Double Top 10

Compared to a couple of weeks ago, things seem to be improving in my head. The Citalopram is kicking in, I’m waiting for a series of appointments with a psychotherapist and I’m starting to make positive changes to my life. For instance, I’ve started smoking again…

Being serious, I am fully aware that the road ahead may be bumpy, but I’m excited to face that challenge; I may not exactly embrace change with open arms, but I’m proffering it a firm handshake and meeting it eye to eye. It is time to say goodbye to ian cusack forever and to embrace my new, as yet untitled, identity, so I can do different things as a different person and enjoy the time I have left.

One thing I’ve done is to compile 10 things I’m really keen to do. Apparently, youngsters, that is anyone under 50, call this a bucket list, which is good to know, even if I can’t ever see me using such terminology.  Anyway, here’s my list which contains items that are by turns realistic, impossible, sensible and silly, with comments stating how, why or when I intend to either complete this task or admit I’ll never get to tick it off my list. 

1.      Visit Belgium:

Ben and I have already talked about an autumn trip to the Low Countries: beer, Bruges and the Jupiler League feature heavily on our putative itinerary.

2.      Release a 7” single:

While there’s no concrete progress as yet, I’ve taken tentative steps to try and form a collective of anti-musicians. Additionally, Johny Brown of Band of Holy Joy and I are ready to sit down and discuss a project we are both excited by. Watch this space eh?

3.      Visit all 42 Scottish football league grounds:

Depending on whether Cowdenbeath stay up, I’m currently on 26 out of 42. That said, there is the potential for a couple of grounds before the end of the season.

4.      Dye my hair emerald green:

No progress as yet, but it should be easily achieved.

5.      Paint a picture in oils on canvas:

See above. The idea is to have a full exhibition of my artwork, including such pieces as Glove Box and Black Box.

6.      Explore my sexuality:

I think it is time to be true to myself. This is a priority.

7.      Father another child:

It isn’t going to happen, because it isn’t a good idea. Not in the slightest.

8.      Go on a long train journey:

How far is a long journey? A propos number 3, Dundee and Perth are in my sights.

9.      Cook Portuguese food:

I’m hoping to make a version of Cataplana on, or around, May 7^th. You’re all invited.

10.  Live a completely different life:

"Rose thought it would be an especially fine thing, to manage a transformation like that. To dare it; to get away with it, to enter on preposterous adventures in your own, but newly named, skin" (Alice Munro, Wild Swans). 

So, following on from that, especially number 6, here is a list of 10 blokes I’ve fancied over the years -:

1.      Imran Khan:

The recently deposed Pakistani premier caught my eye in 1982. An awful man, but a beautiful one

2.      Jim Reid:

Floppy haired, wiry king of feedback. The single most gorgeous thing to emerge from East Kilbride.

3.      Mo Salah:

Love the beard, love the smile. Don’t even mind when he gets his usual soft penalty against Newcastle.

4.      Julian Cope:

From the moment I saw this vision of pulchritude in the video for Reward, I was entranced. Soft of went off him when he was underneath the giant turtle shell around 85 though.

5.      Christopher Walken:

The Deer Hunter had a profound effect on me. When I saw it again recently, I was transported back to the late 1970s and my level of attraction for Walken remained undimmed.

6.      Sylvester:

Those lips. That coy smile and his huge eyes. Seeing him interviewed on Top of the Pops was even more life affirming an experience for 14-year-old me that seeing him in a dress on an album cover. An icon.

7.      Mick Jones:

I’m not one for the proletarian look, so for me it was around Give Em Enough Rope that I fell for Mick. The hair, the hooped t-shirt, that earnest expression and the tolerant, inclusive energy that stood as a charming beacon of sensual vulnerability in a seriously macho era.

8.      Malcolm McDowell:

Who doesn’t like a crumpled posh boy? His performance in If just breasts the tape from Anthony Andrews in Brideshead Revisited or Rupert Everett in Another Country, which was a slightly more erotic watch I must say.

9.      Michael Head:

A skag head and a Scouser, but I just can’t resist his loveable, roguish charm. He could sing me lullabies any time he wants.

10. Vitas Gerulaitis:

A beautiful man, taken far too soon. He actually spiked an interest in tennis for me. What beautiful hair.

