The Commiseration Thesis

 Newcastle United are off to Wembley, but I'm not...

The very first time I went to Wembley, Manchester United handed Newcastle their arses with a 4-0 hammering in the Charity Shield back in 1996. It was on my birthday and there was a biblical downpour at full time. The last time I went to Wembley, Manchester United handed a senselessly weakened and atrociously out of form Newcastle their arses in the 1999 FA Cup final, cuffing us contemptuously aside with a 2-0 pasting. There is every chance that the outcome in the Carabao Cup final will be equally as convincing and equally as depressing.

In Marxist theory and Marxian economics, the Immiseration Thesis (also referred to as emiseration thesis) is derived from Karl Marx's analysis of economic development in capitalism, implying that the nature of capitalist production stabilizes real wages, reducing wage growth relative to total value creation in the economy, leading to worsening alienation in the workplace. Applied to football, this theory explains life at Newcastle United under Mike Ashley and his litany of incompetent managerial camp followers, Chris Hughton excepted, to a T. It does not explain the gross and continuing hostility to the club and supporters expressed vehemently and incessantly across all social media platforms by devotees of such teams as Aston Villa, Everton and sunderland. Suffice to say, the utter lack of empathy displayed by such bitter, disputatious contrarians proves there is no such thing as a Commiseration Thesis. The only sympathy we’ll get in defeat will be out own. Perhaps it would be wise to disengage from all forms of electronic communication in the aftermath of our expected loss.

Having won only 1 league game this year and none at all in February, dropping from second to fifth in the process, as well as now being nonsensically deprived of the best goalkeeper the club has had since Shay Given because of an inexplicable rush of blood the week before the biggest game of his career so far and forced to rely on a half fit, unmotivated and increasingly unreliable centre forward after the baffling sale of a trustworthy understudy that makes me question both the motives of the owning House of Saud theocrats and the amount of actual power invested in a manager who looks increasingly like he has taken us as far as he is capable of going, our hopes of glory rest almost entirely in the shape of Sven Botman’s adamantine unflappability and the guileful brilliance of Bruno Guimarães. To me, it seems as if the fantastic high energy, high pressing game that took us to second in the table has left the team out on their feet. Anthony Gordon may well prove to be the creative spark we need for Plan B, and the signs are encouraging so far, but he’s cup tied like Dubravka (don’t worry he’ll get a medal anyway, as will Mark Gillespie; somehow), but in the here and now, we’ve got to try and keep Rashford and company out at one end, stifle the midfield creativity of Fernandes and his pals and magic or shithouse our way to a goal. St Maximin, who I’d only trust as an impact sub, Bruno or even Isak seem to the only ones vaguely capable of such an incredible event, as Wilson wanders around the pitch at half pace, displaying quarter concentration.

And yet, the Liverpool game, with only 10 men, was the best we’d played in weeks, despite the fact that every time I popped into the living room to check on proceedings, as I was making a rather tasty, though very mild curry from scratch, things got worse; 1-0, 2-0, Pope sent off in the time it took to brown some onions. To avoid the onset of despondency, it is essential to look at the world through a half full glass with which to toast the NUFC Twitter doom-mongers. Remember, we’ve only lost the grand total of 3 games, two of them to Liverpool when we were the better side on each occasion, all season, as well as enjoying an 18-game unbeaten run that is our equal best ever and have only conceded 15 goals in the Premier League. Since competitive football returned after the World Cup, our defence has kept 8 clean sheets, and though none of those have been in the last 4 outings, a grand total of 8 conceded in 13 games is reason to praise to the whole defence. Trippier, Botman, Schar and Burn played in 12 of those contests; we let in 5 in all that time. Alright, Nick Pope is a hell of a miss, but we’ll have the usual crew in front of his replacement.

So let’s remember just how we got here. Hostilities resumed after the Vallecano friendly with Bournemouth at home in the League Cup. Being frank, I’m glad the team weren’t as overconfident as I was going into this one. I could only see a victory by 2 goals minimum, especially when Howe made a statement team selection by putting out the first choice XI. Despite being slow to catch fire, we were the far better team throughout and ought to have won by more than the solitary own goal that separated the sides, but it was good enough on the night, as was the draw that pitted us against a Leicester team who we visited on Boxing Day in the league.

If you want to pinpoint the high water mark of our season (thus far?), look back at this game. Almost as surprising as the superb picture quality of the Amazon Prime stream for it, was the incredible display of sparkling, attacking football. By the time any of us had stopped rubbing our eyes and gawping at the screen, we’d gone 2-0 up in 7 minutes, after Wood, in the side as Wilson presumably couldn’t be arsed to get out of bed, had belted home a penalty and Miggy had notched another Goal of the Season contender. The pressure was off, the game was won and Joelinton killed the Foxes with one hell of a header. We were sublime from front to back and the amazing run of form left us in second spot; deservedly so.

I was more than a little disappointed not to source a Leeds ticket for New Year’s Eve, having tried every which way to procure one. This left me with the unpleasant task of having to listen to the Radio Newcastle commentary for probably the first time since Railton Howes took over hosting The It’s a Goal Show from George Bailey. Both in the ground and in the living room, spectators and listeners grew increasingly frustrated with the first instances of woeful finishing that have continued to bedevil us throughout 2023, but more frustratingly, the antics of the Dirty Yorkshire Bastards. Revie may have left them nigh on half a century ago, but his shithousing spirit lives on, as they somehow fluked a point. I admit to hating almost every other club than Newcastle, but I particularly hate Leeds. Probably that’s why I regard Bradford City as my second English team.

Anyway, the thing about shithousing is that you love it when it’s your team dishing it out and the notoriously entitled Arsenal management, players and supporters began the year with an incredible sulk as we clung on for a deserved point after a rotten stalemate. I was only able to follow events on Sky Sports News, where the loathsome Lee Hendrie became almost orgiastic every time Arteta’s side crossed the halfway line. His disappointment at the result was palpable. The fact was, Big Dan Burn ruled the Emirates, to ensure yet another clean sheet and a further game unbeaten.

