A Close Shave

 It's been rather fun supporting Newcastle United these last couple of months....

It was a fine Sunday afternoon around the middle of March; the kind of day that hinted at Spring’s imminent arrival. The sun was out, but held in check by a stiff, chilly breeze. I was sat in front of Sky Sports, nervously shifting from ham to ham as the clock ticked towards full time. The competing emotions were nerves over the outcome and a pervasive, scratchy discomfort from the untidy facial hair I’d been almost accidentally growing for 63 days now and, despite looking vaguely homeless, I wasn’t keen on going clean-shaven just yet. I’d last shaved on Sunday 8^th January and had vowed not to do so again, until Newcastle United got beat. Never mind Eddie Howe’s Manager of the Month award for February; the real cause for the upswing in our fortunes was my hirsute head.

Then, with 89 minutes on the clock, Kai Havertz (who should have been sent off in the first half for a deliberate elbow on Dan Burn) accepted a long pass from Juninho and cushioned a side-footed volley past Dubravka, ending Newcastle’s 8-game unbeaten streak that had seen us avoid defeat since the Cambridge debacle in the FA Cup and extended back to Man United on Boxing Day in the League. In the minutes after the game, where we’d put in our best display at Stamford Bridge since Cisse’s amazing double a decade ago, I chose not to dwell on the incompetent officiating that had also seen us denied a clear penalty, nor on the pompous, self-aggrandizing virtue signalling regarding the sanctioning of Abramovich by squeaky-voiced ideological irrelevancies like Denver and the opportunistic bullshitters of the Fourth Estate. Instead, I charged up my clippers to get the thick of it off and completed the job with a thorough wet shave. Newcastle may have lost a game, but I’d taken 10 years off my looks with a bit of personal grooming. Aware of the light contemporary masculine fragrance that surrounded me like a halo of aromatic flies, as I biked from Tynemouth to High Heaton, I used the journey to reflect on how Newcastle had reached a point whereby a collection of virtually relegated deadbeats had been transformed into a solid, mid-table outfit who were gutted to lose to the current European and World club champions.

I’d last written about Newcastle at the end of January, after the win at Leeds had given us a bit of hope for the weeks ahead (http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.com/2022/01/dancing-barefoot.html). That game was the last before a long break that saw the team paraded as useful idiots in a Saudi training camp, before getting back on the horse at home to Everton on Tuesday 8^th February.  The break had obviously done them a power of good, as the team looked organised and purposeful from the off. Typically enough, this encouraging opening was followed by a pair of richly comical own goals in the space of 90 seconds. At least Lascelles instantly made up for his daft error by forcing Mason Holgate into a rick of his own, sending the teams in level.

Now, used to the anti-tactics of Algarve-Bruce, Newcastle fans have been accustomed to second half performances of loathsome timidity that saw us repeatedly cede territory and possession, retreating limply to the 18 yard line before conceding goals that our impotent attack had zero chance of cancelling out.  Guess what though? That script has been ripped up. We pushed them back from the opening moments of the second half and deservedly took all 3 points. Praise must again be showered on the reborn Ryan Fraser who scored what turned out to be the winner, with Matt Targett’s sensible, unhurried, unflappable presence a great bonus for the team.  The third goal was an absolute pearl of a free kick by Kieran Trippier, who has had an incredible influence on the team since his arrival.  A total professional who never puts a foot wrong, he just shaded St Maximin for player of the match.

After escaping from the bottom 3 for the first time since the Autumn, the chance to put further space between us and the relegation spots was on offer on the Sunday at home to Aston Villa. Courtesy of another brilliant free kick from Trippier, we did just that. How wonderful and warming it was to see a Newcastle United team play comfortably within themselves and still win a Premier League game with something to spare. Dan Burn made an assured debut in this one and looked so at home, at his boyhood club, that he could have been here all of his career, which I suppose he should have been.  Subsequent news of Trippier’s broken foot was a blow, but these 6 points have changed the atmosphere surrounding the club and a sense of perspective is now required. We may still be light up top, where Wood has failed to pull up many trees, but our defence has gone from being an error prone calamity in waiting to a calm, organised and assured unit. For that achievement alone, Howe deserves massive credit.

