Things Fall Apart

Newcastle United? It's not looking good...

A few years ago, a senior manager at a Further Education College in the North East described redundancies as “an opportunity to develop new coping strategies.” Such specious logic could well be embraced by Eddie Howe, whose Newcastle United side are currently “ticking along” in a manner reminiscent of the ramshackle outfits turned out by his immediate predecessor, Steve Bruce. After the Boxing Day debacle against Forest, where an encouraging opening 30 minutes gave way to an hour of shambolic non-football, with only Isak and Miley emerging with any credit whatsoever, it is difficult to keep anything in perspective, but the very least you can say about Howe is that he’s as dignified in defeat as he is gracious in victory. While the support is split almost directly down the middle between those slavishly loyal, sportswashed happy clappers who endlessly parrot the “look where we were two years ago” line, without seeming to recognise where we were this time last year, and the furious online zealots demanding Howe’s head on a stick, without offering a cogent strategy for moving the club forward, the only truly nuanced response I’ve come across was this comment on Facebook, of all places, by my pal Little Richard on Boxing Day evening -:

Napoleon said that adversity and misfortune bring out the true nature of a general, so Eddie now has an opportunity to demonstrate his qualities. He will have to do this soon, as we go to the dark place and a bad result there will make today feel positively halcyon. I think he’ll do the best job possible under the circumstances and as those circumstances are none of his making, I don’t hold him to blame. He also shows a willingness to accept failings and learn from his past mistakes. I think gives him the sort of resilience necessary for the thankless task of football manager.

For these reasons I’d hang on to Howe for a good while yet, even if results are poor. The current set up is about building success through evidence based practice and not the old, discredited approach of hire and fire, then hire another sucker. Lose Howe and you’ll need to retrain and overhaul the entire squad and coaching personnel, to fit with the new incumbent’s footballing philosophy. As there’s absolutely no need to find a quick fix, I think we should stick with what we have and make it work. Radical thinking for a football fan, I know.

I agree with every word of that, as well as applauding Howe for his honesty and clarity of expression, in accepting that things are just not good enough at the minute. Of course, the elephant in the room is not Amanda Staveley’s smiling countenance through the current adversity or the Ruben Brothers making donations to the West End Foodbank, it is the fact that the Saudi PIF didn’t buy the club with the express intention of qualifying for the Europa Conference League play-offs, at best. As 2023 closes, we are faced with the prospect of Liverpool (A), sunderland (A), Man City (H) and Villa (A) for our January fixtures. Being honest, I can see nothing other than 4 straight defeats from those games. Were that to happen, I still wouldn’t imagine Howe will be bulleted before the season’s end, especially if, as seems to be the case, he is backed in the January window. However, come the end of the campaign, a more ruthless incumbent may well be installed, unless we magic up a Champions League place.

So, how did we get here? My last NUFC blog, https://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.com/2023/11/manpower-shortage.html was filed in the immediate aftermath of the Bournemouth debacle, when we assumed things couldn’t get any worse away from home. How wrong we were, eh? Anyway, the triumphant obliteration of Chelsea that saw us back in competitive action after the last international break was almost overshadowed by hysterical complaints about the soon-to-be formed Fans Committee by the usual suspects. It amuses me that those who’d never done an away game in almost a decade before the takeover, are now endlessly bellyaching about points allocations and reserved tickets for YouTube orators. I wonder if those who’ve never been seen in an away end in the past few decades were some of the ones attacked in some Parisian bar the night before the CL game. Such violence was utterly appalling, but probably not as bad as the refereeing at the arse end of injury time in the game itself. Let’s be clear though; there was no agenda, no corruption and no ulterior motive at play. It was an error, pure and simple; a hideous one that highlights the nonsense of the laws of the game being interpreted differently by the FA and UEFA, but an error, nevertheless. It is a crying shame that after such a heroic performance, we didn’t get the win that Paris St Germain deserved, settling for a point that neither side were entitled to.

The next game saw us bounce back and batter Man Utd, thrashing them 1-0. It was a strange day as the heavy snow put paid to every local game in the afternoon, bar Hexham 2 Newcastle Blue Star Reserves 4, but cleared in time for an 8pm evening kick off. We tore them apart and it could have been far more than the sole Gordon strike that won us the points. In the midweek, the club’s latest leaden-footed attempt at surveying fan opinion saw the limited distribution of a questionnaire discussing the potential of a ground move. Recent performances have put that question back on ice for the foreseeable. More amusing was the furore surrounding the cancellation of rabid transphobe TERF and rampant Hun Linzi’s season ticket at SJP. Her hysteria on Twitter was far more entertaining than the disaster at Goodison Park, where what seemed likely to be a reasonable point from a drab game ended up as being a thoroughly awful 3-0 loss, as we literally fell to bits in the last 12 minutes. The first two goals were Trippier mistakes, which were unheard of before this deplorable capitulation, but have become a regular feature of subsequent performances.

If Everton was bad, Spurs was far worse, as we started off as badly as we’d finished the previous Thursday. Even a decent patch at the start of the second period was of no consolation, as Spurs upped the ante and cruised past us and off into the distance, with the only positive being how good Wilson looked on his return. This good news carried on into Wednesday following’s Milan game in the Champions League. Make no mistake about it; we were heroic from front to back for an hour, with Joelinton’s goal an absolute jewel. A fully fit NUFC first choice XI wins that 2-0, no mistake, but the lead in our legs came back to haunt us as Howe had no choice but to make substitutions that significantly weakened us. They equalised and, I’m certain, we decided to die bravely by going for it in search of a winner. The logic must have been that if we don’t get the Champions’ League, then we don’t want the Europa Cup route. Hence Schar’s charge up field leading to Milan’s incisive break for their winner, which dumped us out of Europe and made Howe’s job a little less secure than it had been before.

Thankfully Trippier was suspended for the visit of Fulham, which was probably one of the reasons why we never looked in danger of conceding against a fairly powder puff opposition, with only Alex Iwobi offering any kind of threat. For us, Bruno, Miley and Wilson were outstanding. Of course, no sooner do we get Botman and Burn back than Isak, Gordon, Joelinton and Krafth pick up niggles. However, after a madly frustrating first half, Bruno really turned on the style, taking the game to the visitors, who had no answer to our pace and power, allowing us to dish out a front foot thumping. Miley got his first goal, and I had a superb view from the Platinum Club in the middle of the Milburn Stand, so all seemed right with the world again. Sadly, after a thoroughly superb performance against Chelsea in the League Cup, another horrific Trippier error, gifting a stoppage time equaliser to the woeful Mudryk, saw us bow out on penalties. Just a shame that VAR wasn’t in operation for this game, as Chelsea would have been down to 9 by half time, no questions asked. Trippier’s ridiculous penalty then caused a load of amateur headshrinkers on Twitter to debate whether his recent shit performances are because he is mentally ill. Bloody good job they weren’t watching us when Malcolm Brown was filling the right back role, eh?

From there, we went to Luton, which I managed to completely avoid, taking in the utterly dreadful Northallerton 0 Benfield 0, then there was the Forest fiasco. Even if Pat Howard had been sent off after Wood completed his treble, I doubt anyone who have bothered to go on the pitch. Consequently, things look pretty bad at the minute, as we end the year outside of any European places with half the season gone and realistically looking at another cup exit to a lower division side early in the New Year. As Little Richard alluded to earlier, we really do need to stick with Eddie for the foreseeable, but he needs to up his game as much as the team do, if he’s going to be the one to finally end our trophy drought.

 

 

Out-Bloody-Rageous

I've got this piece about Soft Machine in the latest issue of TQ, which you really ought to buy...