There’s something about the FA Cup that Eddie Howe hasn’t cracked as yet; a 1-0 loss at home to third tier Cambridge United last year was matched by a 2-1 defeat at Hillsborough this year. Sheffield Wednesday used to be a big team and one of those away games I most looked forward to, but no longer. I’ve long preferred the Blades to the Owls, but that didn’t matter a jot as we demonstrated the weakness of our squad when the hitherto bench warming reserves got some game time. At full time, I stated that this result wouldn’t matter if we beat Leicester in the Carabao Cup quarter final in midweek, but actually it didn’t matter that much at all anyway. Manquillo, Lewis, Lascelles and Ritchie proved conclusively that their race is run at SJP. Unfortunately, courtesy of a miss that was no worse than either of Isak’s disasters, so is Chris Wood’s, though the on-line criticism he received was completely over the top. A first choice XI and VAR would have meant we won that game, but we didn’t, so well done to Sheffield Wednesday, who lost to Fleetwood after a replay in round 4.

And so we moved on to Leicester at home in the Carabao Cup quarter final. I know loads of blokes my age have their “man cave” stuffed floor to ceiling with signed photos, replica shirts and other sporting goods, but I’m not one for football memorabilia to be honest. For a start, Freddy Shepherd and Douglas Hall’s antics with one of those fake sheikhs in a Marbella hotel room, back in early 1998 put me off buying Newcastle shirts forever. Therefore, apart from a random selection of scarves and the odd woolly hat, my mementoes tend to be printed ones. In fact, sitting directly above my head where I’m typing this, on the wall in front of me, is a framed copy of the programme from the first game I attended. Priced 7p, the January 1^st, 1973, edition of The Black ‘N’ White previews Newcastle’s home clash with Leicester City, which ended in a 2-2 draw. If I’m honest, I recall absolutely nothing of the game from my perch atop one of the concrete barriers in the Gallowgate Corner where I rested my back against my dad’s protective chest and glimpsed only fitfully limited sections of the brilliant green turf, apart from the deafening roars of the crowd and the huge building site to my right that would soon be known as the East Stand (I still call it the New Stand you know).

Despite the Leicester tie taking place on New Year’s Day, it was the only game in England that day, as it didn’t become a mandatory Bank Holiday until the year after, when Newcastle celebrated the fact by winning 1-0 at Highbury, courtesy of a goal from Terry Hibbitt (on the wing). I wonder if the additional Public Holiday had anything to do with the fact that January 1^st, 1973, was the day Britain, along with Denmark and the Republic of Ireland, joined the European Economic Community, or Common Market as we all called it then? In point of fact, the Leicester game should have been played at the end of November 1972, but the team from Filbert Street secured a postponement when a flu epidemic swept through their squad, leaving them with only 7 fit professionals. I was distraught on learning this the night before, having been promised by my dad that he’d take me to this one. At least he kept his word for the rearranged game, though I’m not sure why we waited for this one, where we took our places with 36,866 others, when December 23^rd and 30^th had seen us at home, beating Man City (2-1) and Sheffield United (4-1) respectively. Bit late to ask him now, as he passed the day after Bobby Robson back in August 2009.

While I was aware that New Year’s Day marked 50 years since I’d first attended St James’ Park, the significance of the opponents didn’t hit home until the Carabao Cup quarter final draw seeped into my conscience. Having missed out on a ticket for Leeds on New Year’s Eve, it meant that Leicester City would become the first and last opponents I’d seen on Tyneside, over a period of half a century. As I type those words, I still can’t quite believe them. How on earth have I been alive for more than 58 years and spent 50 of them so concerned with the Magpies?

Anyway, having secured my usual cup tickets in Block E of the Leazes as it joins with the East Stand, for me and Ben, I was about to enjoy a very different matchday experience than I did back in the mists of time. For a start, we won. In fact, we obliterated Leicester from the opening whistle. Sean Longstaff should have had us a goal up after 40 seconds and a procession of other gilt-edged chances (Bruno, Sean again, Joelinton and Wilson) came and somehow went begging. With the score at 0-0 nearing the 60 minute mark, I started to feel decidedly panicky, but cometh the hour, cometh the man. Dan Burn has been outstanding for Newcastle since he signed last year and his goal here, reminiscent of Phillippe Albert for Belgium at the 1994 World Cup, was an absolute stunner. When Joelinton crashed home an unstoppable finish from Almiron’s superb through ball 10 minutes later, I was in absolute dreamland as the roof came off. All that was needed was Jamie Vardy’s inexplicable miss, provoking some magnificently abusive chanting about his wife’s inability to keep a confidence, before I knew we were going through to our first semi-final in 18 years and our first in this competition since 1976. I was there that night when we beat Spurs 3-1 to get to Wembley back then, but that’s for later.

As Leicester slunk down the tunnel, the whole ground, players and fans, was united in a common purpose, with deafening adulation falling in waves from all four corners of the ground.  We are the Geordies, and this was the best night I can recall in at SJP since the days of Bobby Robson or back in Keegan’s first spell in charge. Not one person in a black and white scarf left the ground with anything to grumble about. Everyone was rightly ecstatic. Emerging onto Barrack Road among a massive, swaying throng of delirious chanting supporters provoked a real lump in the throat that not even the idiotic decision of Stagecoach to put on single deckers on a match night could dampen, resulting in a packed bus singing us home as follows:

Tell me ma, me ma we won’t be home for tea.

