Chairs Missing

Seaton Carew 0 AFC Newbiggin 3

With Percy Main playing a low key friendly against Jarrow Reserves (won2-1) and me not being required for Tynemouth 3s at home to Monkseaton 2s (won by 83 runs), I decided that an afternoon’s ground collecting was in order. It’s mad enough that the Northern Alliance starts on August 1^st, but it is almost beyond comprehension that the Northern League kicked off a week earlier on July 25^th. As one of my targets, Kendal Town, were away to Carlisle City, the opportunity presented itself for me to visit the other unvisited club in the Northern League, Seaton Carew, on the occasion of their debut fixture at this level, at home to Newbiggin.

Having used my Old Bugger’s Railcard to book cheap train tickets, I decided on the Metro down to Central. Of course, I had to pick probably the busiest Saturday of the summer for this journey. With it being Pride weekend, Ladies’ Day at the Races and Newcastle playing a pre-season friendly at Gateshead that kicked off at 12.30, the Metro at around 11 was heaving. Loads of happy, joyously attired revellers heading for Pride and a similar number of nervous looking replica shirted NUFC fans in unseasonal black North Face and bad jeans meant it was standing room only. Once I escaped into daylight, it got no quieter as a tsunami of bright young things, blokes in skinny linen suits and party frocked women in fascinators and heels, heading for Gosforth Park, flowed from the station. At least, I was heading away from the traffic, as I was able to nab a 4-seater for myself on a sparsely populated rattler down the East Durham coastline.

With my nose in Ellroy’s latest, Red Sheet, I hardly noticed the time passing until we left Hartlepool and so I collected my belongings for the next stop. I can recall being in Seaton Carew once before as a kid, well over 50 years ago, but had no memory of the place. From what I saw, it was like the decent bits of Redcar. Primarily 1930s semis on wide roads. Indeed you only need to walk down 2 streets (Station Lane and Elizabeth Avenue) for a total of 10 minutes to find Hornby Park. Nobody told my phone that, as my journey from the station involved half a dozen turns in a new estate, that brought me slap bang against the standard issue green, metallic perimeter fence. A further twenty minutes of traipsing round the edge of the complex brought me to Seaton Carew CC, where I watched their 1s flaying the bowling of Marton 2s in NYSD Division 2, from a comfortable boundary bench.  Not a bad little ground with a functioning scorebox and an impressively large pavilion. The home side would win by 130 runs, but I didn’t see more of it once I’d effected entry to the football ground, which involved passing both a rugby pitch (we’re in Hartlepool; the English Limerick) and a Sunday league pitch.

To be on the safe side, I paid my very reasonable £3 concession entry at 2.45 and immediately realised that Seaton Carew have a hell of a lot of work to do to maintain their status at this level for more than just a season. The pay box was a Portakabin that was split with a tea bar. I got myself a coffee and a flapjack, before taking my ease at the only seats in the whole ground; a picnic bench next to the petrol generator that powered the boiler. Next to that was a metal covered terrace behind the goal, that offered the only shelter available. Despite the game being played in blustery wind off the sea, it was a warm and dry day. I’d not like to visit here in the depths of winter. Indeed, I probably won’t visit ever again.

Seaton Carew have been promoted from the Wearside League, and their facilities remain at that level. As well as a lack of seats, there were no floodlights. Presumably these will be in place for the March 31^st deadline, or they’ll be compulsorily relegated. At least, that is how things used to operate. If this is Northern League Division 2 standard, then at least half of the Alliance teams could go up without a doubt.

I took in the first half on the top side of the ground, towards the entrance end where the home side were defending, on the opposite touchline from the dug outs. With no programmes, team sheets or tannoy, it was impossible to know how the sides lined up. Newbiggin were in a light blue away kit, while Seaton Carew boasted a vibrant claret and amber number, halfway between Bradford City and Partick Thistle. The crowd wasn’t announced and still hasn’t been reported, but I’d wager it was about the 150 mark, augmented with the usual smattering of groundhoppers.

Seaton Carew started at a bit of a lick, hitting the bar in the opening minutes, but were soon pushed back by a more organised Newbiggin side, who had the stiff breeze at their backs. They’d already hit the bar when they took the lead from a clever bit of interplay in the Seaton Carew box. A second, headed, effort followed soon after and at 2-0 up at the break, the visitors had seemingly secured the points in what had been a poor game.

Wandering round at half time, I saw my old pal Gary Bell, down with Newbiggin, and had a good catch up, before inspecting the facilities. The bottom goal is fringed by more Portakabins; another snack bar (no food other than crisps or chocolate), changing rooms and toilets. Nipping into the accessible one, I was delighted to see the bar had been raised for improbable things in Northern League netties. Perhaps not as bizarre as the cement mixer at Ryhope CA, but intriguing to see a washing machine in there anyway.

I took in the second half from diagonally opposite where I’d watched the first, again seeing Newbiggin attack. They made and missed several chances, before getting a deserved third in injury time, while the home side huffed and puffed without looking remotely dangerous. Perhaps they won’t need those ground improvements if the season continues in this fashion.

At full time, I briefly paused to see Marton 2s were in a bit of trouble (77/4), before taking a quicker and more direct route back to the station. My train was 5 minutes delayed, so I had time to ponder on the irony of Seaton Carew station not having any seats either. Once on board another empty train, I made it home without delay, with the Metro enabling me to avoid the crush of humanity out on the batter in the city centre.

Best Team Won

The 2026 World Cup dissected; cynically...

 

Well that’s it all over and done with at last. The World Cup I was going to boycott out of principle, then revised my position to a declaration that I’d only watch the games played in Canada and Mexico, but ended up following the thing as closely as all the previous ones I’d claimed an initial utter uninterest in. A total of 308 goals were scored in 104 games; the highest total ever on account of this Mundial having the most nations ever take part. In the end, the best team won, the second best team finished fourth, an appalling pack of savages were runners-up and a lumbering crowd of chancers ended up with the ludicrously named Bronze medal. In the latter case, only because they had two football artists who transcended the difficulties imposed by a worse set of wingers than Newcastle had last season and the sort of problems at right back teams in the Northern Alliance would struggle to replicate. Most importantly FIFA, especially Infantino, ended the tournament with even less credibility than they started it with, mainly on account of the corrupt, obsequious toadying to the ever loathsome Trump.