The whole squad, other than the conveniently injured St Maximin, deserve massive credit for the point away to West Ham, where we looked fit, agile and committed all game. It seems a lifetime ago when Algarve-Bruce’s lads cruised to a victory at the London Stadium on the opening day of last season, with Jeff Hendrick in his pomp. Somehow, Moyes has changed his spots and reinvented himself as a credible top flight manager, so emerging with a point today was probably better than a win last year. His lot got their noses ahead, but an effective performance in all areas saw us get the point we deserved courtesy of the revived Joe Willock, who is looking every inch the dangerous, creative firecracker we had on loan a year ago.

Brentford was the game where I finally began to believe in my team, if not my club, once again.  Obviously this was shaping up to be the best awayday since either of the aquatic jollies at nearby Fulham, but mainly because of the generosity and accommodating nature of Hanwell Town FC. I’ve seen The Geordies, as they are nicknamed beat Rugby Town in the FA Trophy some 15 or so years ago. Today, with the first team away, they opened the bar and put on food for the travelling NUFC hordes, who almost drank the place dry before heading to Brentford and pocketing an easy 3 points. Within 12 minutes, I knew we’d not lose or even concede, as soon as Brentford went down to 10 men. So it proved; we effectively closed out the game.

Two glorious goals brought points home; Joelinton channelling his inner Sir Les with an absolute bullet of a header and the best celebration of the season, followed by the kind of insane, genius goal we’ve not seen since the days of The Entertainers. Schar rampaging down the wing, putting in a perfect cross for Willock to crash the ball home as the fans go absolutely apeshit. We’ve waited a long time for joy unconfined to break out so organically. Let’s hope it continues.

What I don’t want to continue is the situation whereby our owners, the Saudi state machine, continue with their illegal war against Yemen, dropping more bombs per week on citizens of that poor, benighted country than Russia has on the Ukraine. Equally, I don’t want to hear Amanda Staveley offering support for Roman Abramovich now his sports washing, money laundering, cash cow has been taken away from him. Let’s get our own house in order, before rallying support for other squalid oligarchs eh?

Next up was a Brighton side we’d never beaten since both were promoted in 2017. Firstly Chris Hughton utterly outfought El Fraude Benitez, before Potter comprehensively outthought Algarve-Bruce.  Make no mistake, this was a big test and, just as Killingworth YPC thumped in a four-goal, second half salvo to put Percy Main amateurs back in our box, news of a rapid start at SJP spread like wild fire courtesy of Live Scores. Fraser and Schar put us 2-0 up. Despite not playing that well, these goals and some resolute defending sealed the win, despite Brighton getting one back. I simply refuse to countenance debate of the tired cliché of how we’d have lost that under Algarve-Bruce. Times move on. We were 8 points clear of the drop, but with an ominous looking 4 away games off the spin up next.

Firstly it was Southampton away, in a game rearranged from New Year’s Day when Covid ravaged the squad. Hassenhuttl, the only Premier League boss to have twice lost games 9-0, bleated about how unfair it was that we could play our January signings. It was such a delicious irony that, having gone behind to a Stuart Armstrong goal, we roared back to win with a brace of brilliant beauties from two January signings. First, the pedestrian Chris Wood got us back level with an unsaveable header from a perfect cross that was almost the equal of Joelinton at Brentford, but it faded into obscurity compared to Bruno’s outrageous backheeled volley that won it for us. You only see goals like that about once a decade and it deserved to win any game. What a treat for an amazing turnout of over 3,000 away fans on a midweek night.

So, coming into the Chelsea game we’d won 6 and drawn 3 of the previous 10 games, risen as high as 14^th and put 10 points between us and the bottom 3. The result at Stamford Bridge was a kick in the teeth, but statistics don’t lie and safety was, and is, within our grasp. In many ways, I’d like to be able to finish this piece there, but there is still one game to discuss; Everton away. It was inevitable we would play shit again athis season and this was the game we did just that. On a frankly surreal night where a Denver lookalike cable tied himself to the goal, we had a decent first half, but didn’t look hungry enough for goals. In the second period, almost nothing of note happened until Allan got a dubious red card for fouling St Maximin. This was the moment we lost the initiative completely and it just wasn’t good enough. After complacently assuming we’d got a point from a dull stalemate, they showed fighting spirit and won it in the 99^th minute. St Maximin weakly lost the ball in midfield, Burn misjudged things by trying to challenge, but left himself out of position, allowing Calvert Lewin to exchange passes with Iwobi, who stroked it home; a goal too neat and precise for the dross that preceded it. We lost because they wanted it more.