We’re stood on the 63, on the 63…

Following Leicester, we moved on to Fulham at home, and our first double of the season. Possibly because it was my first even London away game, a 2-2 draw on a gluepot in February 1983, I’ve always had a soft spot for Fulham. Actually, it’s more likely because my second London away was at Chelsea the month after; we won 2-0 and getting away from Stamford Bridge, only a couple of miles from Craven Cottage but a completely different world, was a matter of life and death. Thank goodness I was the opposite of a football casual in my long overcoat, Dennis the Menace style jumper, ex-army strides and paint spattered DMs; I looked like one of those early settlers in Cardboard City rather than a terrace ultra. Anyway, Fulham must have liked me too, as they used to send me birthday cards each year. This happened after Fulham v Newcastle in February 2005 was postponed as The Cottagers had to play a rearranged FA Cup 4^th round replay against Derby County at Craven Cottage. Having already booked a flight down, I decided to go ahead with my London weekend and take in this cup game as I’d not been to Fulham since that game in early 1983. To buy a ticket, in the Fulham end, involved a fairly complex registration process, but as a result I ended up on a database that saw birthday cards sent on August 11^th and seasonal ones in mid-December, meaning for about 5 years I received unsolicited greetings and warm wishes from, in order, Chris Coleman, Lawrie Sanchez, Ray Lewington and Roy Hodgson. After the latter departed his position, the cards stopped coming; I initially thought it was because Mark Hughes is such a sourpuss, but I reckon 5 solid years of zero ticket purchases meant the marketing bods had figured out I probably wasn’t going to buy a box in the Stevenage Road stand, no matter how many billets doux they sent me.

Despite John being over from Maynooth, I again missed out on a ticket, so I was left with no choice other than to tune into Radio Newcastle again. It was worth it for the Mitrovic penalty incident alone. I’ve never had any time for the Dalmatian Whitehurst, so I’ve no sympathy for the way he must have felt on the coach back home. Full time, I headed into town, where the craic was great, as it always is when you grab an 89th minute winner, where I drank deeply among good company.

The following week saw the NUST AGM; as a sleeping member these days, I didn’t bother heading along. The outcome of events was a wholly unsurprising power grab by True Faith, who’ve ditched their dull print version again (other than a Wembley special that looks the spit of United We Stand that the whole magazine was based on from the get-go in 1999), which puts Michael Martin back in the saddle again. It will be interesting to see if NUST continue to lick the PFI’s arse is quite as flagrant a manner as the Dubai Chronographiliacs Society do. Whatever the future might bring, the Denver Humbert Octet will continue to stamp their feet and cryarse, while skilfully failing to mention their Fuhrer’s stint in the employ of the House of Saud.

All of this pointless politicking was of even less interest than the point we picked up at Palace in yet another 0-0 between the two teams. Indeed, it’s the third one in 2022-2023 and a properly dull non-event it was too, though we could have won it in the first half. Still, the work rate continues to be exceptional, and I reckon the 39 points we’d reached at full time has made us safe from the drop.

With the league boxed off and the FA Cup a fading memory (don’t all Newcastle fans think of the last Saturday in January as our mid-season break?), it was time to concentrate on the Southampton double header in the Carabao Cup. At work, on the bus, in the supermarket, all the talk was of the hunt for tickets. Never mind not getting an away one, I simply couldn’t source a home one either. Outrageous really; just because I hoyed in our season tickets in 2009, I reckon I still ought to have been given preferential treatment, like I was a desert based dentist with a vast collection of gaudy watches and trainers. I mean, where is the loyalty NUFC should be showing me? In all seriousness, at this point if any ticket became available, Ben would have had it, not me. I made a choice to stop watching Newcastle full time all those years ago, which I don’t regret for one second, even now. Then again, you’d wonder if some people will be clippity clopping their way up Wembley High Road on the back of their customary high horse. We shall see. I’m getting away from the point here…

For the away game, my nerves were more about the magnitude of the game, rather than the result. I knew Southampton couldn’t beat us over 2 legs, so I didn’t go out to watch it, or seek out a stream. Sky Sports News, in the shape of a uniformly positive Gary Rowett, kept me up to date and, while relieved and elated at the final score, the highlights showed yet again that our finishing is getting worse by the week. At least the defence, especially Pope, remained as unbreachable as ever. As for VAR, well at least it balanced itself out I suppose. 1-0 was good, but 2-0 would have been better, to the extent that nerves were already kicking in for the next leg on the morning after that first one.

Back in 1976, we lost the first leg of the semi 1-0 away to Spurs, but common sense told us that we’d be alright in the second leg. Gordon Lee’s prosaic plodders were no match for the cavalier mavericks of Joe Harvey’s squad, but at least they tended not to implode quite so spectacularly. I’ve very hazy recollections of the home tie; we won 3-1 and I stood in the West Stand Paddock in the Gallowgate Wing with my dad, my mate Ken and his mam. They’re all dead now. Apart from feeling as if my toes were falling off, I’ve no other memories of the night, other than being told, in no uncertain terms, that if Wembley tickets did become available, it was a case of age before beauty in the Cusack household. In the event, none of us got to go to Wembley. And neither of us got to go to SJP for this semi-final either.

Ben and I watched it in The Bodega, which I’ve never seen so full for the broadcast of a home game. The jangling nerves that had troubled me all day were swept away by Sean’s magnificent early double, though he did concede that the sporting highlight of his career to this point is still stumping that Mitford fella off my bowling the other year. Just when our football became as sublime as Leicester away, the unthinkable happened and we actually conceded a goal. Now the whole of Tyneside held its collective breath, as the rest of the country quizzically wondered at our unnecessary fear, as we remained 3-1 up on aggregate and had been playing stratospherically well. And then Bruno was correctly sent off for a nasty stamp, causing bile to rise in our collective gorge.

In the end, we had scared ourselves over nothing. The joy at full time and after the rest of the thirsty crowd returned to the boozer was incomparable. I can’t recall such sheer, unbridled joy at the result of a football match in years. Although, in the weeks that followed, I’ve struggled to remember such sour faced pessimism from a fanbase that only a couple of years ago demanded merely that our team tries, not wins. Four subsequent league games without a victory and you’d think Ashley and Benitez were back in post.