As a kid, I grew up in a house that adored music, though not perhaps the most obvious kinds. The old fella only possessed Irish folk records, such as seemingly the entire recorded output of both The Dubliners and the Clancy Brothers. He took his sartorial notes from them as well; while most of his contemporaries in Felling had affected a quasi-Rat Pack look in bumfreezer jackets and ankle strangler strides, he’d most often be seen propping up various counters on licensed premises, bedight in an Arran gansey and wellies. Fair play to him as well. My mam, who actually saw Bob Dylan at the City Hall in ‘65, as captured by D. A. Pennebaker in Don’t Look Back, was something of a folkie too, though she tended towards the gentler sounds of singer songwriters like James Taylor and his sort. Soppy I know, but far better than the preferences of her sister Maureen who only collected James Last albums. When she died in 2008, we cleared out hundreds of them from her attic; all skipped without further ado…

Anyway, being beguiled and fascinated by music when I was still in nappies, one of the factors involved in teaching myself to read, was by rapaciously devouring the advertising essays on CBS inner sleeves, which led me to forming the opinion cover art could be as fascinating as the sounds the records themselves made. This was a thought I held on to for years, meaning that after the legendary Pop Inn record shop opened in Felling Square in summer 1975, I would spend most of my school holidays in its clutches, endlessly surfing the racks, not for the purpose of potential purchases (I think albums were £2 a shot and I was on 75p a week pocket money back then), but just to study covers that fascinated me: Ghosts by The Strawbs, Cunning Stunts by Caravan, Unorthodox Behaviour by Brand X, All Funked Up by Snafu and even more obscure cuts by the likes of The Amazing Blondel and JJ Cale. These arcane images set my imagination alight.

One band who intrigued me above all were (The?) Soft Machine. Now, this was long before I was given my diagnosis of autism, before the concept of obsessive compulsive disorder was in the public domain, and indeed before the soubriquet “nerd” had entered common parlance. I was just very interested in lists and details, specifically why Soft Machine couldn’t decide on a consistent method of naming their albums; why Volume Two, then Third and eventually Six and Seven? It drove me up the wall, although I was prepared to forgive, and desperate to hear, any group who had songs such as: Out-Bloody-Rageous, Hibou Anemone & Bear, Plus Belle qu’un Poubelle, Eamonn Andrews, Hullo Der, Esther’s Nose Job and The Man Who Waved at Trains.  Despite having discovered the esoteric delights of the perfumed, pre punk John Peel Show around this time, with the first track I ever heard him play being a Dick Gaughan number that the old fella sang along with, note and word perfect (though this was to prove the exception to the rule in subsequent shows, certainly from early ‘77 onwards), it appeared that the great man had moved on from what I hadn’t yet learned to call the Canterbury Scene and prog in general. Even the faint signals from pirate stations off the coast of Norfolk, offered little solace in terms of introducing me to thoroughly obscure experimental wig outs. If only Saturdays hadn’t been dedicated to football in the winter and cricket in the summer, as they are now, I might have stumbled upon Fluff Freeman’s show. As it was, I found myself writing the names of bands on my school jotter that even the most pretentious sixth form longhairs hadn’t heard of.

And then, in the summer of 1977, the year that punk broke (though Neil Young’s American Stars and Bars meant more to me than the Sex Pistols et al, with only Wire’s magisterial Pink Flag staying the test of time from that crowd), my obsession with Soft Machine firstly grew stronger and then was, somehow, sated slightly. Reading a discarded NME in the school canteen on the last day of term, I found news of the imminent release of a 3-album retrospective Soft Machine compilation, entitled The Triple Echo, telling the history of the band from their first single to the latest album. I remember saccharine soul classic Float On by The Floaters played on Radio 1 as I digested this news item with my school dinner. I knew, I simply knew I had to get hold of this fascinating release (Soft Machine I mean). I did as well, but not until 1985 at the end of my second year at university, when a bloke from the year above sold all of his worldly goods ahead of graduation, intending to travel the world on the proceeds. I’ve no idea if he did or not, but I’d like to think the £3 I gave him for The Triple Echo helped him on his way. This piece is dedicated to you Pete Burns, but I know you won’t be listening.

Back in 1977, my mother began to act as an agent for Kays’ Catalogue, for “pin money” as it was called at the time. Of even more interest to 13 year old me than the ladies’ lingerie models in the underwear section, was the fact the catalogue carried a random, eclectic and slightly bizarre selection of records in the “leisure” section, with each sleeve blown up to cover a quarter of a page. Eschewing the wider range of products carried by Callers, Windows or even HMV in town, my mother decided to purchase, for about 22p a week I think, a series of musical Christmas presents for the family and, with me being an August birthday, I became the guinea pig to see if Kays could be trusted to deliver the goods, so I got to make two choices, for summer and for winter. Alongside Simon & Garfunkel’s Greatest Hits (her choice), James Last Live in Moscow (including strange cover versions of Looking After Number 1 and Go Buddy Go) for Maureen and Blonde on Blonde (my Christmas double album), there was an album that lacked any advertising spiel about its genre, content or context. Instead, all it showed was a cartoon cover of an old man in overalls and flat cap, setting a pigeon free in his back garden. This was Bundles, by Soft Machine. My heart almost stopped and then it almost burst. It wasn’t The Triple Echo, but it was the first realistic opportunity I’d ever had to hear and to own anything by them. Bundles was the first album of theirs not to have a numerical title and, so I was to discover, the last to include any of the founding members.

Whenever I picture Soft Machine or call upon a musical memory of their work, I see them as comprising of louche, bibulous bassist Kevin Ayers, cheroot and claret in hand, scruffy, bearded falsetto percussionist Robert Wyatt, antipodean, ganga fuelled pixie guitarist Daevid Allen and inscrutable, academic organist Mike Ratledge, apparently still married to Marsha Hunt after all these years. Hugh Hopper, tall and balding, is there in the background, but I don’t see Roy Babbington, Allan Holdsworth, Karl Jenkins or John Marshall at all. In fact, I don’t hear them either and that is strange because, with modest input from Ratledge, they were the musicians who recorded Bundles.

My 13^th birthday was a Thursday. There was a film of Fleetwood Mac performing Dreams on Top of the Tops, while Eddie & The Hot Rods’ anthemic Do Anything You Wanna Do caught my attention, but nothing on that show, introduced by “Kid” Jensen, had made me think quite as hard as the album I’d been presented with by my mother that morning; Bundles was utterly unlike anything I’d ever heard before. For a start, it didn’t have any lyrics. For another, most of the already lengthy pieces seemed to merge imperceptibly into each other, apart from a couple of truly odd guitar and percussion pieces that didn’t seem to fit at all. Listening to the album again for this article, I feel Holdsworth’s Gone Sailing is a beautiful virtuoso performance, unlike his decidedly dull Land of the Bag Snake on side 2, that is perfect for the end of side 1, but that Marshall’s formless Four Gongs, Two Drums offers nothing to the record at all.

Did I like the album? I wouldn’t have been able to answer you back then, as the concept of challenging music was not one with which I was familiar on the day I became a teenager. Ask me now and I’ll tell you most affirmatively that I do. The five-part opening suite Hazard Profile is a strong and compelling piece, which is only bettered by the closing The Floating World that still is a highlight of live shows played by whatever iteration or brand Soft Machine are operating as these days. The title track is a banger as well. Sadly, poor Mike Ratledge was sidelined to the extent of having his two brief, but promising sections shoved in the middle of side two. Both Peff and The Man Who Waved at Trains should have been explored in more depth. To these ears, Bundles is a very good album and one I grew to appreciate more as time passed, but it is a rather staid and humourless piece; a generic, jazz rock set of sterling, disciplined musicianship that offers little in the way of surrealistic flourishes. It is the logical destination of the journey the group had been on since Robert Wyatt joined Kevin Ayers and Daevid Allen in bailing out before the release of Fifth a couple of years before. Compared to the surreal, playful joy of the first three albums, it sounds like the work of a completely different band, mainly because it is the work of an almost completely different band.