Now, we are 8 points clear with 9 games to go; in the reverse fixtures we won 1 (Burnley), drew 2 (Palace and Norwich) and lost 6 (Spurs, Wolves, Leicester, Liverpool, City and Arsenal). If we repeat that, we get 37 points, which may be enough, but I think we need to turn those draws into wins and ensure we get something from home games to both Leicester and Wolves. Wouldn’t it be hilarious if we get 43 points again? I’ve a feeling we might just do that.

Double Scotch; No Ice

Issue #18 of the magnificent North Ferriby fanzine A View from the Allotment End is out this weekend; please buy a copy, not just because I've got this piece in it about my trip to Ayrshire back in January 

On New Year’s Day 2020, back when the world was young and carefree, I resolved that I would complete my visits to all 42 Scottish League grounds as soon as I could.  Since then, of course, we’ve had the Global Pandemic that shut the world down, but I’m proud to say that I’ve stuck to my task doggedly, even if I’ve been forced to incorporate a few imaginative ways of slowing my progress to this goal; a waterlogged 4G pitch at Alloa, a COVID outbreak at Airdrie and First Minister Jeanette Mugabe’s reintroduction of excessively brutal lockdown regulations in time for Christmas were all obstacles in my way. Hence, I’d only ticked Alloa (eventually), Motherwell and St Mirren from my wish list by the time rules were relaxed in mid-January; the week before the Scottish Cup reached its 4^th round in point of fact.

Of the 16 ties, two were moved forward to accommodate the demands of television. On Thursday my Scottish team Hibs beat Cove 1-0 and Friday The Huns cuffed 4 Stirling Albion 4-1, leaving me 8 unvisited grounds to choose from the 14 remaining ties. It swiftly became clear to me that an Ayrshire double header was in the offing; the intriguing Championship and Premiership contest of Kilmarnock versus Dundee United at 3pm could be prefaced by the chance of a mighty upset in the lunchtime game when Lowland League tyros Auchinleck Talbot welcomed Hearts (who, for the sake of objectivity, I’ll not call the Gorgie Filth in this article). The early game at Beechwood Park wasn’t at a ground on my immediate tick list, but it’ll undoubtedly save time once the charmingly nicknamed Bot eventually gain promotion to the SPFL. That said, currently, there are 5 steps between the teams; Hearts are in the Premiership, with the Championship, League One, League Two, Highland and Lowland Leagues (basically, there’s no Conference Premier in the Scottish structure, as everything outside the SPFL is regionalised), then the East, South and West of Scotland Leagues before that. Auchinleck sit second in the West of Scotland Premier League, with 5 games in hand on leaders Pollok. To gain promotion, Auchinleck would need to win their division, prevail in a 3-team mini league with the winners from the East and South, then defeat the last placed Lowland League side over two legs. Assuming they manage all that, to gain promotion to the SPFL, they’ll need to win the Lowland League the year after, as well as defeating the Highland League winners over 2 legs, before getting the better of the bottom team from SPFL League 2 on aggregate, in order to have the honour of playing at the same level as Albion Rovers. It’s a tough ask, but one that appeals to my sense of endeavour.

For the same reason, I’d booked myself onto the 7.44 train north, to ensure I arrived in plenty of time. My carriage was deserted save for half a dozen medical GILFs enjoying a Bucks Fizz and croissant breakfast, en route to Old Reekie for a joint 50^th celebratory weekend. Changing to an even emptier rattler at Waverley, I made it to Queen Street via Linlithgow, Polmont and Croy for half ten and there I met my mate and companion for the day, Kenny. I’d first run into him in September 2020 on a work training course and found, within seconds, we’d loads in common regarding a shared love of the grassroots game. Despite coming from a Celtic-minded background (Irish Catholic in other words), he’d grown tired of the top level of football where ridiculous ticket prices, oppressive policing and stupid kick off times made going to Parkhead more of an ordeal than a pleasure. Thus, he’d jacked in the Jungle for a regular return to his Auchinleck roots, now holding a season ticket at Beechwood Park, where he’s in a particular minority.