On the day of the West Ham game, I took in Stocksfield 3 Heddon United 0 then headed for The Black Bull in Gateshead, which I managed to confuse with what used to be The Borough Arms initially, for a drink in memory of my dear, departed friend Geoff Johnston. It was clear the pub wouldn’t be showing the game, as the England v Scotland 6 Nations contest remained on the telly, though nobody was watching it, so it was time to be sociable. There were a good few old faces to catch up with Stevie was the only one attending the game, though Paul went home to watch it. Of the remaining FPX members and fellow travellers, two of them had no interest in football (Garry and Dave), one (Raga) was focussed on his team Gateshead winning away to Solihull Moors and another (Trev) is a Mackem. Just a shame that self-proclaimed superfan Denver Humbert couldn’t make it over. His octet could have had another one of their mega rallies outside the ground.

Despite the brilliant early start that almost blew The Hammers away, the highlights showed we ran out of steam and that Declan Rice eventually ran the show, as we missed Bruno badly. Yet again chances were missed. Wilson scored, which is both encouraging and the probable explanation for why he couldn’t bring himself to travel to his old club Bournemouth the week after. Mind to be fair, basking in the joy of Percy Main’s 3-0 hammering of Chemfica, I couldn’t be bothered to travel into town for the first half of the trip to Dean Court, partly as a result of a delayed arrival in town after a near miss on the 310 into town. Shelley and I arrived at a packed to bursting Bacchus and didn’t even try for a drink, watching the last few minutes that was notable mainly for Trippier’s amazing clearance off the line after Burn lost the run of himself.

A draw is always a point gained, but draws are the new defeats in NUFC fan world, and full time saw plenty of aggravated bile spitting about our failure to sign Maddison in January. If, and I fear this will be the case, we lose to Manchester United, the levels of anger will become so toxic that all the progress the club has made, will begin to be eaten away by spoilt, self-righteous entitlement in the 15 games that remain of the season. However, just dare to imagine that we win on Sunday… my whole life will be complete from then on.

Travel hopefully all who are going, whether you have tickets or not.

 

 

 

Post Christmas Steps

 So here's what I've been reading and listening to so far in 2023 -:

MUSIC:

 

This blog has been inspired by the predictably astonishing performance I witnessed at Sage Hall 1, by Mogwai on 12 February, along with a couple of thousand bald blokes with beards. It’s only the second time I’ve been lucky enough to see these Central Belters in the flesh, having missed out on Radio 6 weekend tickets about a decade back and being stuck at work until 9pm when they played the Tyne Opera House in 2007. Last time around, they were at Northumbria University and it was genuinely one of the loudest, most intense experiences I’ve ever had, leaving my senses shredded and ears ringing for days afterward. Yes they were loud this time, but the beautiful acoustics of the Sage meant it didn’t have to be so oppressively deafening that your fillings fell from their mountings to have an impact. One important factor of Mogwai’s art, which is often overlooked, is the subtle beauty to be found in the quiet, almost pastoral parts of their music. It just makes that switch when they turn things up to 11, even more awe-inspiring. Nothing could have prepared you for the assault section of Mogwai Fear Satan when it kicked in during the last encore. There were highlights throughout the set: Christmas Steps, Summer, I’m Jim Morrison I’m Dead and, of course, New Paths to Helicon. A mighty and magnificent set drawn from all points of their 25 year career, with Braithwaite and the boys in top form, really enjoying being there, playing loud and playing with sheer joy. It’s a shame Ceiling Granny didn’t make the cut, despite being played at every other gig on the tour, but there was genuinely nothing to complain about. This was power, beauty and love all wrapped in one delightful parcel.

The only other gig I’ve been to this year was with Shelley to see TQ Live #3 at the Lit & Phil back on 20 January. Again, a massive thank you to Andy Wood for curating this event, which saw Culver supported by Firas Khnaisser and Sgerbwd. As ever, there was the renowned TQ tombola for the first 40 punters, primarily bald blokes with beards in woolly jumpers who are all artists themselves, that saw Andy divesting himself of most of the unnecessary CDs from his collection. Shelley selected A Reggae Tribute to the Fab Four, Volume 2 that consisted of some bland, cod-Jamaican covers of Beatles songs. It isn’t bad, but it isn’t exactly innovative and could happily act as a soundtrack to cheap cocktails in Tiger Bay at the Gate, if you were that way included. Personally, I think I can probably do without a further exposure to John Holt interpreting Yesterday or The Heptones doing Ticket to Ride. However, I was pleased to get my Canterburied Sounds CD back from Andy, as it had cost me £3.00 in unpaid postage to loan it to him. Ironically, I got £1.50 of that back when he didn’t put enough stamps on issue 59 & 60 of TQ when that was sent out.

Even better, I saw Kev Wilkinson for the first time in years and he passed on a copy of his 2022 BRB Voicecoil release Dissolve into the Now, which was far more disciplined than the ambient / improvisational stuff on show this evening. It’s very good stuff, almost dancey in parts, and Kev is someone who recorded output and live activities I need to keep an eye on. The same is true of Stephen Evans, whose CD Songs for TQ comes with the latest double issue. Stocks are running low, but I’d suggest you get on this work of absolute genius. Like a cross between Guided by Voices, the Flaming Lips and English eccentricity in the manner of Bevis Frond or Robyn Hitchcock, Evans veers between totally straight cover versions such as, implausibly enough, The Lady in Red, to sludgy guitar drones that really hit the spot. I can’t recommend this highly enough.

Anyway, first up on the night was Sgerbwd who, instead of being two baldy blokes with beards in woolly jumpers standing in front of laptops, making a horrible noise, consisted of one woman in a Meg Griffin style beanie, making a dissonant and disconcerting electronic clatter. She manipulated the destruction of a Strongbow Dark Fruits can, making it sound like a plane taking off then flying overhead. Genuinely impressive, if a little punishing for the average punter. I found it quite an intense event, but thoroughly enjoyable. Seeing Joe Murray from Posset in the audience reminded me that the first new CD I’d bought in 2023 was his release with Graeme from Chlorine, under the name Molar Crime. The CD, New Fun, is utterly unlike what I’d expected, with a kind of free jazz vibe permeating throughout. I’d definitely recommend this to anyone who wants to find out more about the No Audience Underground in this region.