Of the 104 games, I saw 66 of them. The ones I missed were Qatar 1 Switzerland (I was seeing The Pale White at Anarchy Brewery), Haiti 0 Scotland 1 (fast asleep, though I had intended to watch it in a mobile home parked on my mother-in-law’s driveway, while playing with my collection of designer hairdryers), Australia 2 Turkey 0 (asleep), Ecuador 0 Ivory Coast 1 (asleep), Sweden 5 Tunisia 1 (asleep, though I’m glad I wasn’t forced to endure the sight of The Rat having a storming game, no doubt as part of a concerted effort to engineer a move away from his Anfield hell), Iran 2 New Zealand 2 (asleep), Algeria 0 Argentina 3 (shame I snored through this as Messi, when he was still a nice bloke and not a scheming shithouse, produced a performance for the ages), Austria 3 Jordan 1 (asleep), Colombia 3 Uzbekistan 1 (asleep for the game that meant all 48 teams had played at least once. Astonished to discover Cannivaro was Uzbekistan’s manager mind), Bosnia & Herzegovina 1 Netherlands 4 (watching the Beta Band at the Boilershop. Tremendous gig), Mexico 1 South Korea 0 (was otherwise engaged in watching Andy Burnham wiping the floor with the Fash, while resurfacing the Parliamentary Road to Socialism. Or not), Brazil 3 Haiti 0 (asleep), Paraguay 1 Turkey 0 (asleep. Woke up to the bizarre highlights of Almiron’s red card for putting a hand in front of his mouth. Can’t imagine the lad said anything amiss, as he doesn’t have a bad bone in his body. He is thick like), Curacao 0 Ecuador 0 (asleep. Thankfully), Japan 4 Tunisia 0 (asleep), Egypt 3 New Zealand 1 (asleep), Norway 3 Senegal 2 (asleep. Shame, as it sounded a cracker), Algeria 2 Jordan 1 (asleep), Croatia 1 Panama 0 (asleep), Colombia 1 Congo 0 (asleep), Bosnia & Herzegovina 3 Qatar 1 and Canada 1 Switzerland 2 (at a post funeral drink), Czech Republic 0 Mexico 3 and South Africa 1 South Korea 0 (asleep. Astonished to see a previously rancid South Africa qualify at the expense of the ordinarily reliable South Korea), Australia 0 Paraguay 0 and Turkey 3 USA 2 (asleep), France 4 Norway 1 and Iraq 0 Senegal 5 (out for Ben’s birthday), Belgium 5 New Zealand 1 and Egypt 1 Iran 1 (asleep), Algeria 3 Austria 3 and Argentina 3 Jordan 1 (asleep, as the group stages concluded), Mexico 2 Ecuador 0 (asleep), Algeria 0 Switzerland 2 (asleep), Australia 1 (2) Egypt 1 (4) (at the final ever Shunyata Improvisation Group performance in Hexham), Colombia 1 Ghana 0 (asleep, as the tournament reached the last 16), Argentina 3 Switzerland 1 (asleep) and, lastly, Belgium 4 USA 1, which I refused to watch on principle after Infantino had corruptly agreed to cancel Balogun’s suspension after Trump intervened. So then, what about the football I did see?

I’ve watched every World Cup since 1974 and I couldn’t remember a lower key build up to a tournament than this one, whether that be in supermarkets or from the media. Then again, I’ve never previously experienced a competition where the hosts were actively at war with one of the participant nations. With 48 countries involved, not including Ireland, my support went to the rank outsiders: Cape Verde, Curacao and Haiti, as well as Iran and Iraq, but not Scotland of course. England, now they’re no longer the cossetted, preening Golden Generation of a decade and a half ago, had my tacit, critical support, as did USA, on account of the fact they don’t represent the Trump maladministration in any shape or form. The whole thing got underway with Mexico strolling to a 2-0 win over a desperately poor South Africa, in a mundane game of 3 mad red cards and the VAR overturn of what appeared to be a clear penalty. Thankfully, with certain significant exceptions, this wasn’t to be a tournament ruined by officious refereeing, though some decisions did reek of favouritism that bordered on corruption.

As I’ve listed above, I missed a large number of games that kicked off in the middle of the night UK time, as I simply couldn’t stay awake. I did manage to keep myself alert between the opener and Czech Republic 1 South Korea 2 by reading Cosey Fanni Tutti’s hair-raising autobiography Art, Sex, Music. I actually managed to get to the end of it by full time as the game mainly consisted of the South Koreans passing the ball around a lumbering Czech side, then missing presentable chances.  The Czechs took the lead, but Korea came back and deservedly won. It was daylight when I opened the living room curtains before going to bed at 6am. I sensed at that point I wouldn’t be partaking in contests in the wee small hours too often.

Bosnia & Herzegovina 1 Canada 1 was the first game in the territory of the northern partners. I was disappointed the organisers hadn’t availed themselves of the opportunity to have Godspped You! Black Emperor playing Mladic as part of the opening ceremony. Thankfully it wasn’t a case of zero goals for new Kanada. I was pleased to see Royale Union St Gilloise’s Promise David get a run out, but rather less pleased to hear the terminally moronic Warnock Stephen refer to him as David Promise.  Another point of note was the 1970s style double breasted blazer sported by the Bosnia & Herzegovina manager, which made him look like Captain Birdseye on shore leave. Same as the opening game, a dreary first half gave way to a far more entertaining contest after the break.

America aren’t a bad side, and they comprehensively dismantled Paraguay 4-1, despite the best efforts of Little Miggy. Clearly, despite a preponderance of MAGA oafs in the stands, the USA team aren’t drawn from the loathsome ranks of Trump supporters, which is why I had no problem in supporting them. As for Paraguay, who on earth would have suspected their World Cup would unfold in the way it did. Brazil were awful in their 1-1 draw with Morocco who, same as in Qatar last time out, gave a great account of themselves. Despite the presence of Vinicius Jr, Brazil lacked firepower and coherence in this game, and I suspected, on first sight, that they wouldn’t have a great tournament.

For a few brief moments of Curacao 1 Germany 7, the joy provided and disbelief engendered by a potential fairytale made the efforts of a Dutch 2^nd Division XI seem as if the romance of the World Cup wasn’t dead. Sadly, Germany proved themselves to be competent, ruthless, flat track bullies and banjoed the opposition out of sight. It is always a pleasure to hear Het Wilhelmus, but that was the only good thing about the first half of Japan 2 Netherlands 2. Frankly, it was dog shit, though things did get better after the break.

For me, one of the highlights of the group stages was the first goalless draw of the competition; Cape Verde 0 Spain 0. Looking back on a tournament where the winners only once failed to win, or score, it is astonishing to think the eventual champions drew a blank against a country with a 40 year old keeper and a lad from Shams at centre half, who I saw back in Tallaght wearing the Hoops in a 4-1 FAI Cup win over Cork on RTE. And Cape Verde deserved their point. That contest geed me up to the extent I went out to the pub to watch Belgium 1 Egypt 1. I certainly enjoyed the Belgian wine on offer, far more than the game, which followed the predictable pattern of a dire first half and a compelling second.

As well as Jesse March with Canada, there was another discredited, failed former Leeds boss at this tournament. Uruguay were helmed by the sourpuss Marco Bielsa. The Geordie Boys in Green from Saudi Arabia wiped the floor with them in the first half, going in a goal ahead. Sadly the balance changed after the break and the diving, cheating Canobbio rescued a point from a 1-1 draw. I went to bed sulking.

France 3 Senegal 1 saw Mbappe and Olise, as well as the imperious Upamecano, spring from the traps to show what a force the French would be.  VAR got involved with a crazy decision to disallow a penalty for a foul on Mbappe, but it all worked out in the end. Amazingly, it all worked out from the start of Iraq 1 Norway 4, with the best first half I’d seen so far, though it did settle down after the break. Both sides charged forward at every opportunity and, while Iraq were no jokers, Harland was a constant threat and a player to admire. In contrast, during Congo 1 Portugal 1, I didn’t know who to boo louder; Wissa or The Cunt. While Mbemba looks a bit long in the tooth these days, Wissa scored a marvellous header (cue Lee Ryder saying “he’s like a new signing” in a couple of weeks). Portugal as ever, with everything going through The Cunt, looked staid and predictable.