I’ve mentioned my Auntie Maureen and her James Last obsession already. Well, my mother had a pal with far better musical taste, in the shape of Cynthia, who was a fine art lecturer who’d been to art school in London. Apparently, she was the first woman in Felling to live across the blanket with her fella instead of getting married; no doubt a Bohemian habit she’d picked up down the smoke. Not only that, but her walls and ceilings were painted black, she didn’t watch telly and made her coffee in a percolator, into which she poured demerara sugar. We’re talking the nearest thing to the Beat Generation on Windy Nook Bank in the mid-60s. I became mates with her son Jeremy (tough name to have in NE10 back then to be honest) when we were in High School, as we were both intellectuals in the O Level Stream. Several times I went round theirs to listen to records, mainly on account of finding Cynth, as she encouraged us to call her, owned the first four Soft Machine albums.

I was far from a Benjamin Braddock wannabe (the term MILF didn’t exist back then either), but I happily hoovered up the fact that Soft Machine, in the early days at least, were as daft and delightful as I’d always hoped. Surreal, crazy and simply exploding with ideas, I loved those albums. Sadly, at the end of school, Jeremy moved away to a Quaker boarding school to do his A Levels, while his mam and her latest beau, some character in long hair, beads and an Afghan, shifted their operation out into the wilds of the North Pennines, running an artist studio in Nenthead, Allendale or some such isolated head space. I kept the Soft Machine flame alive by discovering and falling deeply in love with the subsequent work of Robert Wyatt, Kevin Ayers and Daevid Allen, including Matching Mole, The Whole World and Gong. One time, I might even tell you about seeing Here & Now at the Black Bull in Wardley in 1979…

A Day of (Scottish) wine & (Bonnyrigg) Roses

 A rainy day in Bonnyrigg

The last time I was up in Scotland was at the very end of July. As part of my glacially progressing quest to do all 42 SPFL grounds, I’d seized the opportunity to tick Dens Park off the list, when the Dee hosted Inverness CT in the League Cup on a random Sunday. That was ground #27 of the current membership (Albion, Berwick and Cowdenbeath are visits I can no longer count) and for a variety of reasons, another opportunity to venture north of the border didn’t present itself until December 9^th.

I don’t need to tell you how wet this autumn has been, but I’ll just point out that Percy Main have been washed out on 7 occasions (September 16^th, October 7^th, 21^st and 28^th, November 18^th, December 2^nd, and 9^th) so far. Really, I should have made more trips up here, but engineering works, industrial action and a lack of cash conspired against me. My travelling companion for this jaunt was my mate Gary, who is the Benfield secretary; their story is an equally wet tale of woe. While PMA were again prevented from playing our Alliance Challenge Cup tie away to Burradon and New Fordley, Benfield’s trip to West Auckland, pulled back to the Friday night by mutual consent, also fell foul of the weather. Hence, we found ourselves on the 10.41 GNER flyer to Waverley, comparing the qualities of Greggs and McDonalds’ regular lattes and instant porridge, with the US franchise winning hands down on both counts.

As is generally the case, the train was rammed, mainly with day trippers looking forward to a session at the Christmas Market then as many bars as they could fall into and then out of again. Gary and I were also interested in a few bevvies, but football rather than the swally was the prime motivation for this visit. The game of choice for me was the bottom division clash between Bonnyrigg Rose and Peterhead. Of course, with them having a grass pitch, which is becoming more of a rarity in Scotland of late, the incessant downpours could have put the game in jeopardy, which meant the second choice would have been a revisit to the mundane 4G at Ainslie Park, where I saw Edinburgh City play Elgin a few years back, but now hosts League 2 newcomers The Spartans, where Stirling Albion were the visitors.

Thankfully, possibly because Peterhead had come one hell of a long way for this game, our Midlothian Question was given a positive answer, as the fixture of choice was given the go-ahead early and so Gary and I took the train from Waverley to Eskbank, on the fairly new Tweedmouth line, which is built equidistant between Dalkieth and Bonnyrigg. Needless to say, Bonnyrigg is at the top of a steep hill and the rain showed no sign of letting up. Without knowledge of the local bus network, Gary and I were left with no choice but to slog it to the peak, which meant I did get my steps in for the day.

We’d made a vow to stop in the first pub we passed to get out of the elements. This turned out to be Gigi’s Italian Bar and Restaurant, which was very welcoming and quite full of pre Festive lunchtime diners. It wasn’t the authentic Scottish pub experience though, so after a Cruzcampo for Gary and a Neck Oil for me, we made our way to the Bonnyrigg Rose Social Club, which was over the road and across the outdoor swimming pool of a car park, right opposite the main entrance to New Dundas Park. As a firm believer of the “when in Rome” principle, we both got on the Tennent’s, which worked out a fiver a round less than in the other place. We were made very welcome and chatted with several local fellas about the game ahead and the awful sodding weather. Topping up with a final measure of Black Bottle Scottish wine for a deoch an doras, we left the place at 2.58 and still made kick off.

Bonnyrigg, in their second season in the SPFL, sat in 5^th place, while Peterhead, who have been in the league since the millennium, are second, on their first campaign back at this level after relegation last time out. The entry fee was £14, which initially seemed extortionate to me, but when you consider that’s far cheaper than Blyth Spartans, or that I was charged £22 at York City back in October, you can’t really complain. Well, of course you can, which Gary and I did loudly and monotonously, but that’s mainly because we’re a pair of miserable old sods in our late 50s.

The playing surface wouldn’t have passed an inspection south of the border in these hysterical, prissy times, when a cloudy afternoon is enough to get a game called off. Looking at the state of the centre of the pitch, I remarked to Gary that “and Tudor’s gone down for Newcastle” would be the best way to describe how it looked, which didn’t even factor in the delicious slope of this proper old style ground. However, that was all the better as it allowed for a proper blood and thunder contest. Stood on the halfway line on a covered shallow terrace, I was immediately impressed by the metal crush barriers on a grassy bank opposite and the tiny stand behind the goal on our right, which contained the 30 or so visitors from the far frozen North. Considering the crowd was 468, there was ample space for everyone to see events unfold.

Bonnyrigg took the lead on 22 minutes, when Kerr Young buried a powerful header from a corner. However, the home support’s cheers were short lived as Peterhead were awarded a penalty for handball a few minutes later. Paddy Martin in the home goal was the hero, diving low to his right and blocking a tame attempt by Kieran Shanks. Sadly, as the pitch became even more churned up and passing football was a scarce commodity, chances were almost non-existent. On the hour though, scorer Young turned villain, giving away a free kick in a dangerous position, which Joe McKee expertly guided into the top corner of the net. Despite the further efforts of a rapidly tiring set of players from both sides, the cloying surface took the honours, and the sides were forced to settle for a 1-1 draw. It didn’t put off the Bonnyrigg Young Team who, with microphone and drum, kept up a relentless beat and an incomprehensible torrent of verbiage. This accidental take on No Audience Underground sports chanting reminded me of The Prats, that infamous pre-teen combo of Fast Records fame. Check them out here; https://www.theprats.co.uk/index1.html

So, full time and a quick step back down the hill, followed by a short pit stop to use the facilities in Tesco. We caught the train with the Peterhead squad, which seemed strange to me as Peterhead is the football club furthest from a train station in Britain; 32 miles from Aberdeen no less. Anyway, they seemed happy enough with the Moretti carry out they’d sorted out for the journey. At Edinburgh, Gary and I sorted out ours, as well as a quick pint in The Guild Ford, which was full to bursting, before catching our train and making it home without further upset or mishap. A great day out and still 14 others to come, if I’m to achieve this ambition of mine to visit every Scottish ground.

RIP Shane MacGowan

Sad solemn notes and crates of newly drawn stout.

The usual symptoms when a life goes out,

but the extinction this time being seven times the most.

The music held no echo, and the tears drowned our toast.

Sorrow and bereavement, life has no meaning now: silence is master.

Laughter and song bowed, for gone went our great captain to some more hospitable inn

where cant and hypocrisy can no longer embarrass him.