As well as trips to Scottish League grounds, I’ve also visited a good number of Scottish non-league teams. In the East of Scotland, the game at a lower level takes place with a very relaxed vibe; not quite Corinthian, but definitely sporting. However, in many parts of the West of Scotland, there is a more parochial, violent attitude on display. Specifically, in 2019 I attended a local derby on the last day of the season between Cumnock and Auchinleck, where the home side’s success in stifling the visitors denied Talbot the title, resulting in some serious scrapping at full time… by the players it must be said. That game only had regionalism as the crucial factor spurring all the hatred. Sometimes, specifically in the more isolated parts of Ayrshire and Lanarkshire, rivalry can appear to be based on major events in 17^th Century Irish History.  These lads are staunch, in the most part, and have no truck with the Church of Rome. This is what makes Kenny one of the minority round these parts.

Arriving in Auchinleck, we parked up on the edge of town and walked to the ground, passing a local lassie coming out of a corner shop with a traditional Scottish breakfast of Vodka, Irn Bru, 20 smokes and a large bag of Monster Munch. Passing the Railway Inn, where several of us had imbibed after the Glenafton v Auchinleck game three years previous, I noticed it had closed down (as had Rebel Coffee, perhaps unsurprisingly), but other pubs were doing a roaring trade, with the Hearts support behaving impeccably, as they did all day. Would my fellow Hibees have been quite so solicitous? Unlikely I’d say.

Turning the corner towards Beechwood Park, a house opposite the ground was festooned completely in amber and black favours of the home side. A woman in an Auchinleck jersey smiled and waved at all those heading to the game, then shut her front door, presumably to watch it on the telly. She would have had a better view than we did, as a completely sold out ground was impeded by the BBC’s insistence on keeping fans clear of the covered shed on the touchline, to save their precious cameras any stress. It didn’t make the ground unpleasantly packed or anything, but an unimpeded view was out of the question. As I was saving myself for one of the legendary Killie pies at Rugby Park, I partook of the homemade chicken and vegetable broth at Beechwood; glorious stuff and amazing value for a quid. I’d just finished it when Hearts took the lead. After a close and even opening quarter of an hour, Andy Halliday nodded the Jam Tarts ahead and the game effectively ended as a contest there and then.

Hearts’ goal took the sting out of the game and kept Talbot at arms’ length. The only surprise was it took until 39 minutes before they made it 2-0. After a needless handball, Liam Boyce converted from the spot and became only of the very few Hearts players to have ever been called a “Fenian Bastard” for doing so. The bigoted moron responsible for this comment certainly looked the part; red, white and blue Doc Martins and matching home-made tattoos, claiming “WE ARE THE PEOPLE” and “No Surrender 1690,” on either side of his bald head. He was a good enough reason to abandon our spot by the corner flag during the break, for a perch at the side of the Main Stand. It afforded us a great view of Boyce nodding home an impressive second after 51 minutes that made it 3-0 and definitely ended the tie as a contest. Talbot’s only chance of an upset had been to get an early goal, then defend like crazy. Being forced to chase the game wore them down and left them out on their feet. The crowd were equally deflated; a steady stream of early leavers became a torrent once Harding and then Cochrane added superfluous gloss to the result, meaning Auchinleck’s signature chant of “Eeka Peeka Pukka Po” remained largely unsung.  We left as soon as it reached 5-0 to get a head start on the journey to Kilmarnock, almost being knocked off our feet by a sprinting father and son, obviously in a hurry to get away. The fact they went into a house directly across the road from the main stand baffled me, but no matter.

I’d chosen Kilmarnock, rather than the equidistant and iconic Ayr United as I’d expected considerably wetter weather than we had. At the best of times, Somerset Park’s pitch is like an allotment, while Rugby Park has bobby dazzling 4G surface, though in the end it was such a clement spell that Ayr may have been possible. The journey to Killie was smooth and untroubled, but we still missed kick off, taking our seats in the Frank Beattie stand, just as former Hibee (and Mackem) Mark McNulty put the visiting Arabs ahead. In the aftermath of this, I took stock of what is now one of my favourite Scottish league grounds. Rugby Park is both modern, in terms of facilities, and traditional, in the shape of their weird, signature floodlights. It’s all seated, but not functional, though many complain of limited leg room, and I enjoyed it on this grey, mournful day.

The second game was a good one, with both sides going for it from the off. A Championship side in good form, with a new manager in the shape of Derek McInnes, up against an underperforming top-flight team, with new players like Tony Watt, was a recipe for a tight game and a proper contest. The fact it was so fact paced and attacking was a credit to both the surface and the two managers’ tactics. Killie equalised when McKenzie tapped in after Siegrist’s sprawling save had denied him initially. At the interval, I indulged myself with a Killie pie, which was even better than the chicken curry effort at Falkirk. Proper chunks of steak, rich gravy and a crust that was more butter than lard; gorgeous!!