I’m not used to enjoying England games, but the 4-2 win over Croatia was a stormer, helped by the excellent tactical insights provided by Emma Hayes, augmented by Kristina Unkel’s helpful explanations of refereeing decisions, on ITV, whose coverage (bar Lee Dixon) absolutely shat all over the BBC’s throughout the tournament. Kane got out of jail with a retaken penalty and Croatia were gifted a pair of comical goals, but England simply blew them away after the break, upping the ante from the off. Obviously Kane and Bellingham were the stars, but Djed Spence showed what a class player he is, as part of his quietly understated bid to be one of the unsung heroes of the whole World Cup. After this, Ghana 1 Panama 0 was absolute torture until the game blew up in the last 10 minutes. Despite late fireworks, I was probably asleep 30 seconds after the final whistle.

Second time out, Czech Republic and South Africa were no better than their debut appearance in a drab 1-1 draw. Canada enjoyed themselves though, absolutely twatting Qatar 6-0. The poor sods completely imploded and could have had about 4 players left on the pitch, as the game disintegrated to a primary school contest between forwards and defenders, with possibly the most hilarious own goal of the whole tournament. It sent me to bed with a smile on my face anyway.

Australia 0 USA 2 promised much but delivered little as the Aussies produced nothing in an attacking sense and the USA lost interest after the break, which is when the game died. Morocco 1 Scotland 0 died after 70 seconds, when the Scotch gameplan to try for a goalless draw went out the window. In truth, this was a terrible game and perhaps the most persuasive argument yet that the World Cup should not have been extended to 48 teams. However we shouldn’t allow the appalling lack of quality of the Scotch side to detract from a fascinating World Cup, in which referees seemed keen to play on whenever possible, such as turning down two blatant dives for penalties by the increasingly desperate Scotch, and shirts that seemed to rip with alarming regularity. Not a great advert for the manufacturers I must say.

For Netherlands 5 Sweden 1, I visited The Chillingham Arms, which was definitely a Dutch pub for the night. I base that on the abuse and catcalls directed at The Rat, the lack of applause for Elanga’s goal (cue Lee Ryder claiming another player “looking like a new signing” in a fortnight) and the deafening roar that followed both of Brobbey’s goals. Rather enjoyed Graham Potter trying to take the positives out of such a thumping. I wondered also if Sweden, having won 5-1 and then lost 5-1, would draw their final group game 5-1. Talking of NUFC players, it was good to see Woltemade taking up his best position for Germany 2 Ivory Coast 1. Sub not used.  An enjoyable game, bossed by a surprisingly effective Undav, but further hints that Germany just didn’t have enough quality to be regarded as a serious contender. When Spain battered the Geordies from Saudi Arabia 4-0, you knew the real heavyweights had turned up. It took Spain 25 minutes to blow their opponents away and, if they’d wanted more, they could easily have scored them.

Belgium 0 Iran 0 sounds like a fate worse than death, but it wasn’t a bad game as it goes. The Iran keeper did well, but Belgium were maddeningly profligate. It was just a warm up for a fabulous 2-2 draw between Cape Verde and Uruguay. Brilliant attacking with both sides going for it, wedded to atrocious defending. An absolute joy to watch and another game that sent me to bed with a smile on my face.

Argentina 2 Austria 0 saw Messi miss a penalty, having escaped a red card for a nasty stamp in their first game. Mind Austria were no shrinking violets. Posch made a few spicy challenges and wasn’t very sporty. Argentina scored a brace of beautiful goals, with the first featuring a sublime step over that was my favourite bit of skill in the whole competition to this point. The weather intervened during France 3 Iraq 0, with the second half delayed by 2 hours because of a storm. When they started again Iraq’s keeper Basil proved very faulty for the last 2 goals.

I was amazed, as well as saddened, when The Cunt showed up for Portugal 5 Uzbekistan 0. He normally only plays for himself, but this was a decent impersonation of a team player. You had to feel sorry for Uzbekistan, having a brilliant effort ruled out by VAR and conceding the second most comical own goal of the tournament. England 0 Ghana 0 was dogshit.

Moving to the final group games, we had matches taking place simultaneously. Brazil 3 Scotland 0 saw a distinctly underachieving Brazil not needing to get into first gear to humiliate the woeful Scotch. Despite the offers of free hairdryers, coffee machines and camper vans, this wasn’t heroic failure. This was Glencoe relocated to the Sunshine State, as Brazil sent them homeward to think again. Meanwhile Haiti 2 Morocco 4 seemed to be a quiet classic, served up with very little fanfare. I didn’t see Curacao 0 Ivory Coast 2, but it amused me to see former Huns and Mackems manager, The Little Genital, helming the second worst team in the whole tournament. I watched Ecuador 2 Germany 1. A deserved win after an appalling VAR call allowed an unpunished foul to give Germany the lead. Ecuador came back strongly, with an excellent equaliser and opportunistic winner. Rather than Japan 1 Sweden 1, I opted for Netherlands 3 Tunisia 1, which meant I missed Elanga’s wonder goal. He’ll be like a new signing next season, mark Lee Ryder’s words. The Dutch, no doubt inspired by Het Wilhelmus, began like an express train, but ran out of momentum once the win had been assured. They looked decent though. Staying up until 4am for Cape Verde 0 Saudi Arabia 0 and Spain 1 Uruguay 0 may not seem to have been a wise move, but it was worth it to see the heroes of Cape Verde qualify and that grumpy old sod storming off in a sulk with his ineffective Uruguay side. Ha! Ha!

During England 2 Panama 0, only Kane, Bellingham and Anderson did anything of note. Saka and Rashford were beyond incompetent. Infuriating. Almost wish I’d opted for Croatia 2 Ghana 1 instead. There was no way I was voluntarily watching The Cunt in Colombia 0 Portugal 0, so I opted for Congo 3 Uzbekistan 1 instead. Wissa and Mbemba got my vote and I think I made the right choice.

Thus, we reached the knock out stages, bidding farewell to 16 countries (Curacao, Czech Republic, Ghana, Haiti, Iran, Iraq, Jordan, New Zealand, Qatar, the Scotch, the Geordies from Saudi Arabia, South Korea, Turkey, Tunisia, Uruguay and Uzbekistan), leaving us with the last 32. The first game was Canada 1 South Africa 0, and it was terrible. Brazil scraped through, beating Japan 2-1 after being a goal down, before the comic highlight of Germany 1 (3) Paraguay 1 (4). You had to feel sorry for their best player Tah, who had a perfectly good winner ruled out, then went on to send his penalty into orbit. Woltemade also showed how keen he was to get back for pre-season training with Newcastle by having his spot kick saved. Rather different than his success from the spot against Forest last October, when he still had some confidence about him. Morocco 1 (3) also won on penalties over Netherlands 1 (2), but they deserved it. I was a bit sad that I wouldn’t get to hear Het Wilhelmus again this tournament. I think I’d like it played at my funeral. All 13 stanzas of it.

Ivory Coast 1 Norway 2 was pretty mundane, with neither side really doing enough to win, but at least it finished after 90 minutes. I could have watched France 3 Sweden 0 all night. The French were absolutely excellent; indeed this was their best performance of the tournament, and they scored some brilliant goals. For Sweden, The Rat was a waste of a shirt and probably now wants a nationality transfer, though Elanga did try his best from the very start. He’ll be like a new signing next season.