Next up, Firas Khnaisser brought the volume right down, and invited audience participation by utilising a pair of radio operated toy cars, one of which this non-driver kept dunching into the furniture. A percussive genius, he brought strange and beautiful sounds from everything from a snare drum to a tin of sand, like the Buddy Rich of the No Audience Underground. Switching to a yellow, toy trumpet, he veered from relaxing sounds that accompanied a recording of flowing water, to Casio produced electronic scree that jarred and disturbed. This was a lot of fun.

Culver was more serious. Cathartic even. You know where he is going each time he plays and picking up his 2016 CD Terra Incognito on the night, recorded with Cathal Rodgers, you realise his art is not so different to how it was in the past, or how it will be in the future. It certainly affected Shelley who, transfixed and tearful, sat cross legged on the floor, utterly absorbed in the moment. I understood exactly where she was coming from. This was profound, healing noise; a comforting, insulating blanket of sound that made us all feel better for being there. Even better, Martin from Shunyata Improvisation Group gave Shelley and I, along with the haul of CDs, a lift home, which was just brilliant, like the whole evening.

The final bit of music I’ve got to report about is The Fall Live @ Newcastle Riverside 4 November 2011. This was my penultimate time of seeing them, along with Ben on his only ever Fall gig. I only discovered the CD of this gig existed as I read Steve Pringle’s exhaustive and informed chronological account of all Fall releases, You Must Get Them All, that Shelley bought me for Christmas. It’s a great read and, because it is written by an informed enthusiast, it is honest about The Fall’s output after 2000 or so. Whilst I tend to write off everything post Scanlon and Hanley, Pringle has evaluated this body of work both honestly and dispassionately. Perhaps my cynical intolerance was what had caused me to misremember the set as a shambolic racket. It isn’t at all. In fact, the whole thing is bloody excellent, though with typical cog sinister amateurism, the set list is completely wrong. It is incredible to get both Psykick Dancehall and Printhead in one performance, but even better finds are Elena singing I’ve Been Duped and an absolutely barnstorming climax of (I’m Not From) Bury. Being honest, I wholeheartedly recommend both the live CD and Pringle’s excellent book, which I suppose I should really have talked about in the next section. Oops….

Books:

I started off the year with a bit of a Teesside flavour to my reading. The first novel I read, after the Steve Pringle book, was Bob Mortimer’s The Satsuma Complex. Now, I’ve always been a bit of a cynic when it comes to celebrity books, as I’m unsure how much they’ve written and how much is the work of a ghostwriter. Also, has their talent or their name secured the publishing deal? All cynicism is parked when it comes to Bob Mortimer though, as I regard him as an absolutely, cast iron genius. Alright, so The Satsuma Complex will never be a Booker prize contender, but it is a diverting and entertaining read, despite some questionable lapses, such as the irritating presence of a talking squirrel in the narrative. The whole book pans out reasonably convincingly with a chocolate box happy ending and you can close the cover with a smile on your dial at the end of a rom-com meets police procedural meets bildungsroman. Yes, I truly did enjoy it.

I don’t know if enjoy is the right word for Glen James Brown’s masterful Ironopolis, but this tale of losers and psychopaths in a crumbling, dystopian Middlesbrough council, sink estate, has a truly effecting narrative. The tale of domineering estate paterfamilias Vincent and his timid, dead wife and inadequate son and how their doomed lives touch others in this area, is both profoundly shocking and grimly fascinating. This is truly an excellent debut novel, and I am eager to read more by Brown.

I managed to get myself in print, by having a short story, The Sporting Life, included in East London Press’s anthology, Songs from the Underground, edited by Joe Ridgewell. It’s a combination of out of copyright pieces from Blake, Burroughs, Larkin and many others, together with contributions from contemporary outsiders writers such as Michael Keenaghan, Ridgewell himself, Ford Dagenham and me. While it does have the air of something phoned-in to fill a gap in the schedules, it’s nice to receive a copy and even nicer to be included alongside such stellar talents, even if isn’t a story I have any affection for.

This is not true of the entire published output of Cormac McCarthy. I was excited beyond words to receive both The Passenger and Stella Maris for Christmas from Shelley. Bobby Western, the haunted central character at the heart of The Passenger, works as a salvage diver in the Mexican Gulf, tending to sunken barges and stricken oil rigs. Published16 years after The Road, The Passenger is like a submerged ship itself, a ruin in the shape of a hardboiled thriller. McCarthy’s saga covers everything from the atomic bomb to the Kennedy assassination to the principles of quantum mechanics. It’s by turns muscular and maudlin, immersive and indulgent.

Some 40 feet below the surface, Western explores a downed charter jet. Inside the fuselage, he picks his way past the floating detritus and the glassy-eyed victims, still buckled in their seats. The plane carried eight passengers but one appears to be missing and the subsequent investigation hints at a government cover-up. Except that this may be a red herring; we’re still in the book’s shallows. Western’s troubles, we realise, are altogether closer to home.

McCarthy began work on The Passenger back in the mid-1980s, before his career-making Border trilogy, building it piecemeal and revisiting it down the years. Small wonder, then, that this family tragedy feels filleted, part of a larger whole and trailing so many loose ends that it requires a self-styled “coda,” the companion novel, Stella Maris, to complete the story. So this is a book without guardrails, an invitation to get lost. We’re constantly bumping into dark objects and wondering what they mean.

Ostensibly the narrative sees Western pinballing around early 80s New Orleans, hobnobbing with the locals, trying to outflank his enemies. But it also casts back through the decades, mining his quasi-incestuous bond with his suicidal sister, Alicia. Along the way it introduces us to her nightmarish hallucinations: “the Thalidomide Kid and the old lady with the roadkill stole and Bathless Grogan and the dwarves and the Minstrel Show”. Alicia likens these demons to a troupe of penny-dreadful entertainers. They materialise at her bedside whenever she skips her meds.