 

 

Poppy Cocks

As ever, Mott the Hoople got it right back in 74 when they extolled the virtues of live music at the weekend. Unlike that mouthy, toupee toting Brimson wannabe Reg Hercules Dwight who claimed Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting, Ian Hunter and the lads were keen to point out; “we got off on those Saturday gigs and you did, you did.”

It may have something to do with my, as yet unresolved decision whether to prefer music or sport, but I absolutely adore live gigs on a Saturday, especially during the football season. The cricket season not so much, as 8 hours outdoors in the heat (or cold) can be exhausting. So far, I’ve been to 3 gigs in 2022; 2 of them were on a Saturday (TQ’s Auntie Joy 2 in Ryton and Teenage Fanclub at Leeds Beckett) and the other (Band of Holy Joy) was on Good Friday, which is effectively a Saturday with a side order of martyrdom thrown in. Each of these gigs was accompanied by a game of football; two of them dreadful, while the decent one saw the team, I was supporting lose a local derby. Curiously, the Auntie Joy performance was a noon to 2.15 affair, so the game came afterwards. Incidentally, I’m not proposing to discuss the live music in this blog; the events themselves will be evaluated in a subsequent blog post at a later date.

Following TQ’s stupendous Auntie Joy 2 event at Holy Cross Church in Ryton village, on a glorious sunny Saturday in March, I headed further west into the Tyne Valley to Crawcrook, for promotion chasing Ryton and Crawcrook Albion’s home game with Bedlington Terriers.  I always like a trip to Kingsley Park; it combines eccentricity in the shape of decommissioned bus stops for covered standing with absolutely stunning views down the hill to Clara Vale and across the river to Close House and Wylam. It’s as bucolic a spot as you could imagine watching a game and only a fiver to get in. Mind, that was daylight robbery in a first half that plumbed the depths of execrable anti-football. Forty-five woeful minutes saw wayward big boots up the middle achieving less than zero, with no discernible difference in style from either of the abysmal sides on show. This was one of the worst displays of kicking by both keepers that I’d ever endured. To be honest, if the musicians I’d just seen were playing either or both of these sides, they’d have gone in 3-0 up at the break.

Eccentricity was on display in the bait cabin too, where an intriguing chicken and cheeseburger filled a hole at the break. As I munched, I mused. The last time I’d seen this fixture, Ryton waltzed to a 5-0 win, but there was zero chance of that today, as Terriers were marginally less dire than the hosts. A stalemate seemed nailed on, until Ryton undeservedly won it with a sublime free kick from 30 yards in the last minute of normal time, causing an orgiastic pile-on that was as deserved as the goal had been unexpected. The game wasn’t the highlight of my day, Christian Alderson’s percussion masterclass took that award, but it wasn’t the lowest spot either; that involved an undrunk bottle of red wine and unvisited bars on the Fish Quay, but we won’t talk about that now. Instead, let’s go to Leeds…

Two years ago, Teenage Fanclub announced a series of dates to promote their latest album Endless Arcade. Then COVID happened; the album was put back until April 2021, as were the gigs, though a subsequent delay saw them eventually slated for April 2022. As we’ve established, the gigs were on a Saturday, which made football possible. There were 4 of us going to the gig; Ben, Lucy, Sara and me. Departure time was determined to be 10.00, so I had plenty of time to take in a game. On account of having done every Yorkshire ground in the 92, non-league would benefit from my patronage. Scouring the fixture lists, I found I had 5 realistic options. In the National League North, Bradford Park Avenue welcomed Chorley and Farsley Celtic hosted Kettering Town, though somehow, I’d got it into my head that Gloucester City or Kidderminster Harriers were visiting. Meanwhile, the Northern Premier League East offered the delights of Frickley Athletic v Lincoln United, Ossett United v Worksop Town or Yorkshire Amateur v Marske United.