Congo 1 England 2 was another curate’s egg of a game. A goal down after a typical Pickford abomination, England were on the ropes when Wissa returned to his NUFC form by missing an open goal, meaning he can get back to Tyneside quickly to prepare for our relegation push. Madueke and Rashford were atrocious from the start and Saka no better when he came on, but Gordon did change the game, by setting up both of Kane’s goals. Rice was a carthorse and Eze plainly unfit. Still, it was never in doubt, eh? If that result was fortunate, then Belgium 3 Senegal 2 was an utter travesty. Senegal were 2-0 up and cruising after 86 minutes, when they lost their heads and conceded 2 rapidly. Belgium were still mentally packing their suitcases when Lukaku got one back. A rush of blood by the keeper saw the scores tied and a very harsh penalty, given after a 7 minute VAR check, turned the game and result on its head. Highly unfortunate. Bosnia & Herzegovina 0 USA 1 was a very low key game, with only Balogun’s red card to discomfit the hosts as they disposed of utterly unambitious opponents.

I watched Austria 0 Spain 3 in The Victory at South Gosforth (I wouldn’t be seen dead in The Brandling Villa) after Shunyata Improvisation Group’s penultimate gig at the Quaker Meeting House. I needed a pint, you understand. This wasn’t even a contest, as Spain eviscerated Austria, suggesting that France may have worthy opposition in the quest for the trophy after all. I didn’t enjoy Croatia 1 Portugal 2 at all. I don’t like Modric and his hair, but I prefer him to The Cunt. Alright the winner was brilliant and the denied equaliser actually offside, but no reasonable person can support a side who plays The Cunt.

I literally walked through the door when Argentina 3 Cape Verde 2 was kicking off. What a wonderful effort those lads made. Heroes, every one of them and their second equaliser must have been a contender for strike, if not goal, of the tournament. Two hours of pulsating football that justified the inclusion of 10 African sides among the 48 qualifiers.

So, we reached the last 16, with 7 from the Americas, 7 Europeans and 2 from Africa. The underachievement of both Japan and South Korea really let Asia down. The next game saw Morocco toy with Canada, passing them to death and easing through 3-0. Fair play to Canada though. They did give it their best shot and last 16 was probably a round further than they expected to go. France 1 Paraguay 0 was the first of the really nasty games, with Paraguay trying to kick, gouge and stamp their way to penalties like it was Italia 90 again. Finally they conceded one, which Mbappe scored and, bar a needless bout of argybargy at the end, that was it.

Brazil got exactly what they deserved when Norway beat them 2-1. An early disallowed goal, a woeful penalty by Bruno that won’t have endeared him to Arteta, (Jeff) Endrick’s open goal miss and a pitiful show of histrionics by Neymar after he’d pulled one back from the spot didn’t matter when contrasted with a brilliant double by Harland, after Gabriel shat himself,. This meant a far more organised, competitive and athletic Norway went through to face England. Somehow.

In the build up to England 3 Mexico 2, I noticed the milkman delivering on our estate at about 9.30. He needn’t have rushed as an hour’s storm delay meant the game didn’t kick off until 2.00. This contest had everything. A stunning double from Bellingham, some great saves by Pickford, a straight red card for Quansah, a brilliant penalty scored by Kane, an unfortunate penalty conceded by Kane and a storming late cameo by Dan Burn. Twice BDB repelled the Mexican attacks with headed clearances beyond the halfway line. An immense performance. An edge of the seat, heart stopping game that ended at 4.05, at which point Jordan Henderson, who hadn’t appeared on the pitch but still collected a booking, broke his arm by falling over an advertising hoarding in celebration. Mackem clown. After all that, no wonder I couldn’t get to sleep.

Portugal 0 Spain 1 was far less intense. Merino, who El Fraudo sought to peddle from NUFC ASAP, scored a superb winner and The Cunt left the pitch in tears. Brilliant, unlike Colombia 0 (3) Switzerland 0 (4), which could have got football done away with. Next to The Cunt, the footballer I hate the most is Saleh, which is why I shed no tears for him, but I did for every other Egyptian citizen after Argentina beat them 3-2. Messi missed a penalty again, Egypt had a seemingly fair goal harshly denied when they were already 1-0 up, before the world went crazy. A mad, absorbing end to end contest saw Messi pull all the strings and Argentina come back from the dead. What a truly wonderful contest, even if the wrong side won.

After the novelty of a rest day, the quarter finals began with France 2 Morocco 0; a performance akin to a luxury limousine effortlessly covering ground on cruise control. Mbappe did miss a penalty after a ludicrous VAR delay seemed to unsettle him, but there were no other mishaps for an imperious and elegant French side that dismissed Morocco with ease. Belgium 1 Spain 2 was more of a contest and a lively, open game, which featured that rare beast, a Spanish concession. However, what did for Belgium in the final analysis was a pair of keeping blunders that led to both Spanish goals.

Much of the noise in this tournament was about favourable decisions for certain countries, specifically Argentina, but England had their fair share of luck too, what with the penalty retake against Croatia, the non-concession against Ghana and Norway’s harshly disallowed goal in the quarter final that England won 2-1. This was probably the drunkest I got during the World Cup, but even in that state I would have made a better effort at keeping out Norway’s goal than Pickford did. He wasn’t the only one to fail miserably though. Madueke looked like he’d never played football before. Rice was a wraith. Kane peripheral. Obviously I don’t particularly like the man, but Bellingham was the reason England progressed. That and the baffling decision by Norway to withdraw Harland in extra time.

Undoubtedly, the highest quality game of the whole competition was France 0 Spain 2 in the first semi-final. While France had been superb from the start, probably peaking in their 3-0 trouncing of Sweden in the last 32, Spain had stuttered in their goalless opener with Cape Verde and felt their way gently into the tournament. This was their high water mark. Yamal produced an incredibly visionary run to win the penalty, as well as being desperately unlucky to have an effort ruled out for offside, but the real stunner was Pedro Porro’s goal. I’d always thought him a bit of a carthorse, but his goal to seal victory was breathtaking in its beauty. Morally, this ought to have been the final, as the two best sides came together to produce a fine game of football.

Argentina 2 England 1 was an intriguing contest for the opening hour. England had been far from convincing throughout and had almost stumbled into the last 4. Argentina had Messi and a pack of savages whose DNA was stamped by a need to win at any cost. They’d struggled past Cape Verde and came back from the dead against Egypt. In this game, they overturned a deficit after Gordon’s opener from a lovely Rogers pass, assisted by some terrible tactics by Tuchel. Having got past Mexico by shutting up shop, he tried the same thing against Argentina. However, withdrawing Gordon left no option for an out ball and crowding the penalty area with centre backs simply invited Argentina on. Worst of all, Messi played a dozen short corners in the game and was never once closed down. Twice these lead to goals and once Argentina took the lead, with all substitutions done, the game was up. The sight of Dan Burn vainly haring after the ball up top while Argentina simply knocked it around between defenders, was a sad indictment of a flawed system that caused a deserved exit. As usual, England departed the tournament with a whimper and a sense of not having achieved their full potential. It was so similar to Newcastle United last season.