This hurts more than the loss of both Mark E Smith and Lou Reed. I can't adequately express my grief at his passing, nor my gratitude for giving the diaspora a voice. He was our poet laureate and I would never have become a writer if it were not for the inspiration his lyrics provoked and the permission his existence provided, especially in  such songs as The Old Main Drag, Streams of Whiskey, Broad Majestic Shannon or Birmingham Six.

Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam

4-3-3

 Four Longstaffs. Three Percy Main legends. The Three Sails. All at North Shields Athletic...

This rain is getting beyond a joke now. Percy Main managed to play 8 games in August, which is more than they’ve completed in the subsequent three months put together. At the time of writing, the Villagers have endured 7 blank Saturdays since mid-September, though admittedly one of those was because of the whole team attending a wedding and another on account of the away game at Alnwick being pulled back to the Friday night. Therefore, we’ve had 5 idle, wet Saturdays that have required me to find alternative fun. As well as trips to West Allotment Celtic, Whitley Bay and York City that task has included sampling some 4G Alliance fare at Wallsend Boys Club and, twice now, at North Shields Athletic’s base at John Spence School.

The first time I dropped in on NSA, their Reserves were hosting Wideopen Reserves on the last Saturday in October. An unannounced 2.15 kick off caught out several potential attendees, who arrived during the first quarter of an hour, uniformly announcing their surprise at the game being underway and comprising a more than decent turnout for this level of football. In addition, a kids’ Halloween Party saw approximately 150 bairns in various ghoulish outfits running about the place, but only one in a full Newcastle away kit. Star spotters would have been intrigued to learn that the young tyro lacing the ball about was young Freddy Longstaff, who was showing a burgeoning talent that shows where his genes come from. Lovely to see dad Davey for the first time since the end of the cricket season, savouring the tasty Belgian wine in The Three Sails. As for the game, NSAR overcame the Wideopen side by a less than flattering margin of 4-2. While I really enjoyed the comfort of a seat at The Boysa, the presence of hot coffee and cold beer on sale at The Three Sails means trips to John Spence are always a great option when Percy Main are out of action, especially as I can cycle there in 10 minutes and back (uphill) in quarter of an hour.

So, having seen the Main two weeks in a row, Friday night’s downpour put paid to any chance of our Challenge Cup quarter final against Burradon & New Fordley going ahead on their spongy surface. Sure enough, a text from Norman before 9.00 confirmed what we all feared. Indeed, every game on grass in the Alliance and Northern League went the same way, which left me with about a dozen games to choose from. Thankfully, I didn’t take a trip to Coach Lane, where our Premier Division rivals Newcastle Independent and Chemfica played a goalless draw. Division 1’s fixture list was utterly blank; Hexham having lost 5-1 at home to Wideopen on the Friday night. In Division 2, Newcastle City lost 5-3 at their latest 4G home of Kenton School to Benton and Hazlerigg squeezed past Chemfica Amateurs by the narrow margin of 11-1 on the 4G at Bullocksteads. I suppose I ought really to have taken in that game, partly because we’ve got Chemfica Amateurs this week and partly because Hezzy shelled out £192 to play this fixture. In Division 3, Blyth Rangers booked Benfield School’s 4G for their tie with Whitley Bay Sporting Club A and I bet they wish they hadn’t bothered, as a 2-0 half time lead ended up as a 3-2 loss. Over the hedge, The Boysa’s U23s drew 2-2 with Wideopen Reserves.

As well as league fixtures, there were cup ties as well. In the Challenge Cup, Wallington blitzed Stobswood 8-3 at the same place we lost 5-1 a few weeks ago, which in the Neville Cowey Cup, I was aware of Great Park hosting Whickham Under 23s at Druid Park, but discounted it because of public transport difficulties, missing out on a 2-0 home win. Instead, it was John Spence for me and the Neville Cowey Cup tie between NSAR and Heddon United, a team who have lost every time I’ve seen them. Sorry lads!

Arriving at 1.15, I was surprised to find the game already underway, with Heddon twice going incredibly close to scoring from a corner in the first 15 seconds I saw, and Shields Athletic Reserves already 2-0 ahead. It was only then I checked Twitter to learn that kick off had been advertised as 1.00, which I’d missed. There was some good news though; the afternoon would be a double header as Shields Athletic first team were hosting Benfield Reserves, who’d surrendered home advantage as Sam Smith’s is underwater, in the Combination Cup at 3.15. You’ve probably no idea how happy that news made this saddo.

The score remained 2-0 at half time, by which time the Benfield Reserves side were showing up. Captained by Percy Main legend Dean Ellis, it was great to catch up with the midfield dynamo, who is enjoying the challenge of his first managerial role, especially as he is combining it with a playing role. I know we’re all growing older, but the news that Dean is no longer 19, but turns 34 next birthday, stunned me to the core. I was equally dumbfounded to learn that another Percy legend, the indomitable Graeme Cole, has connections to the Benfield squad, as his little bairn Ethan, now a strapping centre half, is one of their players. Sadly Ethan was injured, but it was great to see Cola, now bespectacled and clean shaven, looking not a day older than in his prime.

On the pitch, the main entertainment was proved by the referee losing both the plot and the pea from his whistle. Once he’d had the sin bin rule explained to him in words of one syllable, NSAR went 3-0 up after the Heddon keeper parried but failed to gather a free kick, and a Shields player ran in to tap the ball home. A fine flowing move saw the home side complete the scoring late on and I grabbed a coffee in The Three Sails, in the company of former workmate Jim Scoffham (son of the legendary Keith) and fellow TCC 3^rd team cricketer Lee Reed. They were on Stella, of course.

I made my way outside for the second game, which was a Combination Cup tie and, being contested by sides two leagues higher than the previous game, was markedly faster, more competitive and better to watch. Benfield controversially had a goal disallowed, not for offside (which it clearly wasn’t), but for a foul on the keeper, which I couldn’t comment on. Straight from the restart, NSA swept downfield and won a clear penalty when the keeper wiped out the attacker. However, he put this behind him and made a great parry to his left from the resultant spot kick.

 Soon after, I made the mistake of looking away for 5 seconds and missing the last man foul that turned the game. Shields were reduced to 10 and Tony Woods fired the free kick into the top corner. After this Exocet, he doubled Benfield’s lead soon after with a low free kick into the bottom corner. If I’m reding the Alliance website correctly, he left Benfield for Shields Athletic the day after this game. Some way to sign off…

I spent the second half in the company of another Percy Main legend; Brian Smith, having recently left Newcastle Blue Star, was taking in this game, as were another couple of decent footballers. Not only were Freddy and Davey Longstaff watching the game, but Matty and Sean as well, the latter in a protective boot, suggesting Newcastle’s injury problems may not be over just yet. While the game rather petered out into a 2-0 win for Benfield, it was another great afternoon in superb company, where nobody felt the cold because of the quality of the conversation. This is a fine, fine place to watch grassroots football. Almost as good as Percy Main, but not quite.

Manpower Shortage

My latest NUFC musings...

I’m writing this on Thursday evening, when I’d intended to sort it first thing on Monday and have it up by lunchtime. As it’s another Newcastle United bulletin at the start of an international break, it should have written itself, but those last two defeats away to Dortmund and then Bournemouth have really knocked the wind out of my sails. Despite the period covered by this missive including those magnificent wins away to Man United and home to Arsenal, I’m struggling to find the necessary motivation to write it all down. I mean the recent pair of losses were crap, but not on the scale of those we endured during the Broooth era, where defeats still provoked intemperate rage that needed to be aired in public. To me, it has been like the worst bits of the Pards administration, where defeat was always likely, but there was always a scintilla of hope in there, on account of the quality of players we had in our side. Sorry, but the Bournemouth loss was a defeat too far; instead of expecting a win, the minute I saw we were travelling without a recognised striker, I had a hunch we’d lose 2-0. And we did, but more of that later. Let’s go back to the beginning.

