The X Factor

 I'm still enjoying my quest to visit every Northern Alliance ground, with Arriva buses giving me the means to do so -:

Amidst the swirling despair created by the maelstrom that is the Covid-19 first and a half wave redux, the least welcomed occurrence imaginable was the appearance of another international break. A fortnight’s sporting anomie is an unhelpful intrusion during ordinary days, but the forced fervour of an England triple header has nothing to commend it in these desperate times. At least we have been reassured that the incompetent, venal arrogance of our top clubs and their owners are all in rude health, for nothing else can explain how a league, whose members have just spent in excess of £1.2 billion in the recent transfer window, can have the barefaced audacity to introduce a £15 charge for Pay Per View games and then point out that many of these barren cash cows will kick off at the “iconic” (I’m not making this up you know) time of Saturday 3pm. Fair play to Leicester City for being the sole voice of reason in the towering Babelfest; massive respect to that club.

Now, let’s be honest, it’s of little surprise that Newcastle United versus Manchester United is the first game scheduled for this “exciting new opportunity for fans” to be ripped off, bearing in mind that the two clubs are the most blatant examples of shameful owners only interested in their clubs as money making enterprises. Last season, Matty Longstaff’s debut goal made this clash one of the few memorable moments in an eminently forgettable season; this season I’ll be more likely to watch Matty Leadbetter between the sticks for Chemfica Amateurs. In actual fact, I’m still torn between Seaton Sluice v Blue Star U23s and the titanic derby that pits Morpeth with Morpeth Town Reserves, depending on where the latter takes place. You see, I’m still in the business of counting down the remaining Northern Alliance grounds I’ve not visited. If you’re not attending a non-league game, I’d recommend donating your £15 to the Newcastle United Food Bank rather than Sky TV.

You’ll recall I blogged about my last foray into the wilds of Northumberland for Ellington against Stobswood in a game that actually transcended the Beaufort Scale? Well, that hike was like popping in to see the neighbours when compared to my last two excursions to Rothbury against Gosforth Bohemian Reserves and North Sunderland versus Heaton Stannington A. One of the most exacting features of any day out in Northumberland’s border county is the weather. The season’s first new ground saw Harry Pearson and I forced to endure a deluge on a soft evening in Haltwhistle. The rain that night was tumultuous, punctuated by periods of scarcely credible monsoon conditions, like a watery, Mogwai percussion track, but not incessant, whereas the downpour I forced myself to endure at Armstrong Park, Rothbury was a constant, heavy downpour. It made the howling gale at Ellington appear like a gentle summer breeze by comparison. The glorious sun on a still day as Harry and I looked out towards the Farne Islands from the beer garden of the Old Ship in Seahouses, before I headed to North Sunderland and he and Deryn back to their holiday cottage in Embleton, made an autumnal day out that had started towards the scenic on arriving in Morpeth, now seem beautiful, life-affirming and vital. Would I rather pay £15 to watch Joelinton and Shelvey than tour England’s Border County by bus? Like shite I would!!

Although, if you’d asked me that question the week before, as I splashed my way through deepening puddles from the bus stop in the centre of the village back towards Armstrong Park, I may have given you a different answer. More than 45 years since I’d last been there, Rothbury seemed to be the ideal spot to be shot dead by the coppers, rather than spending upwards of 2 hours in receipt of a natural cold shower of unrelenting grimness. The journey up had been fun; it always is on any deserted X-prefixed Arriva bus, surging bravely, without any need for socially distancing, through deserted, scenic villages, ruined by exclusive developments of 5 bed detached mansions for dormitory executives, where the only way to tell a sheep pound from a cricket ground is by the scoreboard in the corner. We made the usual sedate progress to Morpeth, which I’d once considered a decent journey by bus. The situation was ramped up a gear by a change of drivers as an imposing Goth with a decidedly manic cast to his eyes took the wheel. He tore the single decker X14 along saturated, deserted country roads, picking up a couple of passengers at Longframlington but nowhere else; perhaps they were hiding behind the shelters as he tore down bumpy stretches of tarmac glazed with rainwater. At least we were dry on board. By the time I’d walked 50 yards, you’d think I’d been for a bathe in the Coquet.

Armstrong Park should be a site of outstanding natural beauty. Hewn out of the hillside, it disappears away off in the direction of Cragside, giving way to bucolic, rolling countryside. To the right, it hugs the B6344 that stands between it and the river, while to the left an impressive pine thicket acts as a natural barrier. There is no cover against the elements, but suitably attired country folk either stand proud beneath capacious golfing umbrellas or sit in their 4x4 monster trucks with the heating on. Personally, I sat on one of the memorial park benches that fringe the pitch and immediately soaked my shorts from arsehole to breakfast time.