And yet, England were required to play in successive games; the only team to do so in the whole tournament. The “Bronze Medal” game that nobody was bothered about ended with the mad score of England 6 France 4, with neither team seeming capable of winning. England were brilliant in the first half, leading 4-0 at the break. France were even better in the second, coming back to 4-3, missing a boatload of chances and then conceding more goals. Saka got a hat trick and Bellingham’s final waltz through the French defence was football as ballet. A mad, mad game but a truly unexpected treasure.

All you can say about Argentina 0 Spain 1 is that the right side won, thank goodness. If they’d taken their chances, it could have been 3-0 after 90 minutes, but Spain were as nervous as Argentina were callous. I didn’t even feel sorry for Messi at full time as he’d used up all his privileges after he cynically tried to get Cucurella sent off. At least Hernandez was correctly red carded. As for their conduct after the game, it was deplorable, but no worse than that of Infantino and Trump. A pair of bastards who did their best to ruin the World Cup, but failed as football, thankfully, was the winner.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Decreased

My 2026 cricket season with Tynemouth 3s, such as it has been...

From mid-April to mid-September, my life (especially on a Saturday afternoon) has been dedicated to the most beautiful game, specifically Tynemouth Cricket Club and, in recent years, the honour of turning out for TCC 3s in the Northumberland and Tyneside Cricket League. It would be fair to say 2025 didn’t go entirely to plan for our lot. Of the 22 league games we were scheduled to play, we won 2 (the first of them by default as the opponents played a ringer and the other by 1 wicket), saw one cancelled because of rain, we had another abandoned when we had Annfield Plain 61/9, lost 14 and, most sickening of all, conceded 4 because we couldn’t raise a team. As a result we finished rock bottom of Division 5 Central and were relegated by 142 points. From a personal perspective, I played in 13 games, as well as being available for all 4 concessions, scored 16 runs (top score of 6 in the first game at home to South North), took 4 wickets (including the last one of the season) and bagged 2 catches, both very straightforward. According to play cricket, I was the 76,549^th best recreational cricketer in the country last season and 54^th MVP player for Tynemouth. Get in, eh?

Obviously, it is a team game and clearly, something had to change if TCC 3s were to continue as a competitive outfit, as we’ve dropped into the very bottom division of local league cricket. The first, and most important change, was that Martin Pollard replaced Richy Hay as captain. Let me say immediately that these two blokes are probably my closest friends at TCC. Richy spent most of last season playing for the 2s, as player shortages across the whole club constantly saw the best players from the 3s cherry picked to fill gaps higher up. Richy has stated on many occasions that he wished to play at the highest level possible, for which no one can blame him, so as he continues to appear mainly for the 2s, thus this was an eminently sensible decision. Especially when he was succeeded by the legendary NEPL great Polly who, after a stellar career at the highest local level for more than a quarter of a century, stepped away from captaining TCC 1s after a bruising campaign that ended in their relegation as well. Not only has Polly starred for Ashington, Blaydon, Hetton Lyons and Tynemouth over the years, he has also recovered from cancer that almost ended his career. In typical fairytale fashion, his first game back after recovery a few years back was for the 3s, when he took his first senior hat trick. Modesty prevents me from mentioning who took a juggling catch at mid-off to set him on this journey.

As I’ve mentioned quite a few times in these blogs, I started to work pretty intensely on my fitness over last winter, mainly to try and be of more use to the team when the time came. Not only did the cardio work help me shift two and a half stones and counting, but I also started building up my shoulder strength, as I suffer from a frozen right one and a touch of arthritis in the left. Frankly, trying to bowl during the last couple of years was incredibly painful and I simply couldn’t move freely enough to bowl adequately any longer, nor even throw overarm. The gym stuff worked on my shoulders to the extent I can now throw overarm without pain, though also without any power, and have enough movement to bowl again. I still don’t have any ability, but that’s a different matter. I only made one TCC net session in March, as it is impossible to get from Heaton to Gosforth by public transport these days, but I enjoyed it enormously, especially when I got the 1s skipper Dan McGee out. At the TCC AGM in early April, I asked Poll if there was any chance of a game this season and his reply was non-committal, along the lines of needing to see what availability was like. Because it wasn’t a flat out rejection, I paid my annual subs as soon as I got in that night and waited to see what the season would bring. The simple facts are that availability has increased exponentially with young players coming through to play senior cricket, as well as a number of proficient new members signing up. Hence, I am effectively extraneous to requirements. This was a day I knew was coming, but not one I ever wanted to face.

In the event, being surplus to requirements meant I got to do a reverse Chris Balderstone and see the football season through with Percy Main, as well as visiting a few other grounds. Despite making myself available for every cricket game, bar Saturday May 2^nd when I was in Cork and Limerick, I wasn’t required for the opening quartet of fixtures. As we won the opening trio by 9 wickets, 129 runs and 7 wickets, that seems to have been a sensible choice as, being honest, I’m probably the worst playing member at TCC. Actually, there’s no probably about it.

The fourth fixture, after a free weekend, saw us lose to Stocksfield on a Sunday. When it became clear I wouldn’t be involved in that one, I focussed on Newcastle versus West Ham instead. As it appeared that I didn’t need to write weekly match reports about TCC any longer, or at least I wasn’t asked to, the need to watch the 1s diminished and I saw out the rest of the football season, dropping into a few Alliance games at grounds I’d not been to. I’d started to feel otiose and didn’t particularly want to hang around the club like Banquo’s ghost in whites.

Then, out of the blue, I received an email message that made my heart sing. I had been selected to play away to Lintz 2s on Saturday 23^rd May. The bizarre structure of NTCL Division 6 Central means that the 8 teams play each other 3 times over the season; some you play twice at home and some twice away. This was the second away fixture to Lintz, a mere fortnight after the previous contest and player availability on Whit weekend was pretty low. It had to have been if the offer of a game was extended to me. Honestly, I guarantee not one potential player at TCC would have been happier than I was to get the call up, as I regard every time I’m selected to be an enormous honour. I was so excited, I slept pretty poorly the night before. I agree with Lord Denning about the beauty of Lintz’s ground, and they are a club I have both respect and affection for. The last time I’d been here, I took a couple of wickets (one bowled and one caught at deep long on), then marvelled at Keano’s brilliant unbeaten 150, which helped us win by 6 wickets.

This time it was a glorious summer afternoon up in the hills. I took a lift with Alosh and a new player Ben, who is a bloody good addition to the side. Just being involved in the pre match kickabout and fielding practice made me feel not just alive but elated. In the end, I didn’t bat or bowl, but I did make one of my trademark full length dives to save 4, as well as producing a nifty bit of footwork to save 2 in my new fielding position of midwicket, after a brief unsuccessful stint at slip, which isn’t a bad effort on this tiny ground. In the end, we won by 8 wickets in less than 14 overs after skittling them for 101. I did my bit by standing at square leg during our innings and thoroughly enjoyed the experience, as well as the post-match Cruzcampo in the bar. It was just so life-affirming to be involved again.