Despite both sides going for it, they couldn’t be separated in the second half, even when we witnessed the return of the truly horrible Kyle Lafferty for Killie. As the SFA abhor replays, it went to extra time and, just when penalties seemed inevitable, Dylan Levitt took possession on the edge of the box in the 11^th minute, before evading a couple of challenges and finishing calmly into the corner, winning it for the men from Tayside. This was the cue for Kenny and me to leave. He drove me back to Queen Street and I caught the train home. Another wonderful trip to Scotland, with Airdrie v Cove on March 26^th my next scheduled visit. I’m hoping to complete the whole set by the end of 23/24 or thereabouts.

 

 

The Latest

 What I've been reading and what I've been listening to in 2022 -:

Music:

Strangely for me, I’m not running to stand still among the young and trendy beat music connoisseurs as I’ve already purchased two newly released 2022 albums to discuss. Firstly, and fabulously I have to mention the impeccable dream pop that is Wilds by The Soundcarriers, a Nottingham band of perhaps 8 years standing, but of whom I was shamefully unaware.  I bought the album courtesy of the arresting nature of a single play of (what turns out to be) the stand-out track “Saturate” on Marc Riley’s show, heard in my mate Dave’s car on the way back from football one Monday night. When the CD popped through the door, the sounds carried within were, as I had hoped, the kind of exquisite keyboard and ethereal female vocal driven glories that oscillate between 1960s West Coast USA and contemporary West End Glasgow. We’re talking multi-tracked harmonies, Hammond organ, pounding drums, major chords and a bass that leads the line; all in all, simply too gorgeous for words. There are apparently other albums in their back catalogue and, if they contain polished jewels like “Waves,” “Falling Back” or “Happens Too Soon,” then I need them in my life.

Also just out is either, depending on how you look at it, the debut platter by Sea Power or the tenth album by the artists formerly known as British Sea Power. Unsurprisingly, it is the latter, which renders their decision to take a new name to reflect a supposed change in direction either erroneous or a deliberate red herring.  As the very word “British” has become toxic to all but the most rabid poppy fascist in these post-Brexit days, it is understandable that the band whose triumphant “Waving Flags” still resonates with a burning love for humanity, would seek to distance themselves from all such militaristic connotations. However, it seems that pettifogging, ideological hair splitting has seen (B)SP take their eye off the ball as, without putting too fine a point on it, Everything Was Forever is a bit on the dull side. Alright so “Green Goddess” and “Lakeland Echo” are right up there with the best of their chest beating, pantomime bear dancing, crowd pleasers, but they don’t show up until 75% of the way through the album. By then, one is reminded of the boring bits from Valhalla Dancehall and Let the Dancers Inherit the Party as, far from a change in direction, this appears to be a largely uninspired retread of some of the less interesting elements of their earlier career, though repeated listens to “Two Fingers” elevate the worth of that song.

One band who have a track record of giving fans what they want are The Mekons, whose lockdown recorded and download only released Exquisite is now available on vinyl. It’s fabulous as well; they very fact it was a record formed in splendid isolation across two continents, with mobile phones acting as mini studios appeals to me. Remember this band could best be described as the chance juxtaposition of a sewing machine and an umbrella on a dissecting table, as Comte de Lautréamont observed. Consequently the fact we appear to be in an inspired fusion of the dub machinations of F.U.N.90 and the bucolic splendours of Natural is something to be loudly celebrated. Tracks such as West Yorks Ballad and What I Believe at Night show their well of creativity won’t dry up any time soon.

As I’ve written about elsewhere, I’ve developed a strong affection for TQ, the locally based magazine dedicated to the outsider, no audience music scene. Issue #52 will be accompanied by a copy of glove #9 for all subscribers, as I try to spread the gospel of outsider writing. This follows my interview in issue #50 and is an attempt to pay back, in a very small way, all the generous deeds of editor Andy Wood, which included 8 free CDs with issue #50. I only intend to discuss these briefly, but suffice to say, a benevolent gesture such as this needs to be praised unconditionally, even if I can’t do the same for the music. Dealing with them alphabetically, first up is So Waltz by Audiac, who feature the redoubtable Krautrock veteran Hans-Joachim Irmler, once of Faust. No argument about it, this is an excellent album that reminds me of nothing so much as early Be Bop Deluxe. Certainly, it is one I’ve decided to keep.