Rothbury won this one 2-1, but it should have been far more comprehensive than that. From my elevated viewpoint, it was clear the pitch was as vast as it was true, grassed and flat. Rothbury used the width to provide openings for their two strong frontmen and opened up a 2-0 lead by the interval. Bohemians were podgier and older, seemingly without answers to the strength of the home side. Strangely, the second period saw little real action, until Bohs pulled one back from a scramble, deep into stoppage time. Soon the whistle blew, and I squelched my way back into the village, in search of hot coffee. I found a cup in the unfriendliest deli it has ever been my misfortune to visit. Indeed, I cursed my impetuousness when, just the other side of the Co-Op Funeralcare concession where Raoul Moat was brought to repose, I spotted a delightful looking micropub, The Narrow Neck, only 50 yards further on; sadly, time was against me and an altogether more solicitous driver piloted the X14 back home. Rothbury, I’ll be back on a sunnier day than this.

Current government guidance as regards football spectators is, courtesy of the DFA and NFA’s illogical interpretation, as you can expect, a farce. Maximum crowds at Northern League level remain 150 for clubs in restricted areas, while for Alliance and Wearside clubs, a maximum of 40 spectators can see top flight games, but none are permitted below this, which is, of course, impossible to enforce in public parks. As a writer and journalist, I always contact clubs I intend to visit to establish press credentials and ensure my attendance is accepted and expected; my pal and fellow Communist Jon Tait was very accommodating at Rothbury, as were those who ran the Twitter accounts of Ellington and North Sunderland, for it was there I headed on a day of dappled sunshine, as the X15 and X18, by turn, ploughed through glorious piles of russet leaves. Leaving Tynemouth at 10.00 and arriving in Seahouses at 13.15, I had plenty of time to contemplate the benefits of County Lines drug delivery operatives, who provide an excellent service for otherwise untoxicated rural youths and the legacy of the famous Northumbrian anarchist punk band Crasster, famous for such classics as Banned From the Lobster Pot and Do They Owe Us a Kipper?

Having passed Embleton and Craster FC’s stadium a few miles south, Seahouses creeps up on you by the golf course. I alighted, wended my way down Main Street and met Harry and Deryn in the beer garden of the Old Ship to pass a wonderful hour. On departure, Harry gave me a valedictory bag of excessively spicy crisps he’d bought in Aldi and a can of craft ale he hadn’t. I left feeling like Grace Darling at low tide, then took a meandering, inaccurate walk to the ground, which I was required to access by clambering over a five bar gate. This really was the countryside by the seaside.

I must say both the ground and the pitch were immaculate; same as Rothbury, which made Wallington look like Walker Central, North Sunderland are obviously a superbly organised and well-run operation. Both clubs deserve to be the epicentre of their local community’s sporting life for years to come. The only strange thing was North Sunderland were attired in black and white stripes; what’s in a name eh? Their opponents were Russell Ward’s promising Heaton Stan A outfit. Having left his post at Shankhouse, where he’d led them to NFA Benevolent Bowl success, Russ is in his second season back at Grounsell Park and he’s assembling a squad of quality ball players, though none matched the North Sunderland number 8 who was a class above everyone else of the pitch; a lovely ball playing centre midfielder who wasn’t afraid to do the hard stuff when required.

It was a quality encounter of strength and endeavour from the home side, pitted against the guile and finesse of the big city visitors. Tied 1-1 at the interval, it wasn’t clear who would win it, though an early goal after the restart saw North Sunderland looking more likely, until a late rally by Stan saw them pinch the points. A tremendous 40 yard strike hit the underside of the bar, before being recycled for a thumping short range equaliser. The winner, when it came, was cruel; the home side lost it in midfield and a Stan forward streaked away and finished to grab the points. It wasn’t quite a smash and grab, but a draw would have been fair.

 At the final whistle, I wandered up to a hotel without hand pulled beer for a Moretti, took the 5pm X18 to Belford and thence the 17.45 X15 to Haymarket, arriving starved, dehydrated and in desperate need to micturate at 19.40. It had been another excellent day and the Morpeth derby, Seaton Sluice and Wooler, probably against Heaton Stan, are all I have left on my Northumbrian bucket list.