I was even more elated to keep my place for the midweek Enid Farmer Cup game against Whitley Bay on the following Wednesday. We batted first and I took up my usual role at square leg for about 16 overs. Being attired in t-shirt and shorts on a blustery evening, I soon felt the chill and had to go off to change as I risked suffering from exposure, before fielding. I had enjoyed our batting mind, as we piled up 218/4 from 20 overs, with Chad (82*), Poll (76) and Ben (27*) making hay while the wind blew. Their most successful bowler was 78 year old former Tynemouth legend Don Catley (2/35), who somehow is still turning out. When it came to their innings, I was again stationed at midwicket and, with them 53/9, I was given the chance to bowl. Funereally slow, off three paces, I plopped them in the vague direction of the stumps, conceding 3 from my first 5 balls. The last one, with the umpire encouraging me to take a wicket so he could get in his car and warm up, saw me bowl Don Catley, in perhaps the most titanic sporting struggle since Ali v Frazier. A big swipe and he missed it. Later he claimed he hadn’t seen it, which shows what pace I’ve put on over the winter. I’m not ashamed to say I celebrated taking the wicket, mainly because of the rarity value of such a happening. If this is the last time I ever claim a victim, it will be a great memory; on the front pitch at my home club, bowling from my preferred end. Priceless.

We won by 156 runs, and I assumed that I’d not be needed on the Saturday when, because of the bizarre fixture list, we were due to play Whitley Bay again, also at home, but on the back pitch this time. Sure enough, I wasn’t named in the team, so decided to get out early for the Percy Main football end of season awards do. I was standing at the bus stop around noon, when Polly texted me to say we were a player short. In retrospect, I should have changed plans and jumped in an Uber, but I cried off and took no part in a 59 run victory. Thankfully, another player was sourced, though I really don’t think my failure to heed the call has reduced my subsequent chances of turning out for TCC 3s. Strangely, I saw part of Lintz 2s recovery from the previous week as they thumped Percy Main 2s that afternoon, while waiting for the award ceremony to start on the other side of the hedge. With Arsenal losing the Champions’ League final, it was pretty much a perfect day.

I was even more delighted when the call came again to play in the next round of the Enid Farmer Cup on the following Thursday, when we hosted Monkseaton 2s. The game had been in doubt, as glorious sunshine gave way to rain which kept on coming from the Sunday to the Wednesday. Thankfully, Thursday stayed dry, so the strong winds and persistent sunshine meant we could play after all. We batted; I was assigned my usual number 11 spot and took my place at square leg. At the change round, things looked promising as we compiled 160/5. They were determined, aided by a battling 65 by the aptly named David Gowar, but superb death bowling by Poll saw us squeak home by a dozen runs, earning us a spot in the quarter final. I didn’t get a bowl and made a couple of poor attempts at fielding, partly because of wearing sunglasses in the blinding sun at one end (sensible) and pitch blackness at the other (stupid). I’ll hold my hand up and admit I should have done better. Sorry everyone. Afterwards, Alosh gave me a lift back and I ended up in Elder Beer. The first song I heard as I cradled my first pint was Roy Harper’s sublime “When an Old Cricketer Leaves the Crease.” Never has a song been more apt.

Since that night, June 4^th, I’ve not played at all and nor did I watch any cricket. I honestly didn’t feel able to go to TCC. I know that sounds stupid, but I can’t properly explain how much of a fraud I would have felt watching my team. As Tommy Lee Jones says in No Country for Old Men; I need to get over it.  

This is how I spent my weekends: Saturday 6^th June; TCC 3s beat Monkseaton 2s by 4 wickets and I went to Durham for the day. Saturday 13^th June; TCC 3s lost to Stocksfield 2s by 2 runs and I went to see The Pale White and a load of other local bands at Anarchy Brewery. Saturday 20^th June; TCC 3s beat Percy Main 2s by 133 runs while I went to town and bought some boxer shorts from Primark. Saturday 27^th June; TCC 3s beat Benwell & Walbottle 2s by 40 runs and I cut down (pollarded?) most of the hugely overgrown hedge in my back garden. Saturday 4^th July: TCC 3s beat Kirkley 2s by 6 wickets while I was at Percy Main 0 North Shields 3 in the first pre-season friendly. I enjoyed Durham, loved The Pale White gig, needed new boxers, felt a sense of achievement with the hedge and did my duty on the door at Percy Main. Yet I would have traded all of those to be part of my old team, regardless of the results.

I accepted my fate for the first three of those fixtures, because I couldn’t remotely have made any kind of a case that I deserved a game. However, I was a little disappointed not to be selected for the Percy Main game. Partly because they are bottom of the league (already almost 200 points behind TCC 3s) and partly because availability was quite low. This meant other part time shadow squad members were called up and 6 of the younger players were also playing for the NEPL Academy team on Sunday. I reasoned that having paid £120 in membership, I perhaps deserved a little more playing time. The very last thing I wanted to do was fall out with anyone, so in advance of the Percy Main game, I messaged Polly to politely ask him why I wasn’t getting a game. On the Tuesday afterwards he got back to me and said that basically selection policy was to pick the best 33 players available on a Saturday and ignore the Sunday Academy team. This was news to me. It’s eminently more sensible for the good of the club than having hopeless old duffers making a show of themselves. Unless you’re one of the hopeless old duffers of course.

If I’d known this was the policy back in April, I wouldn’t have shelled out £120 membership. Instead, there is an option for occasional players to pay £40 up front, plus £10 for a Saturday game and £5 for a midweek one. Because I’d effectively spent £20 on match fees, Polly suggested the club should refund me £60. Without going into the whole psychological trauma my utter lack of self-esteem making me feel excluded and ignored, even what that patently isn’t the case, I can understand where the selection committee are coming from. Teams aren’t picked for sentimental reasons, but to try and win games, not just fulfil them like last year. Still I would say that the selection policy was poorly communicated. To be honest, I didn’t want or need the money back and I’d have much preferred the club to keep my cash, but as I felt so excluded and divorced from my former team, I took the £60 and spent it on solo boozing to take my mind off just how low I felt. That’s nothing really to do with cricket, as when I’ve come to the end of an extended time with bands or football teams in the past, the divorce pangs I feel really do sting.

I do sincerely hope I can make another appearance in one of the last 10 fixtures, just so I can fully appreciate the experience of being part of TCC 3s for the final time. However, I’m not sure if that will be the case. I also wished I could go back and watch a game, sitting in the sun at my joint favourite sporting location (along with Purvis Park and Easter Road), but so far I’ve just been too embarrassed and sad to show my face, as I felt a completely worthless fraud with no business mingling with proper players.

However, I put a brave face on Saturday 11^th July. The 3s were without a game, but the 1s were at home to Boldon. I made it there from the start and saw Tynemouth pile on 253/9, with Sean Longstaff, during the World Cup, proving himself to be one of the planet’s best number 10s. Well, he came in at 10, scored 10 and had 1/10 when the heavens opened at tea, with Boldon 95/5. Game abandoned, but what the hell. I’d been back, I’d talked to everyone and I’d had a brilliant afternoon. What’s more, on Saturday 18^th July, TCC 3s host Percy Main 2s. Fully expecting not to be involved, I think I’ll stroll along to watch if, after I’ve seen Percy Main Amateurs away to North Shields Athletic at 12.30. I’m still available for selection mind….