On a prose level, McCarthy – now 89 – continues to fire on all cylinders. His writing is potent and intoxicating, offsetting luxuriant dialogue with spare, vivid descriptions. The bonfire leaning in the sea wind; the burning bits of brush hobbling away up the beach. As a storyteller, though, I suspect that he is deliberately winding down, wrapping up. This novel plays out as a great dying fall.

Western and Alicia, we learn, are children of the bomb. Their father was a noted nuclear physicist who helped split the atom, leading to the destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Western, in his youth, studied physics himself. He became familiar with protons and quarks, leptons and string theory, but gave up his calling for a life of blue-collar drifting. Quantum mechanics, he feels, can only take us so far. “I don’t know if it actually explains anything,” he says. “You can’t illustrate the unknown.”

McCarthy’s interest in physics has been stoked by his time as a trustee at the Santa Fe Institute, a non-profit research centre. Since 2014 he’s largely been holed up with the scholars, exploring the limits of science, and presumably of language as well, only to conclude that no system is flawless. High-concept plots take on water; machine-tooled narratives break down. And so it is with The Passenger, which sets out as an existential chase thriller in the mould of No Country for Old Men before collapsing in on itself. Western might outpace his pursuers but he can’t escape his own history. So he heads into the desert, alone, to watch the oil refineries burning in the distance and observe the carpet-coloured vipers coiled in the grass at his feet. “The abyss of the past into which the world is falling,” he thinks. “Everything vanishing as if it had never been.” What a glorious sunset song of a novel this is. It’s rich and it’s strange, mercurial and melancholic. McCarthy started out as the laureate of American manifest destiny, spinning his hard-bitten accounts of rapacious white men. He ends his journey, perhaps, as the era’s jaundiced undertaker.

For a writer who spurns the conventions of punctuation, Stella Maris feels a lot like a full stop, a parting pronouncement on the whole sordid human experiment. After 16 years of literary silence, McCarthy has produced a drought-busting, brain-vexing double act: first The Passenger, a nihilistic vaudeville; now, its austere sibling, Stella Maris, helmed by the first female protagonist McCarthy has dared to write since 1968.  McCarthy’s attempt at cross-gender empathy is Alicia, a former child prodigy turned rogue mathematician. Stella Maris opens in the autumn of 1972 when the 20-year-old checks herself into a private psychiatric clinic in Wisconsin. She arrives with a bag full of cash and an accompanying cast of hallucinations led by a flipper-handed dwarf who calls himself “the Thalidomide Kid”. A world away, on life support in a European hospital, Alicia’s brother, Bobby, lies braindead. Or so she thinks. (The Passenger tells his post-coma story.)

Stella Maris is a transcript of Alicia’s therapy sessions. The book hangs on her voice, and that voice is doomed. Listening to Bach is the closest she comes to joy. The mystery at the heart of Stella Maris is just how far Alicia has taken her brotherly lust. There’s the link McCarthy makes between Alicia’s madness and her menstrual cycle; her certainty that motherhood is the cure for all her existential woes via an incestuous subplot.

Alicia works in “topos theory”, at the sharp frontier of mathematical thought. In case readers miss the analogy, her last name is Western. And like the grand dream of the American west, our beautiful heroine is doomed. Grieving for her brother, and disillusioned by maths, Alicia is destined to kill herself (in the opening scene of The Passenger, McCarthy describes her dangling body like a gruesome Christmas bauble). With no prospect of hope, Stella Maris is the literary equivalent of a slow-motion study in obliteration. “I’ve always had the idea that I didn’t want to be found,” Alicia explains. “That if you died and nobody knew about it that would be as close as you could get to never having been here in the first place.”

Alicia’s conversations with Dr Cohen are combative, cerebral and theory-heavy (Kant, Wittgenstein, Feynman, Gödel): less a therapeutic dialogue than a Platonic one. The questions the pair tackle range from the eternal (is the self an illusion?); to the mind-knotting (if mathematical objects exist independent of human thought, what else are they independent of?); to the hazy, late-night realm of the weed-addled (why is a dying dolphin’s last breath not considered an act of suicide?). “I want to be revered,” Alicia declares, “I want to be entered like a cathedral.” It feels like a tacit instruction for readers. However, Alicia is less a character than a receptacle for eight decades of snarled (and snarling) ideas. As her conversations with Dr Cohen deepen, she slips into McCarthy’s own narrative voice, with all its rococo cadences and tell-tale tics. “If you had to say something definitive about the world in a single sentence what would that sentence be?” Dr Cohen asks Alicia. “It would be this,” she answers. “The world has created no living thing that it does not intend to destroy.” It’s textbook McCarthy nihilism, boiled down to a noxious concentrate: no country for old mathematicians. Perhaps that’s the true McCarthy mythos: he spent his career staring into the void, and now it’s staring back.

To finish with, I’ve just been through a couple of gorgeous cricket books. Firstly, Gerald Brodribb’s Next Man In, a quaint and eccentric looks at the laws of the game, illustrated by famous instances where they needed to be interpreted, sometimes wrongly. It’s a gloriously dated and funny trawl through the minutiae of the world’s most beautiful game. Finally, Mike Brearley’s gorgeous On Cricket, which is part memoir, part political treatise and part philosophical meditation on the morality of the game and the world in general. As it is told in Brearley’s inimitable style, his discussions and interpolations on aesthetics and personal responsibility remain fascinating and never pretentious. As he’s now over 80, I trust we may see him spared for years yet.

 

 

 

Taking Stock

 Stocksfield FC haven't become any more loveable since the days when Bruce Vause's theatricality was a regular occurrence -: 

This Government deserve stringing up from the nearest available set of lamp posts. Agreed? However, I will concede that their latest public transport initiative, whereby you can go anywhere on the bus for £2 maximum, is of great help to those of us intent on repainting the Pinpoint Recruitment sponsored Sistine Chapel ceiling. In other words, if you need to revisit another Northern Alliance club who have just started playing at a new venue, a cheap holiday amidst other people’s misery on the 62 is just the ticket. Imagine this; I can get on at the nearest stop to my house and ride for 55 minutes way out west, alighting at the top of the bank from Newburn Leisure Centre, where Stocksfield FC now play their home games. Not bad for forty bob, eh?