Palace (H). If the previous set of games had featured the most routine of home wins over Burnley on the last day of September, then this tranche of fixtures saw us hand out as simple a stuffing as we’d seen in years. I was thinking of 3-0 versus Stoke in April 2013 or the same score against Swansea a couple of years later. Large, untroubled home wins; the difference with this one against the Glaziers being it was a joyous return to competitive football after the pressure valve of incessant Premier League pomposity had been released by the previous international break. In October, the cessation of hostilities was warmly welcomed for a bit of breathing space. In November, the gap has been clung onto like a drowning sailor with a piece of driftwood. It may only offer an illusory hope, but that’s got to be better than what reality has to offer at the current time.

The news about Tonali’s gambling indiscretions broke in the run-up to this game. I suppose, if nothing else, it explains his permanently dour demeanour, though he could just be a miserable sod. I mean, did you ever see Paul Bracewell crack a smile? To make a more appropriate comparison, Glynn Hodges and Gary Megson didn’t have the same amount of emotional baggage when they comprehensively failed to make any kind of positive impact on our midfield. However, at least his looming ban, since confirmed as extending until the start of next season, and the continued absence of Botman had zero influence on a game we strolled to victory in, after coming in at the break 3-0 up, without breaking sweat.

After this, things got a bit more taxing. Dortmund, both at our place and in the subsequent away game, proved to be a far tougher proposition for us to contain than either Milan or PSG. Unlike the pedestrian percentages football at the San Siro and the complacent arrogance of the French side, Dortmund were exactly what I’d expected; a high-pressing, energetic side, with impeccable fitness, as well as the anticipation and experience in Europe to see us off. While we recovered from a poor start to take the game to them, the goal was a gut punch. Fair play to us though, as the second half was ours, including a splendid cameo from Tonali in probably his most effective 20 minutes since he’d signed. Unfortunately, we had no luck whatsoever; Isak going off injured left us hideously weak up top. Wilson, when fit or prepared to play (these are not necessarily the same things), is a peerless English target man of the old school, but he doesn’t create chances in the way Isak, who is a very top class European style number 9, does for himself and for others. Twice hitting the bar was bad luck, but some nights it just doesn’t happen for you. In some ways, this reminded me of Feyenoord (H) in the 2002 Champions League, with the two Dortmund games forcing me to recall the two clashes with PSV Eindhoven in the same competition during our debut campaign in 1997. We lost all of those contests to teams a bit more cute than we were.

The extent of our injuries was made clear by the bench at Wolves, which saw the debut of Howe’s half dozen full backs; a tactic born out of necessity, rather than innovation. This is possibly the only time I’d like us to have brought in Neves on loan, just for the hysterical fume it would have created. Sadly the Premier League top brass are putting a stop to non-stories like this by banning loan deals that would benefit Newcastle United, much to the satisfaction of rival clubs who have benefited from such shady loopholes for decades. Frank Lampard to Man City anyone? No matter: the high horsemen of the football apocalypse were in their element after the penalty we got for the potentially career-ending hack on Schar. Viva VAR: that’s what I say. Ignoring the fact Pope was a little shaky on both goals, you’ve got to say that Livramento, especially and Hall, gradually need more time in the team.

They both got it as well; away to Man Utd in the Carabao Cup and then home to Arsenal, as we achieved a scarcely credible pair of results back to back. The starting XI at Old Trafford, same as against City in the round before, looked like a shadow squad, rather the only available team members who were fit enough to lace up their boots and shamble down the tunnel at Dean Court. Despite the telly still buffering by the time Targett had gone off, what we saw was an incredible performance against a desperate Man United. I was particularly delighted to note that Sean’s time as skipper was slightly more successful than my experience of holding high office against Leadgate 2s in the summer, though I would contend Sean was dealt a stronger hand than I was.

Somewhat typically, our reward for destroying the holders on their home pitch was an away tie against Chelsea in the week leading up to Christmas. Fate can be a cruel mistress, especially in the knock-out tournaments. However, we had the Arsenal game to worry about before then. Now, let’s be clear about this; long before Orgreave-born, ex South Yorkshire copper Howard Webb went on telly to confirm that everything about Gordon’s winning goal was above board and clearly legal, every single person who watched that game, including the most jaundiced of Gooners, saw through Arteta’s teenage tantrum. He cried his eyes out in public to deflect from the fact his team deserved nothing from the game. They were comprehensively outplayed, outthought and outfought by a heroic squad performance. After spending the opening hour theatrically throwing themselves to the floor and dishing out snide ankle taps on our lads, they simply could not up the ante once they’d fallen behind and we deservedly closed out that game with one of the scruffiest, but funniest, goals we’ll see all season.

Of course, this goal was as good as it got. We haven’t hit the net in the two games since, as well as seeing our injury list expand: Almiron, Anderson, Barnes, Botman, Isak, Manquillo (apparently), Murphy, Targett and Wilson are all injured, while Guimaraes and Tonali were suspended. Possibly the only good thing about the Bournemouth game was my fire stick not working, which meant we went old school with Radio 5 commentary, suffering the ramblings of Glenn Murray, who sounds as if he’s paying homage to some of Mark E Smith’s most arcane lyrics when making one of his summary contributions, but at least I didn’t see the devastation in real time. When Chelsea, more than bit part players in two incredible, recent Premier League games against Spurs and then Man City, visit on Saturday 25 November, the only definite returnees are Almiron, Guimaraes and Isak. With Schar suffering a muscle tweak while away with Switzerland, things look bleak. After the Chelsea game, we’ve got PSG (A 28/11), Man United (H, 2/12), Everton (A 7/12), Spurs (A 10/12), Milan (H 13/12), Fulham (H 16/12), Chelsea (A 19/12), Luton (A 23/12) and Forest (H 25/12); those are 10 tough and devilishly important games that will go a long way to both defining our season and shaping our foray into the January window. A striker and a midfielder are the very least that we need.

Cards on the table; if we lose to PSG, I think we’ll lose to Milan and drop out of Europe. If we need to, I believe we’ll beat Milan and qualify for even more money. I wouldn’t be disappointed if the first scenario came about to be honest, especially if we beat Chelsea in the Carabao Cup and finish top 5 in May. The trouble is, things are in such a state of flux with the volume of both games and injuries, it is difficult to make accurate predictions. All I know is that I trust Eddy Howe implicitly and know that whatever he does, it will only be for the betterment of Newcastle United.

He Fills His Head With

 Culture....

Music:

It’s been an age since I last culturally blogged; June 25^th to be precise. Obviously, I didn’t intend to leave it so long, but things happened, and other stuff got in the way, meaning I needed to write about different subjects at different times than I’d intended to, but here we are at last. This means that certain experiences have become hazy in my mind and, in a few instances, I’m seeing the recent past through a glass darkly. You know, I really should ensure I take my notebook with me everywhere I go. This is certainly the case with gigs, as I can’t remember anything pertinent relating to The Proclaimers at the Mouth of the Tyne Festival back in early July at Tynemouth Priory.  I do know that it cost £37 to get in and, astonishingly, it was still sold out. I do know that the following nights saw Beverley Knight and then the unspeakable Paul Heaton as the headline acts, so we gave those a swerve. I do remember Shelley and I walking down Front Street on a chilly Thursday evening, feeling like a by-election candidate, shaking hands with numerous friends and acquaintances, some of whom I’d not seen in years, while others I’d been in contact with only days before, as I ran into them.

 

Roddy Woomble supported, but I think he’d finished his set by the time we were in position, with a big bag of cans, outside the back of The Gibraltar Rock. Not only because they are Hibbees, though that does help, I’ve always had a very strong affection for The Proclaimers since I first heard Letter from America and Throw the R Away on The Tube in early 1987, followed almost immediately by their Janice Long session containing the same songs. Indeed, in 1987, I must have seen them 5 times; including getting royally smashed backstage at The Duchess in Leeds in November of that year. Of course, the initial splendour of their acoustic work wasn’t maintained once they’d picked up a band and turned overly commercial, but I’ve always held a kind of candle for them. It was great to hear all the old hits tonight, especially the Hibernian FC anthem Sunshine on Leith. Sadly, we didn’t really see them, but the sound was good, and it was an enjoyable evening. Especially for nowt.