And the Rest is Silence

What I've been reading and listening to this past while -:

MUSIC:

When it became public knowledge that the Shunyata Improvisation Group were disbanding, I was bereft. I have been a devoted fan since we first crossed paths in 2021, though I admit I haven’t been in attendance at all of their live performances since they formed in 2018; not by a long chalk. I first saw them at TQ Live in Ryton, when Martin was absent through Covid and, while I didn’t make any of their Saturday afternoon events at The Globe, each based on one of the 7 principles of aesthetics they philosophically founded their work on, as cricket or football always take precedence on that day, I did see them whenever I could at a wide array of venues from Saltwell Park’s rose garden to Tyne Bank Brewery by way of a community centre in Shieldfield and, of course, the Cullercoats Watch House, where ill-fitting windows in a howling storm made it appear they had invited an orchestra of comb and tissue players to join in. As a result of all my past encounters with Shunyata, I knew I had to go to both of their final performances at Gosforth Quaker Meeting House and Hexham Trinity Methodist Church, with the returning NofC and poet Alex Reed on board, where they would be addressing Herman Hesse’s A Hymn to Old Age.

John Peel memorably described The Fall as being “always different; always the same.” So it is with Shunyata. Whatever the iteration, the song remains the same. Calm, spacious, quiet improvisational music, composed in the moment and created for the purpose of allowing the listener to contemplate, and perhaps meditate, at an intellectual level far above the mundane. Shunyata allow you space to think. They make you consider the world, but in a good way. With the addition of Alex Reed’s poetry and the multi instrumental input of NofC, Martin Donkin (guitar), John Garner (violin, shakuhachi) and Kate Oswell (voice, percussion) were able to take this transcendent musical oeuvre to a whole new level that proved to be a fitting conclusion to one of the most satisfying projects I’ve been blessed to absorb this past half decade.

Gosforth Quaker Meeting House used to be a Masonic Temple, and it hosted Weight Watchers 20 years ago, which helped me lose 4 stones back in the day. It was the first time I’d been back since 2005 and the first time I’d seen Shunyata in their entirety since the marathon December solstice performance at The Globe last year. I had seen John Garner in another of his multifarious projects, in collaboration with John Pope at Elder Beer the month before, with Martin in the audience, while I’d last seen Katie to talk to at Mogwai in February.  The Garner / Pope duo gig was the second time I’d seen them together, though I’ve obviously seen them in other settings on numerous occasions. This was the first gig I’d seen at Elder Beer, which is one of my favourite pubs, so it worked out well. Sitting in the beer garden with a Steady Rolling Man, I enjoyed the evening in the company of Harry Pearson.

The 2 Johns did 2 sets, comprised of lesser known pieces by the modern jazz greats; Ayler, Cherry, Davis, Rollins and so on, plus a really rather lovely version of You Are My Sunshine. Thoroughly enjoyable and it provided me with a chance, courtesy of Harry’s generosity, to fill a hole in my collection by getting a copy of Absence of Marx by another Garner / Pope project, in conjunction with Gabrielle Heller and Tobias Sarra, the Anarchist Reading Group. It’s a tremendous howling vortex of free jazz experimentation that I look forward to revisiting again and again. I might even search out their first album at some point.

The Shunyata gig at Gosforth was a bit quieter than that. Although, from the free gratis and for nowt merch table, I did pick up a cassette of Shunyata live at Shipley Art Gallery in September 2018. This was recorded long before I was even aware of them and involving an iteration of Martin and NofC with Jamie Cook and Tobias Illingworth, making a very different sound than later versions of Shunyata. Electronic drone is prevalent and NofC’s basso profundo voice is very much to the forefront. It’s an excellent listen and I regret not being aware of them at the time, but at least I was here for the two final performances. At Gosforth,  with an audience approaching 50, in a fitting, median demographic skewed towards 60, I felt myself captivated from the very beginning, as usual. In announcing their disbandment, Shunyata feel they have come as far as they can, but I don’t know if I agree, probably for selfish reasons. The crescendos, pauses, pure harmony and dissonance, augmented by NofC and Katie’s amazing diglossalic scat, worked perfectly as a fitting epitaph for Shunyata.

Incredibly, they outdid themselves on the second night in Hexham. In a very different room, with austere parquet flooring rather than Scotchguarded Axminster underfoot and a vaulted ceiling, the music seemed to float high in the air, hang and then overwhelm an audience of 40. While Alex used much of the same text as the night before, the music was entirely different, as is the case with skilled improvisers who instinctively know what their companions are trying to express. The vastness of their restraint. The dramatic intensity of their practice. Pastoral and elegiac interplay between John and Martin that was an honour to witness. Katie’s almost Wagnerian swoops like Diamanda Galas teaming up with AMM. NofC’s laughter like something from the later Samuel Beckett. A pizzicato solo up the violin neck by John. Martin using his guitar as a percussive device. It was one of the most uplifting experiences I’ve had in years, but also one of the most profoundly upsetting, as it will never happen again. I admit to having tears in my eyes when I saw Martin replace his guitar on its stand as I knew not just this performance, but the whole existence of Shunyata would soon be over. Then again, as the cliched nostrum has it, don’t be sad it has ended, be pleased it happened. And the rest is silence.

On both nights, Shunyata had been the opening act before Playback Theatre Company gave performances. I missed the Thursday night one, as I opted out to watch Spain 3 Austria 0, but caught the one on Friday, as I had to hang around because I was getting a lift back from John and Martin. Playback did their best to retell the stories the audience volunteered, but they were dealt an unpromising hand by the paucity of volunteered contributions, and their valiant efforts didn’t fully engage with me. I must see them again.

Probably the most interesting musical release I’ve acquired in the last while was Sound Garden 1 by Paul Wormhole. It’s not a matter that’s even up for debate. The plain facts are that Wormhole World is the most diverse, the most challenging and the most rewarding label in this country at this time. Not just because it is an independent, underground operation, that focusses almost exclusively on the avant garde, however you wish to define that term. In all the years I’ve been buying Wormhole World stuff, eclectically curated by a one man band, operating high in the Lancashire hills, I’ve never once been let down by the quality of outsider, left field sounds (including, but not necessarily restricted to music) I’ve investigated and this is certainly the case with this magnificent solo release by label founder Paul, which I obtained the same day as the decent, if rather tame and dated, Inferno by Boards of Canada. I’d enthusiastically purchased the Boards of Canada album, on the back of some stellar reviews, but frankly it left me a little underwhelmed. If going back 20 years to the quieter moments of The Chemical Brothers or Royksopp is your thing, then I’d recommend this to you, but I’d consider it far from an essential purchase. Unlike Sound Garden 1.

Is it music? Good question. Is it an album? Definitely. There are 9 titled, separated and distinct pieces on the CD, which makes for a coherent, exhilarating and addictive listen. But is it music? Very good question. Same as Boards of Canada, there were no musical instruments used in the making of this record, that is for certain. Although on the Paul Wormhole album a computer does produce a few of those little cute Windows’ jingles. There are no vocals, though there are several discernible, individual human voices, speaking almost audible words. Indeed, there’s also quite a lot of sniffing at one point on “Openreach workers while I’m trying to work.” That title, and the content therein, is a major clue as to what Sound Garden 1 is actually about. The disc comprises 9 different slices of ordinary human existence and the sounds involved. If you like, you can call it musique verité. Bird song in the back garden. Construction noise in the front street. The ecstatic pealing of church bells. Laughter and relaxed chit chat accompanying the sound of heavy horse hooves on a tow path, while what sounds like a steam train chuffs past, blowing its whistle, on “Llangollen horse drawn barge.” Unlike Boards of Canada, which is intensely rhythm driven, this unique combination of the equine and the mechanical is about the only nod to a regular beat on Sound Garden.