While all the games were 3pm kick offs, some of them were ruled out of court fairly quickly as my starting point for any journey was Sara’s parents’ house, my ex-in-laws in point of fact, in Darton, between Barnsley and Wakefield, with the 12.36 fast train to Leeds being my gateway to the West Riding. The first faller on Grand National Day was Bradford PA, as their Horsfall Stadium is a good shank south west of the city centre and getting there for kick off wasn’t guaranteed. This was proven to be a wise decision by the eventual 0-0 scoreline. Similarly, Frickley Athletic, despite being a mere 12 miles from Darton, was a total no go because of the complexity of the route. Whether I took a bus and then a train, a train then a bus or even 2 buses, it would take too long to get there, despite the last leg to Leeds being less than 20 minutes on the train. Shame really, as a 4-1 loss to Lincoln United sounded quite entertaining. One day I’ll get to Ossett United, but not today; 90 minutes on a couple of buses and an hour on an hourly service to Leeds wasn’t my idea of a fun way to travel, despite the multiple chances for David Peace style Damned United puns. They did beat Worksop Town 1-0.

In the end, it came down to Yorkshire Amateur up in Potternewton, behind Chapel Allerton Hospital, or the train to New Pudsey and a wander to Frickley. The 12.36, stopping at Wakefield Northgate and Leeds only was packed with bevvying, coked-up proles, heading for a serious session on Grand National Day. Leeds station is huge, and it would have taken an age to get out into the open air and probably another age to find, catch and ride the bus, with my disastrous sense of direction to be factored in, so I opted for Farsley and missed the Ammies losing 2-1 at home. An almost deserted train to Halifax and the deserted streets of New Pudsey provided no impediments to my journey. Having bought my ticket online (£13!!!!), I easily found myself inside The Citadel; a handsome little ground that was 50% uncovered standing and 50% covered seating.

Having availed myself of a tasty pork pie and a flavourless coffee, I took a seat in the main stand and learned that, despite the preponderance of hooped shirts and Celtic references in the programme and clubhouse, this was the real White Riding, as the home team ran out to Eye of the Tiger and warmed up to Marching Altogether. There wasn’t a lot of warmth about, as frequent hail and snow showers made me relieved that I’d decided against wearing shorts. In fact, the only regret was I’d bothered going there at all, as the game was incredibly poor when contrasted with the stunning Blyth v Gateshead game in the same league I’d seen back on January 2^nd.

The visitors, accompanied by some of the most irritating, grumpy pensioners I’d ever had the misfortune to hear, took the lead with a decent strike on 20 minutes; a well placed strike on the turn, that found the bottom corner via the post. In contrast Farsley relied on the big boot, utilising the strong wind with ruthless inefficiency. Remarkably they levelled on 40 minutes, following a bout of pinball after a corner. That’s how it stayed, with the only highlights being the half time DJ treating us to Ms Grace and Summer Breeze by The Tymes and The Isley Brothers respectively.

The final whistle was greeted with a roar of approval by the Ralph Ineson soundalike home fans; not because the quality of the product merited it, as the game had absolutely nothing to recommend it, but because the result left them 6 points above bottom side and fellow Yorkshiremen, Guisley, with only one side set to be relegated. Not only that, it had stopped snowing as I skated back through disappearing slush to the station and the 17.15 train to Leeds. Soon after I was supping Cloudwater in Brownhills and awaiting my family, before heading off to see the Best Fucking Band in the World.

My version of The Long Good Friday involved football, then music. At noon, North Shields went to Whitley Bay and won 3-1 to clinch the Northern League title at their bitterest rivals’ ground. I wasn’t there, choosing to bite the bullet and watch my formerly beloved Benfield for the first time in an age, away to local rivals West Allotment Celtic. Of course it had to be away, as I’m still banned from Sam Smith’s Park. I’m not going into that situation again, so I’ll just say I made the journey as a bag of nerves. I loved Benfield and being denied access to them hurt me grievously.

On entering, several people asked how I was; I told them the truth. I’m suicidal and have been lower in my life. Those hearing were, by turns, amused, embarrassed and supportive. One groundhopper called Nigel was brilliant, as were Benfield players Andy Grainger and Dennis Knights. It helped reduce my agitation and I could watch a pretty good game that was won, slightly against the run of play, by WAC, though they did also miss a penalty. I was just glad to get through the game without incident and find my way home for a nap before the Band of Holy Joy gig.