I think my next gig was about a month later, on Thursday 3^rd August, when I took my pal Flanners to see the very wonderful Shunyata Improvisation Group away from their 2023 adopted home of The Globe, at the Brinkburn Street Brewery. Augmented by the peripatetic polymath John Pope on double bass, this was a superb set by the region’s foremost free improvisational acoustic ensemble, despite it seeming at one point that they were doing a cover version of Bela Lugosi’s Dead, much to the subsequent post-performance embarrassment of the performers. It was also an incredibly comfortable gig, as the whole room was full of comfy armchairs and overstuffed sofas; ideal for relaxing over a few bevvies, while your mind drew circles in the sky. Shunyata Improvisation Group are one of the greatest musical discoveries I’ve made over the last decade. If you haven’t seen them yet, please try and do so as a matter of urgency.

Of equal importance to my discovery of Shunyata Improvisation Group has been my discovery of TQ magazine, and especially the live events curated by its founder, Andy Wood, though I have to say how much I enjoyed the Feelin’ mini-CD that came with double issue #62/63. It’s a lovely, chaotic experience of random instrumentation and found sounds. However, let’s get back to the live experiences; having called the Lit & Phil home for the last year and a half, times and circumstances have changed, meaning that The Globe is the new base for TQ live events, with the first one taking place on Friday 18^th August. It featured a typically eclectic line-up, with Namke Communications, Peonys and Pettaluck treading the boards this time.

Arriving at a venue that appears to be The Broken Doll rebuilt from what was left in the skips when they tore that dive down, I was dismayed to hear a truly terrible, sludgy ska punk teenage troupe shouting their dreadful wares to very few onlookers. Pausing only to reflect on the veracity of the lyrics to Losing My Edge by LCD Sound System, I ascended the stairs, suffering badly from OCD, and into the latest No Audience Underground happening. As ever, the beautiful people from the Tyneside experimental music scene were conspicuous by their absence, meaning only those who were there for the music and not to be seen in all the cool places, were present for a proper treat of an evening.

First up were Namke Communications from York, which involved half an hour of a diffident middle-aged bloke in specs messing about on an iPad and twiddling few knobs of his pre amp. It was canny, and certainly a billion times better than the tripe on downstairs. A slow, doomy vibe was overlayed with unidentifiable snatches of speech that made the whole thing eerie and intriguing. The only problem was the lack of visual stimulus associated with a solo performer, farting about with some gadgets. The experience is great if you get into the zone, but otherwise things can get a bit dull with nothing to gaze upon. I was lucky to be able to look at trees at the start of Scotchy Road distantly swaying in the breeze through the picture window. More aesthetically pleasing that the Arena’s unchanging roof through the other window.

As regards aesthetics, Peonys have them by the bucketload. Rumours that TQ are part of the movement to destroy guitars are totally unfounded; not only is there the Reynols exhibition starting later in November to look forward to, as well as the utterly fabulous Reynols Live in Mechelen mini CD that came free with issue #64,  but the debut performance by a scintillating guitar and drums combo who provided loud psychedelic prog of the very finest 67-71 vintage rebottled and remodelled for these times, blew everyone in the room away. Peonys reminded me of Cream, which was fitting as Geoff Firminster’s strange brew was red wine for a change. Sean Urquart said they were like Gallon Drunk meets the Pink Fairies and I couldn’t disagree. Telepathic, tearjerking musical demolition work. Absolutely fucking wonderful. They played a second gig on Friday 20^th October at Bobik’s but I couldn’t get there because of a family birthday. I really advise you to look out for them.

Top of the bill was Southend’s Emma Reed, who plays as Pettaluck. Despite the awful racket from downstairs crawling up through the floorboards, I was immensely impressed by her charmingly idiosyncratic set that recalled everyone from Lol Coxhill to Ivor Cutler to Essential Logic. Predominantly a flautist, she was also a body percussionist and singer, with looped sounds and interesting percussion, some of it played by Andy Wood. It’s great to see TQ evenings moving away from a steady diet of synth navel gazers, especially as Emma fought so hard to overcome technical issues that blighted much of her set. I loved Snake Oil about long COVID, which reminded me of Lene Lovich and was delighted to swap products with her at the end of the evening and cannot recommend her cassette Pass highly enough. Get it from her Bandcamp page. She even played Abattage from Bartholomew  cusack’s Dresden Heist CD on her radio show, so giving Pettaluck some positive words on here is the least I can do.

I reviewed Pettaluck’s Pass tape on this site in the blog http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.com/2023/10/57-varieties.html where I also mentioned the Meredith demo tape from 1992. Phil Tyler saw this and, graciously, dropped off a copy of Blindspot, a compilation CD of Meredith’s complete demo tapes that came out in 2019. Meredith, featuring Phil Tyler on guitar, came to my attention in the very early part of 1992. Indeed, I recall them visiting my house in Spital Tongues on Sunday 8 March of that year so I could interview them. I presume it is around then that I came into possession of their tape. It’s got 4 tracks listed on it, though there are actually 5 songs performed. The two particular highlights were the opening Falls and the closing Footsore Four, which both showcase the excellent musicianship, especially Phil’s guitar, and Kay’s remarkable voice. I loved their frigid, glacial indie sensibilities that reminded me of Edinburgh’s The Flowers. I’ve no idea what they did after this, though I obviously know what Phil is up to.

Another excellent artistic organisation I must give a shout-out to is Wormhole World. Purveyors of a magnificent array of experimental music on CD, they often host clearance sales and that is how I came across the cheerfully monikered ensemble Sound Effects of Death and Horror and their rather impressive paean to aged portable telephones, Mota Rolla. Analogue synths are staging quite a comeback and these lot know how to wield them. They describe themselves as producing “ambient, electronic, darkwave and experimental music influenced by The Radiophonic Workshop, Tangerine Dream, Kraftwerk and John Carpenter,” which is a far better way of putting it than I could ever come up with.

While I’ve a lot of time for analogue virtuosos like Sound Effects of Death and Horror and the superb TSR2, I must admit to feeling left cold by the trendy sounds of Warrington Runcorn Newtown Development Plan. Having shelled out for their Moonbuilding CD from the zine of the same name, I was utterly underwhelmed by what seemed to be a reanimation of Vangelis or, more closely, Jean Michelle Jarre. It is staid, plodding and lacking any desire to explore the more experimental side of electronic music. Frankly it’s more Robert Miles than Robert Rental, so I gave them a swerve when they played The Cumberland on Friday 15^th September. However, this was also because Shelley and I had tickets to see I, Daniel Blake at Northern Stage on the same night. Like the film, the stage version is incredibly upsetting. The stressful inevitability of Daniel’s death as he tries to do good, while fighting against the monolithic benefits system would bring a tear to a glass eye. Thankfully, COVID and the ensuing lockdown put paid to so much of the fascist inflexibility we saw in this play. Of course, the events portrayed serve as a reminder as to the sheer evil of the state apparatus and what it is capable of.

It was certainly a more focussed and credible version of the text than the strange production of Macbeth we got to see at Northern Stage on Thursday 5^th October. Set in a modern penthouse flat, with Scottishness hinted at with cans of Tennents and a female Malcolm singing a barely comprehensible version of Yes Sir, I Can Boogie, this production featured some nice actors we met in the pub afterwards and some decidedly odd directorial choices that I didn’t agree with. Still, for a fiver, you can’t complain too much I suppose.

Rewind two days from our first visit to Northern Stage to find Ben, standing in for the unwell Shelley, and I was watching The Bevis Frond at The Cumberland. Despite Nick Saloman fronting the band since 1986, I’d never seen The Bevis Frond and had only ever heard one song by them; the heart-breaking He’d be a Diamond that Teenage Fanclub covered so lovingly. I was so pleased to see them finally; proper prog rock wig-outs alongside psychedelic 60s pop anthems, with every song extended to the longest possible degree. They played about 8 songs in almost 2 hours, which shows what they’re about. I was very pleased they did He’d be a Diamond as well. I was so impressed I treated myself to their What did for the Dinosaurs CD, for a bargain fiver. Here we get 9 songs in 72 minutes, showing these lads like to give value for money. I really want to know more about this band. Apparently, there’s a new album slated for 2024, so I’ll be having some of that.