This isn’t the case for Velvet Teeth by Chlorine, which is one of those post-industrial drone things that I just can’t get my head around and also Dave Clarkson’s mainstream, ambient but unchallenging Magic Garden set. However, I am delighted to own Dementio 13’s wonderful Last Test album that features 27 carat banging and screaming throughout; the kind of distracted, top notch caterwauling I’m always happy to get in bed with. I’ll have to revisit Pinnel’s Dreamer, as the disc was a bit dusty and so became more and more muffled as it progressed. Interesting improvised, treated vocals that draw me back again though. Greg Neiuwsma’s Travel Log Radio, comprising cut ups and edits of found field sounds collected during his travels in India and America spike my interest as well, though I’m not sure I’d listen to it again. That is definitely the case with the punishing, emotionless Ministry style beats of Rafael de Toledo Pedroso’s Fly Like Chez Arvi or the not unpleasant but not engaging minimalist drone of XQui’s Elemental. Still, that’s 50% of 8 freebies that I’m happy to keep. The other 4 I’ll pass on to random glove readers who don’t subscribe to TQ with the next issue, which is due very soon.

Books:

The first novel I need to discuss is 2021’s Booker Prize winner, Shuggie Bain by Douglas Stuart. From the very outset, I have to say that it surprises me that this book was adjudged to be of sufficient quality to receive such an award, as the straightforward narrative is stylistically nowhere near the quality of such giants of Scottish Literature as Keenan, Kelman, Warner or Welch, nor of such recently passed figures as Gray or Torrington. The six novelists I’ve mentioned are all supremely talented and innovative writers, in a way that Stuart isn’t. For him the intention was clearly to write a character-based novel that is welded to a tragic plot that just stops short of the sentimentality of Angela’s Ashes.

This is a story about poverty, addiction and abuse. The main, though not titular, character Agnes slowly kills herself with alcohol, becoming ever more vulnerable to predatory men, even after her worthless second husband, the philandering Big Shug, has walked out on them. Her only constant relationships are with her children, whose response to her disintegration eventually involve escape. The oldest, Catherine, marries and moves to South Africa, which Stuart signals is the amoral participation in another form of oppression. Middle child “Leek”, a gifted, stays to try to teach the youngest, Shuggie how to conform to the norms of working-class Glaswegian masculinity. “Leek” also stays in the hope of saving Agnes, until one day, ravaged by drink, she throws him out, leaving young teenage Shuggie as her sole carer and witness.

Shuggie Bain is a miserable read, with neither redemption nor escape at the end of it. Degradation, in all its guises, drips from every page like A Boy Called Dave with a Tennents carry-oot.  Shuggie and Leek undress Agnes after a night out, looking away from her bruised thighs and gouged breasts, catching vomit and wiping bile. There’s tragic heroism in Agnes’s commitment to self-presentation and domestic order, making sure the house is immaculate before the next rapist stops by; and something sadder than heroism in Shuggie’s passion for his disintegrating mother, which is not a choice but a fact. The novel springs from a deep understanding of the relationship between a child and a substance-abusing parent, and is a bruising, scabrous read, but if Stuart is to build on this success it is to matters of style that his practise should be addressed.  

Shuggie Bain was a Christmas gift from my son’s partner, Lucy. The next two books, Black Wings Has My Angel by Elliott Chaze and Hurricane Season by Fernanda Melchor were book recommended to me by David Peace. Well, you can’t go wrong if the lad who wrote GB84 tips you the wink can you?

Black Wings Has My Angel is a fairly hard-boiled crime noir, sophisticated pulp novel by Elliott Chaze, published in 1953. Narrated by an escaped convict, the pseudonymous Tim Sunblade, who had been convicted of car theft, it tells of the adventures when planning and revelling in the perfect heist. He is staying at a backwoods Mississippi motel, when he meets "Virginia", a call girl whom he hires for a night. After spending several days in the motel together, they head out West, with Tim thinking of when and how he is going to ditch her. Circumstances lead the couple, after trying to get away from each other, back together.  They settle into a love/hate relationship when Tim realizes that she might be the perfect person to help him pull off a heist. The two wind up in Colorado, where Tim discovers a part of Virginia's past and what she is running from. He lets her in on his plans and they plot to rob an armoured truck.