Let’s be honest though; the West End is not the best end. Once the 62 hung a left off Stamfordham Road, I didn’t have a clue where I was until I spotted the River Tyne about 50 yards from the far touchline once I’d found the basic but not too bad pitch, which was in the shadow of the Big Lamp Brewery. Unfortunately, having been treated to a scenic trip around West Denton, Chapel Park (location of Greenway, which is the only street I know of named after a Fall song), Walbottle, Lemington and eventually Newburn, I was left too short of time to pay a visit. Instead, I concentrated on the football.

Back in the day, Stocksfield were the most despised of any Northern Alliance team, even when the likes of Walker Fosse were plying their pugilistic trade, on and off the pitch. The Griffins, as they were known, were not a collection of effete bourgeois aesthetes from the Tyne Valley; indeed, they were a combination of fast paced Route 1 football and despicable theatrics. Managed by Colin Stromsoy, who has just been shown the door after an utterly undistinguished year at Benfield, the Stocksfield side of a decade and a half ago, were roundly detested by every other side from Berwick United to Carlisle City and back again. The very worst of this parcel of rogues was a certain Bruce Vause, who is the biggest cheat I’ve ever seen at Northern Alliance level. The dive he took at Percy Main to ensure Scott Pocklington, who didn’t lay a finger on him, got a red card for a supposed headbutt is the single most disgusting example of play acting I’ve ever seen on a football pitch.  Frankly, when they called it a day a few years ago, I punched the air in triumph. Vause is a senior teacher in Gateshead, where his stringent moral code must be of great benefit to those under his tutelage…

Now Stocksfield are back again, though they don’t wear orange any longer (indeed Heddon were in shirts of that hue) and they don’t play at Stocksfield Cricket Club where, unbelievably, they were allowed to play Premier Division football without a permanent barrier rail round the pitch. Indeed, their perimeter consisted of a load of plastic fence panels that you normally see guarding roadworks. Of course, now they’re in the bottom tier, there’s no need for any form of barrier. The fact there were only 5 people watching at the early kick off time of 1.30 perhaps better indicated why questions regarding crowd safety were superfluous, though the spectating masses expanded to a mini throng of 23 by the break.

Having seen Heddon taken comprehensively to the cleaners by Blyth Rangers back in November, I held out little hope for them in the role of moral avengers against the home side. Indeed, in the first 30 minutes, neither side put together anything that could be justifiably called coherent football. Hit and hope was the order of the day, with only the outrageous cheating of the Stocksfield flag waver, apparently their manager, offering anything for the crowd to get worked up about. Then, just after the half hour, Stocksfield managed to get their act together, hitting the limited visitors with a decisive double whammy in the space of 5 minutes. Firstly, a corner was nodded on at the back post and an unmarked Stocksfield player headed in, unchallenged. Probably, in terms of both possession and intent, this was a fair reflection on the play. The second goal, which saw a quality curled finish from the corner of the box was perhaps harsh on Heddon and completely at variance to the standard of play seen so far. It also completely floored Heddon who limped to the break, without offering anything in response.

The second period saw an upping of the ante, with an energised Heddon pushing Stocksfield back, though failing to take any of the presentable chances they created. In addition, the Stocksfield manager, now on flag duties on the near side of the pitch, seemed intent on creating some kind of violent confrontation with the Heddon management. At first the young and weak referee was content to warn him as to his conduct. This went ignored and the recalcitrance persisted, so the ref booked him for dissent, before finally relieving him of assistant duties, though not red carding him, for a volley of unnecessary invective that Vause would have been proud to blame someone else for.  Unfortunately, these spoiling tactics did for Heddon, who conceded a late third, when the Stocksfield 9, who was the best player on the park, arrowed home a fine finish.

Full time saw some further unseemly crowing and posturing by the Stocksfield boss, but a dispirited Heddon squad were not up for anything other than limp handshakes. I got myself away on a rapid 22, where the sight of Scotwood Road allowed me to recognise where I was once more. Soon I was heading south on the High Level, marching against the SJP matchday traffic en route to the West Ham game, as I headed for my dearly departed pal Geoff Johnston’s memorial drink with friends I’d grown up with in The Black Bull by Gateshead Interchange. My memories of the best football and best musician of any of our lot will live longer than my recollections of Stocksfield 3 Heddon United 0. And rightly so.

 

Go Easy

Step Lightly

Stay Free

Meadowlarks

 Me and Gary went to FC Edinburgh to watch Falkirk with Derek and Jim. It was brilliant.

It’s a darn good job Newcastle United have made it to Wembley for the Carabao Cup final, as that achievement, minor though it is, expunges any awful memories of the Sheffield Wednesday tie at the start of last month. You see, historically, the last weekend in January has always been FA Cup 4^th round weekend or, as it is generally known on Tyneside, the mid-season break. Mind, I have to say I’m not exactly happy at the distribution of cup final briefs as I’ll not be getting one, simply on account of binning my season tickets back in 2009. I mean, where’s the loyalty my club should be showing me? At least I can rely on Falkirk coming up with the goods, and in particular my great pal Derek Steel, editor of the ever-wonderful Razur Cuts litzine, eternal punk rocker and general good egg, staying true to his word.

Me and my mate Gary Thompson, the secretary at Newcastle Benfield, have been promising each other for years that we’d have a dodge across the border for a gentlemen’s Saturday and an opportunity came up when I decided I could live without a trip to see Percy Main amateurs away to Whickham Under 23s in the Bill Gardner Cup and the Northern League gave Benfield a free Saturday on January 28^th. Never mind that The Lions subsequently ended up with Guisborough at home being slotted in, some prime contacts had already sorted us out with cheap (and I mean cheap) rail travel, while Derek gave the assent to our attendance at FC Edinburgh against his beloved Bairns, Falkirk. We were off!!