Talking of Teenage Fanclub, their marvellous new album Nothing Lasts Forever came out in September. As the title might indicate there is a sense of taking stock and perhaps that is not surprising as it is over thirty years since the band formed. Rather like catching up with an old friend, listening to Nothing Lasts Forever has the comfort of familiarity. Those jangling guitars, melodies with catchy hooks and harmonies are still all there. But as summer turns into autumn so those Teenage Fanclub hallmarks sound richer, bathed in a deeper, russet light. With that changing of the season comes a hint of melancholy too but not in a despairing way, more a sense of acceptance, of moving on. Nothing Lasts Forever is a deeply satisfying listen.

Teenage Fanclub’s writing remains firmly in the hands of founders Norman Blake and Raymond McGinley. As honest as in their song writing neither leaves any doubt as to where they are now and what they write about.  As well as where they are personally, where the band made the album is deeply imprinted on Nothing Lasts Forever. Though Teenage Fanclub did the vocals at home in Glasgow, they accepted an offer to record everything else at Rockfield Studios. The only catch was they had only ten days and the deadline stimulated a lot of new ideas.

Foreign Land opens the album in the finest Teenage Fanclub style. A single note wrung through with feedback sounds very familiar but the acoustic riff that emerges blending into a swirl of harmony brings those youthful sounds right up to date. If reflectively mellow, there is also a determination to move on. Tired Of Being Alone adds some echoing folk to the mix: “Come with me, watch the seasons go/Summer nights with the sky aglow”. A slightly fuzzy electric guitar solo blows through bucolic harmonies and acoustic breezes. Already that notion of togetherness makes itself felt as drummer Francis Macdonald, bassist Dave McGowan and Euros Childs on keyboards become as one with the guitars and vocals of Blake and McGinley.

The theme of light is a recurring feature. I Left A Light On sombrely looks back at a love gone forever. Atmospheric pop layers shine what might have been a guiding light but in the end reality prevailed. Similarly, gently paced, See the Light looks forward with hope. That hope for better times burns through Back to the Light, where acoustic and electric riffs surge with life and love on the road. Musing about the past and future inevitably involves much introspection. Despite a jaunty piano line, Self-Sedation has Norman turning into William Blake, “Some are born to endless night/ I’d say my namesake got that right”. McGinley looks beyond the harm caused by today’s increasing polarisation in the anthemic I Will Love You. The phrase Nothing Lasts Forever is a truism, but we must hope Teenage Fanclub continue to create music for many years to come. These ten songs show how.

Live, TFC appeared at The Glasshouse 2, which used to be Sage 2, on Thursday 9^th November, which Shelley, Ben and I took in, but we’ll talk about that next time.

Another band Ben and I ticked off our dad and lad bucket list were Gang of Four, which I think only leaves Cornershop and My Bloody Valentine on the must-see list. Having seen Wire, TFC, The Mekons 77, The Pop Group, The Raincoats, Penetration, Mogwai, GY! BE, The Fall and Lee “Scratch” Perry over the years, it must be said that Gang of Four outstripped every one of those acts with a blinding performance at The Grove in Byker (hahahahahahahahahahaha…zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz). They were incredible; the power and solidity of the Hugo Burnham and Sara Lee rhythm section, a virtuoso performance by David Pajo, in place of the late, much-missed Andy Gill (and I have neither insight nor interest into the sad fissure between the erstwhile guitarist and the rest of the band) and an incredible feat of vocal clarity and astonishing energy by the incomparable Jon King. A near two hour set, from the opening Return the Gift to the closing encore of Damaged Goods, hit every high spot of the bands early career. I was delighted to see both Solid Gold and several singles and b-sides getting an outing. Obviously, Ether, I Found That Essence Rare, What We All Want and To Hell with Poverty tore the roof off the place, but even minor classics like We Live as We Dream Alone and Paralysed were acclaimed furiously. An incredible night featuring an incredible set by an incredible band.

Finally, can I recommend the album Songs for T, available from Katpis Tapes on Bandcamp. My dear friend Richy Hetherington lost his son Thomas last year and this compilation is a tribute to him, involving many of the acts Richy organised to play at his Sunday afternoon, NME endorsed Happy Sundays events. Featuring many lo-fi acts, including local lad Nev Clay and Richy’s own Lovable Wholes (a name I suggested to him), not to mention Tot’s favourite artist Jeffrey Lewis, this is a gentle CD that is packed full of warmth and love. Please buy it, even if you hate that sort of music, because all profits go to Kidscape and Papyrus. Each purchase will help to keep our kids alive.

Books:

 

The most important, and best, book I’ve read since I last posted about my cultural life, is James Ellroy’s magisterial The Enchanters. In this latest peerless slice of LA Noir, we are transported back to August 1962, with nods also to events in 1937, 1948 and 1956, wherein defrocked LAPD operative and subsequently black-balled Private Eye, Freddie Otash, of Ellroy novels passim, untangles the events that led up to Marilyn Monroe’s death. As you’d imagine the Kennedy Brothers, Jimmy Hoffa, as well as a tranche of LA high-ranking lowlifes, such as Chief of Police “Whiskey” Bill Parker and City Mayor, the egregious Sam Yorty, feature prominently throughout. The plot, as is compulsory in Ellroy novels, is convoluted to the point of being labyrinthine, though at least at the end of this one, you know what has actually happened, despite the tale being told by the most unreliable narrator imaginable.

Plot, structure, dialogue and characterisation are all at an impeccable standard and it seems Ellroy, aged 75 and aware his formidable contemporary Cormac MacCarthy passed away earlier in 2o23, has a cleared the path for future Otash novels, explaining his dealings with the one and only Richard Milhous Nixon. This is a surprising artistic twist, as nothing has been mentioned about the third and fourth instalments of the Second LA Quartet, that has been on hiatus since the somewhat preposterously plotted This Storm appeared in 2019. All we can do is wait and anticipate Ellroy’s next journey into the heart of the enormous darkness that is US mid-20^th Century history.

Shelley and I often partake of ales in the sophisticated nitespot that is New York Social Club. One great aspect of this juke joint is the huge store of free books that are there for the delectation of imbibers to read at their leisure. From the first time we went in, I’ve tried to avail myself of these treasures, which means several books I’m about to discuss came from there. Firstly, mainly because it was a hardback, I took the esteemed ham actor Valentine Dyall’s Flood of Mutiny, a title taken from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, which is an account of seaborne insurrections from the famed events on The Bounty to the Spithead Rebellion, then on to the Potemkin rising. All rattlingly good stuff, told in a censorious, pro-Establishment tone that leaves you in no doubt Valentine is happy to see them all hanged. Although Dyall comes across as a spokesperson for the Woke Generation when compared to Neil Samworth, former Strangeways screw and author of the pulp autobiography, A Prison Officer’s Story. It’s the usual 250 pages of self-serving hagiographic justification for battering nonces and tea leaves in their cells, with cod psychology profiles of hard men and career crims and the usual tough love approach to drug use (cold turkey anyone?) that probably touches a nerve with disenfranchised former UKIP voters looking for a peg to hang their hatful of hatred on. Utter rubbish.

There is someone who drinks in New York Club who I’d love to buy a rake of pints for, as they have passed on three Ian Rankin books (two novels, Naming of the Dead and the most recent one, Heart Full of Headstones, as well as a short story collection, The Beat Goes On) to me that have piqued my interest in Rebus to the extent that I’m keen to read the whole series. First up, The Beat Goes On: The Complete Rebus Short Stories is an anthology of every Rebus short story, plus the novella Death Is Not the End. Published in 2014, it includes two new stories, set around Christmas 2014, after the central character’s retirement, ranging back to the opening story, “Dead and Buried,” which is set in the mid-1980s when Rebus was learning the ropes at Summerhall Police Station. The twelve Rebus stories in A Good Hanging and Other Stories included here, cover a chronological year in Rebus’s life, which is the kind of exhaustive character, location and plot delineation that has made me fall in love with Rankin’s work. He tells you so much about Edinburgh, current events and invented characters that seem so real.