After spending weeks waiting for the right opportunity, the couple eventually steal the truck, with Tim killing the guard, who had sat in the back with the money. They reach Cripple Creek, a secluded ski resort in the woods where they push the armoured truck and dead guard into a nearly bottomless mineshaft to hide them. At this point in the narrative, Tim reveals that his account is actually his confession, which he is writing in his prison cell. He then recounts that he and Virginia go to New Orleans where the dynamics of their relationship change -:

I was sick of Virginia, too, and of what the money had done to the both of us, changing a tough, elegant adventuress with plenty of guts and imagination into a candy-tonguing country club Cleopatra who nested in bed the whole day long and thought her feet were too damned good to walk on.

They make their way to the Gulf of Mexico and end up in Tim's hometown of Masonville, Mississippi, when they are stopped suddenly by a two police officers. They make a panicked escape and start a police chase that ends with Virginia killing the first cop, leaving Tim with the second cop, who Tim shoots and kills. He is caught and badly beaten, burned with cigars, and thrown in jail. Virginia is also caught and thrown in jail. After she seduces and knocks out a jailer, they escape and return to Cripple Creek, where they blend in with the tourists, going skiing and finally renting a house out there. Virginia starts to obsess about death and being in the electric chair.

One day, they go out skiing and for a picnic near the mine shaft. They both feel drawn to it, tempted to look inside. They inch their way towards the open shaft and finally look into the 600-foot drop. Feeling relieved, they start to dance. Virginia suddenly slips and falls into the shaft opening and lands on an unstable rubble outcropping 40 feet down, but still alive and screaming. Tim panics and goes back to the hotel to find rope, where he runs into his "old FBI friend", Clell Dooley, who is hunting for him. When Clell and four or five other men find Tim, he is sitting near the mine shaft, thinking about Virginia. Tim had seen that 40 or so feet down in the mine shaft, there was "a lump", like a rock sticking out and nothing else. Tim asks the men if they have seen Virginia; they carry him off, presumably to jail, where he begins to write his confession.

I knew nothing of Chaze before reading this book, but enjoyed the unforgiving, brutal plot and characters hewn from the same base metal. If you enjoy Jim Thompson, you’ll love this one. Similarly, if you’re a fan of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, then Hurricane Season will be right up your street and not just because of its Mexican location. It opens in a blizzard of gossip related to the discovery of the corpse of a notorious local woman known as the Witch, who provided abortions for sex workers serving the nearby oil industry and whose rundown mansion was said to hold a stash of gold.

Immediately, the reader is plunged into the chaotic lives of several villagers in the Witch’s orbit, including druggy layabout Luismi, seen leaving her home the morning her body was found; his pal Brando, tormented by secret lust; and his lover, Norma, a 13-year-old runaway carrying her stepfather’s baby. What follows is a brutal portrait of small-town claustrophobia, in which machismo is a prison and corruption isn’t just institutional but domestic, with families wrecked by incest and violence. Melchor’s long, snaking sentences shift our grasp of key events by continually creeping up on them from new angles. The object isn’t clarity, but complication: The Witch, it turns out, might actually be a man and there are three of them.

The near-dystopian onslaught of horror and squalor leaves you dumbstruck, as Melchor shows us the desperation of girls cruelly denied their ambitions, railroaded into household service or worse, and the depravity of boys for whom desire comes fatally muddled with power and humiliation. It’s telling that the only characters with any real measure of control, a morally indistinguishable pairing of a police chief and a narco boss, are the only ones from whose perspective Melchor never writes. The narrative of Mexican society has hitherto mainly consisted of accounts from those in positions of privilege, such as those two.

While there’s no shortage of ugly moments, it’s often the smallest details that testify to how thoroughly Melchor has inhabited her often appalling material: at one point, Norma, unsure why she’s feeling sick in the morning, finds herself even less able than usual to tolerate the smell of her regular bed mate, a younger brother who can’t wipe his own arse. This is fiction with the brakes off and the arrival of a major talent. Personally, I can’t wait for the arrival of her next novel, Paradais, which will be out in English later this year.