Completed Community

 Coxlodge Community Centre is the only place to be on a cold, wet Wednesday evening in April -:

When Fawdon were admitted to the Northern Alliance third division at the start of the season, I didn’t immediately seek to visit them as they were playing at the abominable Druids’ Park, formerly home of Blue Star when it was the Wheatsheaf Ground and Blue Star were Blue Star, but latterly also home to West Allotment Celtic, Ponteland United Reserves and sundry others. However, things changed in early January when Fawdon returned to their original home of Coxlodge Community Centre and, notwithstanding seeing Percy Main clatter them 6-1 in the George Dobbins League Cup, I knew I had to visit. My initial plan was to take in their home game with Alnwick Town Development on the first Saturday in April, but instead I took in a trio of games in the environs of Coach Lane, as described in payaso de mierda: 270 Minutes (payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.com).

Typically, the game at Fawdon ended 4-6, but there’s no time for regrets in the groundhopping game. I needed this one, or tick as we social inadequates call them, to recomplete my full Alliance set. The delicious irony was I would be seeing them host the team, AFC Newbiggin Central, where I last completed the Alliance (a task that is the footballing equivalent of painting the Sistine Chapel ceiling). I wrote about that one in this blog; payaso de mierda: The People's Game (payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.com). Similar to that game, I took the bus, though thankfully I didn’t lose my wallet this time, only my bearings, in a theme familiar to regular readers of this column. Buses 6 and 7 serve the central Coxlodge community, though their route has been shortened of late, no longer extending to Four Lane Ends, but terminating at the Freeman Hospital. I biked to the bus stop, almost unsuccessfully due to building works in the hospital, leaving my trusty, rusty companion chained up in Paddy Freeman’s car park.

I’d only really known this area at the end of the last century, when attending the Northern Regional Centre for Psychotherapy, which was then temporarily housed in St Nick’s, as I often wish I could be, while their Claremont Road base was being refurbished. Ironically, I’d woken up on the Wednesday feeling rested and happy. Indeed by 11, I was borderline euphoric, courtesy of listening to “What Goes On” (Live 69 version) by The Velvets loud and on repeat. Unfortunately, my pleasant tide ebbed and by lunchtime I was sad, then in floods of convulsive tears once it got to 2.15. I managed to pull myself together by 4.00 and found myself on the 5.25 bus in an almost normal mood. I had plenty of time to contemplate my situation as the bus crawled, funereally slow, through the traffic to Jubilee Road.

Predictably, I got off a stop too late, then followed ludicrously unhelpful Google directions, before doubling back on instinct and finding I’d gone past the ground on my wandering way. Luckily, the kick-off had been pushed back from the advertised 6.00 to 6.15, which meant I hadn’t missed a thing. Indeed, there was also the bonus of Fawdon Park, effectively the resident reserve team, hosting Westerhope United on the adjoining pitch. I tried to keep an eye on that game, but it came a poor second to the highly engaging contest that played out in front of me.

From the off, promotion chasing Newbiggin Central sought to impose themselves, though without creating any clear cut chances, thus it was still a surprise when Fawdon went ahead with a decent strike from distance that flew beyond the keeper’s despairing leap on the quarter hour. Within 10 minutes, the score was level when the Newbiggin number 8, who had an impressive game, nodded home with a fine, opportunist header after a near post corner. This did not signal a change in the course of the game as the hosts retook the lead from the spot on 37 minutes, after a Fawdon forward had been felled in the box.

 This remained the score at the break, when I took a slow tour around the edge of both pitches. With the light failing and breeze stiffening, a shivery Spring evening took over from a blustery Spring day. The darker it got, the more Newbiggin took control of proceedings, though the Fawdon keeper distinguished himself with 3 strong saves. On 65 minutes, it was all square again after a fluent passing movement saw an elegantly stroked finish under the keeper and the winner predictably followed after 80, when a towering header from an unmarked visitor at the back post sent the points back up the A189, to reinforce their title challenge. This was despite late valiant efforts by a Fawdon side who utterly belied their lowly position in the table. As the final whistle blew and driving rain fell, I vowed to return next season, then took the 7 to the Freeman, collected the bike and pedalled home to thaw out under the duvet and feast upon an out of date Scotch egg, purchased from the Sainsbury’s reduced section three days before.

Welcome to my nightmare, where I’m living the dream.