Regular readers may furrow their brows at this point with my blessing. Yes, I am avowedly a Hibernian fan of 50 years standing. Yes, Hibernian were at home on that very Saturday to Aberdeen, with Easter Road lying no more than a couple of miles from Meadowbank. Yes, I was passing up the opportunity to see what had been christened El Sackico, mainly because I am frankly in despair at the current state of my beloved Cabbage. Continual panic stations in the boardroom have led to the hiring and firing of an ever more inadequate set of managers, who have presided over a catastrophic decline in the quality of players on the books and the attendant performances on the pitch. Hence, I wasn’t prepared to lend any support to a regime that does not have the first clue what the best interests of Hibernian FC are, never mind doing anything tangible to look after them. In all seriousness, this was a line in the sand moment for me and I don’t regret it for one minute. Well, the cheers after each one of the six unanswered Hibs goals did leave me a little nonplussed by events, but it’s always a hoot watching Falkirk away. I mean, it isn’t at home, as it’s often torture viewing the games, but at least you get a laugh, if you like swearing and that…

Anyway, Gary got to Central so early I think he must have messed the bed, while I turned up in the nick of time, courtesy of a lift from the late running Ben Cusack who, in his entire 28 years on earth, has never knowingly been early or indeed on time for anything. This is the lad who was born 6 days late of course. Gary had bought the coffees, then drank his while waiting for me. We got on an almost deserted train that started at Newcastle on account of the engineering works that were paralysing the East Coast Line south of Newcastle, enjoying the relative peace of travelling without squads of Prosecco fuelled ladies of a certain age spilling across the aisles.

Up in Edinburgh on time, we hopped a 24 for Seton Sands, alighting at the ground and letting Google find us a bar. First choice it gave us was Moira’s Nail Bar, so I refined the search to “pubs” and within 10 minutes we were settling onto high stools in The Limelite and enjoying cool Tennent’s. I’m not a fan of cooking lager at all, but when more than 50% of the pints sold in Scotland are of this fine Caledonian brew, you can’t argue with the demographics. There’s got to be a reason so much of it is sold. About 3 pints or an hour later, traffic-delayed Derek and his pal Tourette’s Jim arrived from Falkirk. As ever, brilliant to catch up with this fine gentleman and even better to become proud owners of Razur Cuts snoods. It’s what the sophisticated jakey round town is wearing to all the games these days.

Around the time the two captains were shaking hands and tossing a coin, we left the bar and wandered back down the road. As ever, the size of the travelling support had left the home organisers utterly unprepared; two turnstiles meant we got in when the game was already underway, but nothing of significance had been missed as an injury to a home player in the opening minute, which caused him to be withdrawn, meant the game was stopped.

This trip to Meadowbank was a revisit for me, as I’d been to Edinburgh City, as they were then called, when they shared Ainslie Park with Spartans, for a 4-1 demolition of Elgin City back in December 2018. You see FC Edinburgh are now back at the ground, or more properly the site of the ground, where they became tenants once Meadowbank Thistle (formerly Ferranti Thistle) headed out to Almondvale and became Livingston back in 1996. Their decamping to Ainslie Park in 2017 was made necessary by the decision to redevelop Meadowbank, building what is effectively the fourth iteration of a football ground on this patch of land.

 

Well, building is stretching things a bit. In 2017, the 5,000-capacity stadium that was built to host the 1970 Commonwealth Games was razed and, in its place, a 1,280 capacity, 500 seat, municipal leisure facility of a running track with a 4G pitch in the middle has been thrown together. Oh sure, it’s got good quality, heated toilets which play piped pop music (Madonna’s Greatest Hits when we visited), but it’s got abysmal sightlines and less atmosphere than Neptune. Walking the length of the stand to find our seats was as flat as taking the outside lane in a sprint.

From the off, Falkirk looked the better side, but the aged Liam Fontaine did his best to marshal the FC Edinburgh back line and, with chances at a premium, we went into the break scoreless. There was no chance of a pie at this ground, with the burger van 150 yards away by the entrance and seemingly dealing with the rest of the 1,017 hungry punters who’d turned up that day. In any case, the second half was a football feast; Falkirk went 2-0 up by the hour, courtesy of a lovely header by Oliver and a solid, unflappable finish by Morrison and the game was won. Of course, this is when the frankly appalling refereeing performance of Steven Kirkland comes under the microscope, and it needs to be addressed. Not only did he allow Edinburgh a goal back after an outrageous barge by the curiously named Ouzy See, but he ignored two clear penalty shouts, one for handball and one for the mightiest shove in the back I’ve seen in years. At least The Bairns held on and cut Dunfermline’s lead at the top of League 1.

Come full time, we cheered the boys off and located Deek’s car, parked at the summit of Salibury Crag I believe, and took a lift to the top of Leith Walk. Thousands of smiling Hibees thronged the pavements. We’d heard the roars that accompanied their massacre of  a deflated Dons outfit, who had already sacked Jim Goodwin by this point. The Hibees were on a high; The Dons were devastated and the attempts of the Central Area teenage Neds to whip up a storm by pretending to be Falkirk’s Young Team were frankly silly.

Gary and I enjoyed the walk up to Waverley, then nipped across the road to West Register Street and the beautiful Guild Ford, Edinburgh’s finest pub. A few pints of floral Leith Juice and some people watching (did you know Leonid Brezhnev and Miriam Margoles are alive and well and living in Balerno?) kept us busy, until it was time to get a carry oot for the train. 90 minutes in the company of some Columbine High School lookalikes and a Colombian drug baron on his day off kept us entertained until we arrived slightly early into Central. A swift black took Gary back to The Rising Sun to collect his fatha and I headed home, falling asleep within seconds of bidding a fond hello and equally warm goodbye to Shelley who was off out with her pal Kristina. Still, at least I’d remembered to bring her 8 cans of Tennents, because I’m romantic like that…

 Simply can’t wait for the next awayday…