The Naming of the Dead is the sixteenth Rebus novel. It is set in Edinburgh in July 2005, in the week of the G8 summit in Gleneagles. The book opens with Rebus attending the funeral of his brother Michael, who has died suddenly from a stroke, at the same time as the parents of Detective Sergeant Siobhan Clarke arrive in Edinburgh as part of the protests that surrounded the G8 summit at Gleneagles. Clarke defied her anti-establishment parents by becoming a police officer, but now wants to feel like a daughter. Rebus is nearing retirement and sidelined until the apparent suicide of an MP occurs at a high-level meeting in Edinburgh Castle. At the same time, a serial killer seems to be killing former offenders, helped by a website set up by the family of a victim. Clues have been deliberately left at Clootie Well in Auchterarder, a place where items of clothing are traditionally left for luck.

Siobhan Clarke is placed in charge of the investigation, although she is outranked by Rebus, and finds herself having to compromise with Edinburgh gangster Morris Clafferty in hunting down the identity of the riot policeman who apparently assaulted her mother at a demonstration. Cafferty is also getting older, though his insecurity is balanced somewhat by his having had a biography ghost-written by local journalist Mairie Henderson, who has been enlisted by Rebus and Clarke to help solve the crimes. Rebus and Clarke pursue their investigation, against the background of the 31st G8 summit, seen from both the police side and that of the protestors; among the events referred to are the 7/7 London bombings, the 2012 Olympic bid and George W. Bush falling off his bicycle whilst waving at police officers.

By the end of the book, Clarke realises that she has grown closer than ever to understanding Rebus and increasingly fears that she is becoming more like him: "obsessed and sidelined, thrawn and distrusted. Rebus had lost family and friends. When he went out drinking, he did so on his own, standing quietly at the bar, facing the row of optics."

This book has been called Rankin's finest novel and while it is a great read, I would like to consume more of his work to be able to pass comment on such a judgement.  That should come when I plough through a trilogy that comprises: Black and Blue, The Hanging Garden and Dead Souls, which comprise Rebus novels 8, 9 and 10. By which time, there is hopefully a follow up to the 22^nd and most recent instalment, Heart Full of Headstones, whereby Rebus, retired since 2007, DI Siobhan Clarke, and DCI Malcolm Fox all pursue their own investigations, though the cases come together around a policeman named Francis Haggard, stationed at Tynecastle nick.

The three of them frequently exchange information or ask each other for help. Clarke is at first working on the criminal aspect of Haggard's domestic abuse of his wife, which has resulted in their separation; Clarke interviews Haggard and also the wife, Cheryl, and her sister Stephanie Pelham, who has taken Cheryl in. Haggard is threatening to reveal the police corruption at Tynecastle unless the case is dropped. Then Haggard is murdered, and Police Scotland sets up a Major Inquiry Team (MIT) which includes both Clarke and Fox.

Clarke and Fox, along with the rest of the MIT, gradually trace Haggard's last day, using phone records, CCTV footage, and file boxes full of old investigations of the Tynecastle police station. Clarke is successful in identifying the murderer, and Fox informally promises her a promotion to DCI. Rebus, however, tries to pursue his investigation with a crowbar, and it does not end well. It is why I’m so keen to read the 23^rd novel in the series.

Rankin tends to use quotations from song lyrics and / or titles to name his books, but he hasn’t specifically written about music, unlike his fellow Scot, the genius that is David Keenan, whose first novel This is Memorial Device, told the story of the greatest band you’d never heard, who were the main figures behind Airdrie’s post punk scene in the late 70s. Before his brilliant debut novel, there was the fascinating biography of three of the actual post-punk scene’s most arcane and enduringly fascinating acts; Coil, Current 93 and Nurse with Wound and the personalities behind them. Keenan’s experience as a performer in the alternative and experimental music milieu, when running Volcanic Tongue records, gave him the ideal exposure to acts featured in this lovingly curated and endlessly fascinating account of some of the most challenging music imaginable. While I am a devotee of Throbbing Gristle, I never really got Coil, partly because of their grindingly fierce undertones and backbeat. Reading this book, I’m vindicated that I’ve made the right decision to swerve them. Jhonn Balance may have been an inspired and tragic artist, but Sleazy Peter Christopherson was simply a scatological bully and boor whose work I can live without. David Tibet lived in Benwell in the mid to late 70s when he was doing his degree at Newcastle University; I bet he fitted in well with the locals. I have to say I’m not entirely familiar with his oeuvre, but he comes across as a right pretentious simp in this book. I should really find out more of his work. The same is true of the magnificent Steven Stapleton, as I’ve loved every note I’ve heard by Nurse with Wound, as well as being enduring fascinated by the world and manner in which he lives, almost off grid, in County Clare. Fair play to the lad.

Talking of Ireland, as you’ll well know, we headed over there in August for our holidays, on the very day the comprehensive and utterly essential Utilita Football Yearbook 2023/2024 popped through my letterbox. I’ve got all 54 editions and use them on almost a daily basis.

Anyway, whilst over there, I got hold of a couple of books that I thoroughly recommend. Picked up from a charity book stall in a supermarket, Donal Ryan’s elegiac semi-tragic love story, All We Shall Know, is both poetic and sad. The narrator, Melody is 33 and has just informed her husband that her unborn child is not his. A 17-year-old Traveller named Martin Toppy, whom she taught for more than a year, is the father. Melody is an educated woman who has written poetry for the local newspaper. She has also written articles on assistance for asylum seekers and abortion.

However, this is purely exposition. In the narrating of her life, we get no sense she has an opinion on abortion other than one fleeting mention of London while she considers what to do with her pregnancy. Nor do we get a sense of her feelings about class issues or discrimination against Travellers other than correcting her father and husband for using derogatory terms. The reader is left on the surface of her psychological landscape, unable to delve into what should be a truly interesting character. Refreshingly, Melody refuses to be a victim, but as if to offset this denial of easy sympathy, every other character becomes weak and needy. Within the opening 40-odd pages, everyone (other than Melody) cries: Melody’s husband on hearing about the pregnancy, Martin Toppy when he first arrives to be tutored, Melody’s father at the kitchen table, her childhood friend, Breedie, and a young Traveller woman, Mary. The tears are unrelenting.

To his credit, Ryan does attempt to give voice to the Traveller community. The two teenage Travellers in the novel are illiterate, though 19-year-old Mary has the “taste of a vision” and is something of a mystic. Martin’s father is a famous bare-knuckle boxer and Martin himself will follow suit. Here, the novel follows a well-worn path of violence between Travellers, with shootings, slashings, family feuds and scores being settled “one on one”. For a writer of Ryan’s obvious talents, it seems like a missed opportunity for an underrepresented community to be portrayed in such a negative, cliched way. Certainly, it lags far behind Eamonn Sweeney’s superb Waiting for the Healer in terms of dealing with this vexed issue. Additionally, the moral consequences of Melody’s actions, seducing a boy of 16 over the course of a year, could have been examined in more depth.

The sharpest moral compass in the whole of the Six Counties belongs to Glenn Patterson. Author of the celebrated Fat Lad, he uses his rapier intellect in the essay collection Lapsed Protestant to point, jab and puncture the hypocrisy of both sides of the political divide in the dangerous days after the Good Friday Agreement, when peace was more of a concept than a state of being. Obviously, some of the events and cultural references that date back more than two decades need researching, but by and large, time has shown him the wiser. I’m looking forward to sourcing the follow-up Here’s Me Here: Further Reflections of a Lapsed Protestant.