270 Minutes

Being honest, I’m not very well at the minute, as the old mental health is in pretty bad shape. Basically, my serotonin levels have flat lined and, as a result, pervasive, credible thoughts of serious self-harm, if not suicide, have been a constant, frightening accompaniment to my every waking moment for a while now. The way I visualise my end is the same as it ever was; death by drowning at the pier side of King Edward’s Bay at the dead of night. This familiar image became so strong and insistent last Wednesday that I called up the help of our workplace counselling service, whose assessment of the severity of my displayed mental instability resulted in them calling 999, resulting in an ambulance with two paramedics on duty being summoned. In the end, after a prolonged discussion with them, I did not accede to accompany them to hospital, instead I agreed to a phone consultation with a GP from my home surgery. Initially his suggestion was the desperately unimaginative and unhelpful one that I up my daily Sertraline consumption to 150mg.  There was absolutely no way I was prepared to give such a course of action my assent, so I was instead prescribed 40mg of Citalopram, starting the next day. At least this alternative medication was an attempt at something new.

In looking for causes or explanations for this then, as ever, you need to look at both the physiological and psychological factors that have brought me to this point. I have been on Sertraline for over 7 years; since the start of March 2015 in point of fact. During this time, my dosage has veered between 50mg and 200mg, depending on personal circumstances. It seems clear to me that I have developed immunity to its benefits, such as they are, and that it simply doesn’t work for me. Consequently, my serotonin levels have plummeted to the extent that I have effectively zero units of this neurotransmitter in my system. As a result, the biological signs of fight or flight syndrome have manifested themselves in ever stronger terms over these past few weeks; dizziness, sweating, confused thought, peripheral auditory hallucinations, uncontrollable shaking, nausea and vomiting. It’s not pleasant, but when it is combined with psychological manifestations of depressive anxiety, it becomes almost unbearable. I constantly fantasise about not being here, as opposed to being dead, with my thoughts returning to an almost stock image of me submerging into the grey North Sea and not resurfacing. I justify this means to my end, by hearing endless replays of voices in my head that tell me to kill myself, on account of the fact I’m a failure, useless, a loathsome joke, utter vermin and so on. I know this isn’t rational, but then neither am I, so I accept it as the truth, because I can’t, or don’t want to, hear anyone telling me different.  

The bottom line is I don’t believe I’m worthy of life, never mind happiness. I hate myself and have no self-esteem, as that is how I was taught to view myself from an early age by my abusive parents. So there’s the whole kernel of things; I am constantly so unhappy, so miserable and so downright lonely, that I don’t want to be here. I wouldn’t wish such a mind-set on my worst enemy. It is not only demoralising, but debilitating and absolutely exhausting to wander round with those thoughts in your head all day, screaming at you, laughing demonically, especially when they keep you awake at night with cruel whispers.  As a direct result, I probably spent about an hour a day crying my eyes out in the disabled bogs at work, in an attempt to shut those noises out. It’s the only place I’ve found sanctuary of late.

Last Wednesday afternoon, I went home early from work, which is something I’m not keen on as, in this job as opposed to the flawed and fascistic regime at Tyne Met, I feel supported and consequently look forward to work as it is a distraction from the events inside my head. However, I just couldn’t turn the volume down and was unable to concentrate. One thing I did pick on, which did amuse me, was discovering Wednesday was World Bipolar Awareness Day, in the middle of Autism Acceptance Week. There’s a joke in there somewhere, but I’ve not found it yet.

Frankly, Thursday daytime wasn’t much better. Having been told my new prescription would be at my regular pharmacy by early afternoon, I pitched up around 1.30 and was told there was nothing there for me and was advised to call the surgery to find out what the issue was. Of course, the surgery is closed on a Thursday afternoon. The pharmacist told me I’d best visit my GP, which is based in the centre of town, to sort this out. This I felt utterly unable to do, as I was frightened to even head towards the coast, lest I did the said unmentionable destructive deed, so going into the City Centre was a total non-starter. Thankfully, a call to Newcastle Mental Health Crisis Team saw them able to intervene, by collecting the script from the GP and delivering it to the pharmacy, allowing me to head for Percy Main and a rather enjoyable evening’s fundraiser with Keith Gillespie as guest speaker.