As discussed above, the free CDs from TQ magazine should not be judged in terms of their artistic merits but celebrated because of the selflessness of the act of donation that gifted them to me. Similar, my Auchinleck Talbot supporting pal Kenny Yancouskie has gone beyond any ordinary concept of generosity by passing on almost a dozen books about sport, almost exclusively relating to elements of Scottish football, with the exception of Joseph Bradley’s The GAA and Irishness in Scotland. Ironically, I’d passed on Bradley’s Celtic Minded; a collection of essays about what it means to be a Celtic fan in Scotland, to Kenny in return for these wonderful gifts. Cards on the table, I’d found Bradley’s ponderous, academic writing style in the book I’d already read to be stale and unengaging, taking all emotion and poetry out of the equation. There was no essential difference when it came to the GAA volume, other than the somewhat bathetic conclusion that the importance of football and hurling in Scotland is restricted to university campuses, with only minimal outbreaks of popularity during times of higher than usual immigration. When the Irish economy recovers, emigrants often go home, resulting in a dearth of potential players and clubs folding. That really is the story, with Bradley explaining the existence of Celtic as the unifying behemoth that holds the sporting attention of the diaspora. As a devotee of James Connolly’s team, I find that too simplistic a conclusion.

The other book Kenny gifted me that I’ve got through, with 6 others sitting in the bedside pile, is the unbearably pretentious Labanotation: The Archie Gemmill Goal by Alec Finlay, which could surely only have appealed to Pat Kane and Stuart Cosgrove. Coming out at the turn of the century, it reflected the public art obsessed zeitgeist of those munificently funded New Labour days, by recreating the famous goal from World Cup 78 in terms of Ralph Laban’s method for transcribing dance steps, harnessed to an accompanying mini CD of sub On U Sounds found commentary and dub squelching by the Byres Road Casuals (I’m making that name up; sorry). It’s over 200 pages long. I got through it in half an hour, which is only a bit longer than the daft soundtrack goes on for.

To finish off with, I’d like to talk about a book that brilliantly combines the written word with music; Swell Maps 1972-1980 by Jowe Head. From the start of 1979, when I first heard the single Dresden Style until their demise in the middle of the year after, Swell Maps, like The Raincoats, Essential Logic and numerous other Rough Trade acts, produced a litany of the most wonderful, personally influential music of my life. I am unashamedly still a post punk disciple, though it is only after consulting the chronology of this glorious, if brief, account of the life and death of Solihull’s finest sons,  that I actually processed how short their career was. However, that’s not the main thing I took from this book; the standout fact for me was just what an awful person Nikki Sudden was. Unlike his adorable, fragile younger brother Kevin (aka Epic Soundtracks), who combined effortless musical genius with an unstinting collective ethos, Nikki was a bully and a boor. Of course, tragically, both of them are dead; Kevin for a quarter of a century now and Nikki for 15 years. How hard that must have been for their meek, God-fearing parents to bear. How hard it must have been for the narrator, and the only one of Swell Maps to still be involved in music, to hear himself being ridiculed in what was my favourite Maps song; Stephen Does, or to have his chosen career rubbished in the erstwhile classic, HS Art. Rather like subsequent revelations of the political inclinations and sexual proclivities of Phillip Larkin, one is forced to make a clear demarcation between the music they made and the people they are, or were. Otherwise you’d never listen to Nikki’s voice again.

Despite the coarse insults and personality clashes, Jowe Head is able to piece together an exhaustive, chronological account of the various members jamming in garages and spare bedrooms, recording everything on cassette for posterity, back in 1972 all the way to the collapse of the band in acrimony on an Italian tour, where their anonymity caused people to stay away from gigs in their hundreds. It is a wonderful read that perfectly recreates a sense of time and place, where 4 timid, lower middle class grammar school boys, scared of sports and petrified by pubs, were unable to make an unholy racket at the prompting of a nasty Marc Bolan obsessed control freak.

The book comes with a 6 track 7” single that is worth the price of admission on its open; we are blessed by another, previously unreleased take on Jowe’s piece de resistance “Harmony in Your Bathroom” from a 1977 demo tape that also provides the brief instrumental “Securicore” and another in the roll of honour of ludicrous titles Swell Maps were famous for; “Come Upstairs & See My Chemistry Set.” The flip side includes 3 curios from 1979; a Phones B sportsman noise piece, “Votive Offering,” a rewrite of “Cake Shop Girl” for a Swedish DJ’s jingle, Double Dose” and an outtake from the Jane from Occupied Europe sessions, “Elegia Pt1.” All in all, this is a brilliant package and I urge you to get on board the reprint, as the original edition has sold out.