premier League football to watch, a workers’ insurrection can go on the back burner.

It looks like I’ll have to accept local non-league football as my sporting attraction until 2021; the decision not to proceed with admitting fans in Scotland until October has almost certainly put paid to my intended Caledonian japes. Even worse, all gigs are off for the foreseeable. Looks like I’ll have to stick with the retro telly when I come home at night and rip my breathing mask off.

Balderstone Island

As a kid, one of my sporting heroes was Chris Balderstone, who combined captaining a Carlisle United side he guided to promotion to the top flight in 1974 with a distinguished cricket career, initially with his native Yorkshire, but mainly at Grace Road, during  Leicestershire’s glory years from the early 70s until his retirement in 1986. A distinguished ball-playing midfielder who weighed in with his far share of goals, Balderstone represented The Cumbrians on 386 occasions, bookending his career at home town Huddersfield and Doncaster Rovers, before winding down with a couple of years north of the border with Queen of the South. He was a stylish and attacking batsmen who could bowl more than presentable left-arm orthodox spin, winning 6 trophies with Leicestershire, before taking up umpiring after retirement, standing in a pair of one day internationals. Balderstone’s death from cancer at the criminally early age of 59 was mourned by both football and cricket fans when it was announced in March 2000, though he seems a forgotten hero in the current era.

To those of us of a certain age, the phrase “doing a Balderstone” was instantly understood. Chris Balderstone made history on 15 September 1975, having just joined Donny from Carlisle, by taking part in a County Championship match and a Football League game on the same day. He was 51 not out against Derbyshire at the end of day two of Leicestershire's match at Chesterfield. After close of play he changed into his football kit to play for Doncaster Rovers in an evening match 30 miles away; a 1–1 draw with Brentford. He then returned to Chesterfield the following morning to complete a century and take three wickets to help wrap up Leicestershire's first ever County Championship title. Absolute Boys’ Own stuff, which meant it was unsurprising Chris opted to play the whole of the 1976 cricket season, causing Doncaster to release him from his contract, which indirectly enabled Balderstone to score enough county championship runs to see him selected for two tests against the West Indies in 1976’s notorious Blackwash series during the hottest summer of the century.

With less fanfare, I have decided that in 2020 I will “do a Balderstone,” as for the first time in almost 50 years, I have no football team to follow. Consequently, until 19 September, my Saturdays will be dedicated to the summer pursuit, weather permitting of course. This, I must stress, is not in any way a second choice scenario; knowing how some, though perhaps not all, football clubs treat their supporters and volunteers, I feel absolutely no compunction about giving my heart and soul to Tynemouth CC. Even if we lose the cup games against Burnmoor this weekend, there will still be friendlies to watch on 12 and 19 September. My decision is one that I’m sure Chris Balderstone would have approved of.