Without going over old ground, you’ll all know the enormous ideological discomfort I feel about manifestations of overt masculinity and stereotypical Alpha Male behaviour, which meant I wasn’t dealt the best hand possible by being born amidst swathes of violent, heterosexual men and women on the south bank of the Tyne. Out of place. Out of time. Out of context. I’d probably put much of my initial teenage mental ill-health  down to the enormous, and still unresolved, difficulties relating to what it meant to be a man, to the extent that I still think my life would have been better if I’d been female. This doesn’t mean I have any imminent wish to declare myself as trans or whatever, because I’m clearing male, just not very good at it. Nor do I think I am gay as, to be brutally honest, I don’t find men attractive; their bodies are too hard, unyielding, unforgiving. Women’s nurturing, compassionate forms are so much more aesthetic and erotic. As I said last week, I would have liked to have been a rent boy, as the idea of transactional sex fits well with my self-image. No pleasure. No affection. Just a case of being used, abused and completely unrewarded by people who treat me with contempt.

Such were my thought patterns as I took a seat in Percy Main Cricket Club lounge for last Thursday’s fundraiser and a blokeier vibe you could not imagine. Loads of football people, players, managers and officials, from clubs as disparate as Chemfica, Heaton Stan and of course the Main, were present to drink beer, eat pies, laugh at Gavin Webster’s quality set and relive a brutally honest and deeply moving account of his career highs and lows by Keith Gillespie. Certainly I went away with a profoundly enhanced degree of respect for the fella. I’d also enjoyed catching up with many faces, old and new, that I recognised from the local grassroots game. Without question, local, grassroots amateur sport is one of the greatest gifts to humanity that I know. If it wasn’t for the Northern Alliance, the Northern League, the North East Premier League and the Northumberland and Tyneside Senior League, my corpse would have been fished from the sea years ago. Or even as recently as a week ago.

Wednesday 23^rd March saw me at Tynemouth Cricket Club for the first time this year, to attend the Annual General Meeting. It was fantastic to see old friends and catch up on things, but the most crucial aspect for me was Dan Storey and his iPad, albeit reluctantly, accepting the role of Midweek Captain for another year. I make no bones about this; the way I have been feeling, if our team hadn’t been prepared to continue this year (and with a first game away to Stobswood on a Thursday evening, I’m not counting any chickens just yet), I am certain I would have stepped off my train back from Airdrie v Cove on Saturday 26^th March at Alnmouth and simply disappeared without the thought of cricket to sustain me. As it is, I can’t say my life is all sunshine and roses, but I’m not planning to do anything drastic until after I’ve seen Godspeed You! Black Emperor on Sunday 18^th September at Glasgow Barras, which is the week after the cricket season ends. That is the best I can offer at this present time, but I have promised 2 musician pals (hiya Jill and Alex) and a contributor to glove (greetings Karen) that I will try my hardest to get well again. They may note that I’m hoping this will happen for my sake and not just to please them; I have got to learn to value myself and keep myself in this world, especially when I can watch 3 Northern Alliance games simultaneously. How could I want to leave such a brave old world that has such features in it?

One of the greatest benefits of residing in NE7 is not the presence of local loudmouth Greg Stone as the elected representative of the Vegan Wehrmacht, but the sheer number of Northern Alliance teams in the area. By my estimation, there are 6 sides in this postcode and three were at home (Chemfica, Independent Cabrito and Newcastle University A) on Saturday 2^nd April, while the other three (Chemfica Amateurs, Heaton Stan A and Newcastle Independent) were all away.  The three home sides were all in cup action, kicking off at 2.00pm, so by careful swivelling of the neck muscles I would watch Chemfica v Cramlington United, keep an eye of Newcastle University A v Ashington A and be aware of Independent Cabrito v Forest Hall Celtic, courtesy of the hue and cry from their pitch. The first 2 games were taking place at the Newcastle University Longbenton Sports Ground, while the latter, separated only by a mesh fence, was in the confines of Northumbria University Coach Lane Campus.

My interest was mainly focused on the Chemfica game, as they’re having a great season in the Alliance Premier and I’ve got an awful lot of time for their manager Kennie Malia, who is destined for Northern League management in the future I’m sure. That said, the opposition are rejuvenated over the past few years and boast one of my ex-students, Trae Rowlandson, a quick and skilful striker who has grown up to be a nice bloke. Despite Chemfica taking an early lead with a deflected free kick, Crammy roared back to deservedly edge a tight and compelling game 2-1, with a bullet header and swift breakaway, either side of half time.

Meanwhile Newcastle University A thumped Ashington A 4-1 in a game that had little to recommend it, other than deeply sympathetic refereeing by Mark Baston, while Forest Hall Celtic got the better of a loud encounter with Cabrito, by 3-1. I saw little of this, but heard it all. I was also able to cycle home within 5 minutes of the final whistle, but the real stand out thing for me was that over 100 players and officials, not to mention about double that number of supporters, were involved in 3 meaningful, competitive games of football within the same postcode. That tells me so much about the importance and power of local sport.

It’s enough to make you glad to be alive. Well, almost…

Memorial Diamonds

 I finally managed to visit Airdrie -:

Broadly speaking my life was, in the words of WB Yeats, “a waste of breath.” Happiness was either transient, illusory or both, meaning I sought solace in books and music, finding comfort in depictions of a richer life than my own, in words and in sounds. If I could have chosen to live any life, I’d like to have been a spinner for a poor first class county and the bassist of a post-rock musical behemoth like Mogwai or GY!BE. Being frank, I’d probably have preferred to be female, as I would have been better as a woman than I was as a bloke, and I would definitely love to have been born in Ireland. All those things were out of my reach and so, after a childhood of unending misery in a household where emotional, physical and sexual abuse were the only gifts my parents gave me, I can only recall any sense of ease or fulfilment from the age of 14 until probably 17 and a half; autumn 1978 until the very end of December 1981 specifically.

Leaving sport to one side for a moment, it was music that initially fired and inspired me: Rough Trade records, Fast Product, the whole panoply of post punk from Metal Urbain to the Gang of Four, from Cabaret Voltaire to A Certain Ratio and The Mekons to Clock DVA. Anything that painted complex, drab, uncomfortable pictures in the sky above the hell I called home in Felling, NE10. Then books; Camus, Kafka and Sartre for starters, in the summer of 1979, then onwards into the heart of the enormous darkness in the human soul with Conrad, Dostoyevsky, Flaubert and Mann. They articulated the dislocation I felt from the normal world. That deracination never went away. For almost my entire life, long before my diagnosis of being on the autism spectrum, I felt unable to fit in anywhere properly. Though I was pleased not to be normal, it made my professional and personal life an unending trauma of broken relationships and maddening frustration at the miscommunication that repeatedly impacted on everyone who came within my orbit.

If I could have had the choice of any fictional teenage experience, it would have been either the salacious demi-monde presented in Jeremy Reed’s The Dilly: A Secret History of Piccadilly Rent Boys as, in retrospect, I would have enjoyed pursuing a youthful career as a male sex worker, or David Keenan’s exhilarating, fascinating and profoundly atmospheric This is Memorial Device, which tells the story of a fictional post punk band and their camp followers, acolytes and enemies in late 70s Airdrie. My own memories of creating challenging, atonal drones as part of the beloved, but terrible Pretentious Drivel aggregation of anti-musicians, from January 1979 to March 1982, along with so many anti-musicians I’ve lost touch with: Chris Dixon, Rob Gosden, Stephen Parkin, Francis Robson, Carole Rushbrooke and Andrew Wilkie, were more modest than the incredible events Mr Keenan describes. It was This is Memorial Device that provoked my ultimately unfulfilled wish to make “music” once again and the eventual visit to see Airdrieonians play at home.

Having made two unsuccessful attempts to see Airdrie v Queen’s Park in December 2021, the first being COVIDed off, sending me to Falkirk 0 Cove Rangers 3 and the second falling foul to Jeanette Mugabe’s imposition of Hogmanay Martial Law, the March 26^th visit of Cove Rangers was set in stone. Cheap train tickets were booked and a brace of briefs at a tenner a pop secured, with former work colleague and now resident of Leith Walk, Big Tam the Tax Man, earmarked as travelling companion.

Saturday morning was glorious. The first day of the year to wear shorts, not slacks. A wonderfully deserted train, with a window seat in the quiet carriage, where the beauty of the Northumberland coast and the grandeur of the train’s entry into Berwick made one glad to be alive. Well, almost… We pulled into Waverley, having seen the sunshine on Leith, glinting off the greatest football ground in the world, Easter Road, and how I will miss that place, almost 5 minutes early, meaning even I could not fail to locate the correct platform for the 12.36 to Helensburgh, which stopped at every inhabited settlement in the Central Belt, disgorging us at the closest station to the Penny Cars Stadium, not Airdrie, but the evocatively named Drumgelloch, gateway to a respectable social housing development of pebbledash adorned houses, with neat gardens and well maintained motor cars and the best named takeaway I’ve ever seen. It was an adequate vista, as Big Tam, who also presented an Estrella carry-oot on the train, directed us via his telephone right to the ground. After stopping off to buy a pin badge for my mate Ken the cricket-loving photographer, we hit the club bar.

Despite the absence of draft beers or craft ales, I thoroughly enjoyed several bottles of Moretti in a busy, though not especially welcoming environment. I’d seen Airdrie play live twice in the past; firstly in May 1997, when Paisley Mick, who was then Ashington Mick, drove us to the second leg of the Premier League / First Division Promotion Play-Off between Airdrie and Hibs. The Hibees had won the first leg 1-0 and, in Darren Jackson’s final game, strolled to a 4-2 win at Airdrie’s temporary home of Clyde’s Broadwood Stadium in Cumbernauld. Airdrie’s original home Broomfield Park was vacated in 1994 and they spent 5 years groundsharing with Clyde, before what was then called the Shyberry Excelsior Stadium, opened. It only took me 23 years to get here, and it isn’t a bad ground at all, even if only half of it is open. Optimistically, the capacity is 10,101 and, other than the Cove game, attendances were averaging 722 in a season where the team are in second place.

I only know one Airdrie fan; Del, the Teenage Fanclub loving drummer and keen golfer. He is an absolutely lovely bloke, but I couldn’t square his infectious wit and gregarious personality with the numerous Airdrie supporters attired in Scottish Defence League polo shirts and hoodies, who made it down to Whitley Bay for a pre-season friendly in 2013. Basically, unlike neighbouring Coatbridge, home of Albion Rovers, Airdrie is another one of those lovely Lanarkshire towns that ostentatiously parades its allegiance to the Royal Family and all that bollocks. The inescapable conclusion to be made from this game is that most Airdrie football fans wouldn’t have been fans of Memorial Device and a fair percentage of them are fairly nasty people, though their patience may well have been stretched beyond the point of endurance by the absolute incompetence of the club’s management of the game.

Emerging from the bar at 2.45, Big Tam and I were confronted by 2 snaking, snail’s pace queues of slightly fractious fans. Despite the increased number of advance tickets sold, Airdrie hadn’t bothered to open more turnstiles than usual; instead of the previous average of 722 punters, a suspiciously round figure of 1,650 was declared as the crowd. While this included 100 or so Cove fans on the far side of the ground, the extra 1,000 potential onlookers in this number were still outside the ground when Gabriel McGill put the home team ahead after 2 minutes, though the cheer was fainter than it ought to have been. Indeed, I’d estimate it was after 3.10 before Big Tam and I gained entry and probably 3.30 before we found seats, having spent about 15 minutes stood on the yellow hatched stairs in the Main Stand. It took about 15 minutes for a competent steward to realise our predicament and find us a pew. Almost inevitably Davie Stoker, who attends every single game of football in Scotland, was sat near us. Him and Big Tam talked tax as Airdrie kept Cove at bay, much to the chagrin of Coves loathsome boss, Paul Hartley. Sadly, in the 93^rd minute, we got to see a goal; former Hibee Fraser Fyvie lashed in a quality equaliser from outside the box. This goal apparently prompted some Airdrie hotheads to attack a few isolated and elderly Cove fans. Very poor show that, though I didn’t see evidence of it I must stress, as at that point Big Tam and I were buying a quality Argentinian carry-oot.

We took the train back to Waverley in the company of an Aberdeen fan and his Livingston supporting laddie who’d been at the game. At Edinburgh we staggered up the steps and into The Guild Ford for a couple more. I ended up with a supply of M&S G&T, which helped me home. It was a lovely day and one I wish I could have reflected on for longer.