The titles tell you exactly what to expect and what is involved in each piece. And it’s absolutely wonderful. Like a BBC Sound Effects vinyl from the early 70s, rather than the arcane experimentalism of the Radiophonic Workshop, this is ordinary life; an artistic celebration of the humdrum and workaday world. As Paul describes this release on his Bandcamp page; “Sound Garden re-presents everyday sounds that may not always be appreciated. I hope it teaches everyone to listen to the beauty that is in the natural world - conversation, nature, workmen or indeed silence etc.”

But is it music? Paul himself delves into the aesthetics underpinning his philosophical approach in great detail, but I’ll let you research that yourselves. Of course Sound Garden features no score, nor standard use of notation and you’d probably struggle to dance to it (although interpretative swaying is one of my default responses to it). Debate as to the artistic merit of this release reminds me of the hysterical public furore created by Carl Andre’s Equivalent VIII when the Tate Gallery acquired it in 1972. Yes, it was a pile of bricks. Yes, it was also a wonderful piece of modern art. What changed it from bricks to art? The artist’s inspirational vision. That is also the case with Paul Wormhole’s Sound Garden 1. Yes, it is simply a series of random field recordings of ordinary life. Yes, it is also a profoundly important reflection on the role of sound and its importance to or impact on human beings. Is it music? Paul Wormhole says it is and I agree with him 100%.  Bloody marvellous.

Also coming out of left field, is the Belpunk compilation CD, curated by Tony Van Dorst, that accompanied issue #80 of TQ. This is a genre of music about which I was entirely ignorant and, in the case of some of the chugging pub rock and visceral hardcore on here, I’m happy to leave it that way. However, there are some gems from the Belgian genre of Darkwave, which slows things down, saddens the mood and embraces a post punk minor key, which were my favourite bits. Whatever the merits, this is another excellent project from the ever innovative TQ. If you don’t already, then please subscribe.

I’ve invested in a couple of pieces of vinyl too. Avoiding Record Store Day, I did subsequently skim through the racks in RPM, where I found Debris, a Stewart Lee endorsed compilation of lost gems from the late lamented former Swell Maps drummer Epic Soundtracks, who left us far too early. As with all of Epic’s solo stuff, plus many of his piano based pieces from Swell Maps, it’s more Nick Drake than New York Dolls. Wistful, poignant and enticing; it is an album I’m glad I’ve bought. The same is true of Horroble, a dub reimagining of The Mekons’ stellar 2025 album Horror, by producer Tony Maimone. The same songs, in a different order. Some tracks don’t really benefit it from this, such as the furious “War Economy,” but slower, spacious numbers like “Before the Ice Age” and “Fallen Leaves” really do hit the spot. Another very important project and one I’m glad I’ve taken possession of.

On Saturday 13^th June, I did something that is normally alien to me. I attended a one day festival of local bands at Anarchy Brewery. With about a 500 capacity, though nowhere near full, it’s a good spot to see live music, as the beer is spot on, even if served in those awful squashy plastic pots. Entitled Breakthrough, it was ostensibly intended as a showcase for The Pale White and newly-released their third album, it also featured some young talent from the region. First up were noisy lads Wool, who made a tremendous Dinosaur Jr meets Sugar racket. Loads of feedback and crunching improvisational solos. I really hope to see them again. I must admit to missing the next act, Cutscene, as the rarity of finding the adjacent Almasty tap room open and selling great beer in proper glasses, was simply too much of a draw.

After a refreshing pint of Almasty Green, it was back to see the more melodic Snowdrop, who’d travelled up from Macclesfield for this gig. More McFly than Mogwai but held back by a ponderously agricultural drummer. After this, Almasty called again and so Burnout went unseen. However, I was then back in for the long haul. Scott Hepple & The Sun Band, who used to include my pal Tom in their ranks, took us back to the 1968 to 1972 era of psychedelic prog rock and great it was too. They’ve already got 2 albums under their belt, though I only picked up their 7” “Smoke & Frown.” Very good it is too, if agonisingly brief for a proper proggy wig out. Second top of the bill were Idle Hands. Very tall musicians. Very angular music. These lads like Editors and Franz Ferdinand quite a lot I’d guess. Alright, but not stunning. I was, however, very impressed by headliners The Pale White. A proper power trio who could justifiably claim to be NE28’s answer to Nirvana, even if their harmonies are closer to Big Star and Teenage Fanclub.  All in all, a very good day with a lovely, safe vibe, though it was a bit sad to note not a single female made it on stage.

The standout gig of late was The Beta Band at the Boiler Shop and what a performance they gave. I went expecting nostalgic, off-kilter indie pop, which we got with “She’s the One,” “Dog’s Got a Bone” and a storming “Dry the Rain,” not to mention an anthemic encore of “Squares,” but there was so much more to this set. Incredible, syncopated percussion-driven numbers like “Brake” and a final, fabulous “House Song” that brought forth comparison with A Certain Ratio, as they seamlessly swapped instruments while never dropping a beat. Tight musicianship all the way through. Also, it was really nice to see so many people I’m hardly ever in touch with these days, out on a school night and enjoying themselves. Possibly the only negative, save the usual endless queues for bar and bog, was the fact the gig took place in daylight, on account of the uncurtained picture windows at the side of the venue. Full marks to security for opening all the side doors though to allow some ventilation on a steamy evening. Just a shame we’ll probably never see The Beta Band in these parts again as they show no inclination to come up with new material. Shame.

BOOKS:

I was asked to write something commemorating the imminent 50^th anniversary of the release of Second Annual Report by Throbbing Gristle for TQ, so as part of my research I read Art, Sex, Music by Cosey Fanni Tutti, Wreckers of Civilisation by Simon Ford and the frankly appalling Non Binary by Genesis P Orridge, which made me reflect as follows. Friday 14^th July 1978. Bastille Day. The start of my summer holidays at the end of third year seniors (Year 9 in modern parlance). The Saturday was the Rock Against Racism Northern Carnival in Manchester, with The Buzzcocks headlining, and there was a bus going from The Bridge Hotel at the end of the High Level, organised by the Tyneside Anti Nazi League. My dad wouldn’t let me go, not for ideological reasons, but because I was only 13, even though my cousin John was going with his mate Big Wilka, but they were two years older. To make up for my disappointment, the Auld Fella slipped me a couple of quid to “go and buy yourself one of those punk rock records.” Considering he only ever listened to The Dubliners and The Clancy Brothers, this was a major surprise. Thus, soon as school kicked us out early Friday afternoon, I got the bus from Felling Square to Worswick Street by myself and headed for the much missed Listen Ear on Ridley Place. The only place in town to get thoroughly obscure and cutting edge music.

Despite the previous reference to punk, it was a genre, certainly this side of the pond, that largely left me cold. Of the first generation, only Wire and The Buzzcocks appealed; the rest seemed to be glorified pub rockers or glam wannabees cashing in on the New Wave by attaching safety pins to their clothes and singing in a mockney sneer. I still hold by that judgement, but luckily by this time I’d started to read the music press to help broaden my horizons. My periodical of choice was Sounds, as I wasn’t clever enough for the NME until I reached sixth form and Melody Maker seemed obsessed with Barclay James Harvest and desperate drivel of that ilk. In Sounds, the likes of Sandy Robertson, John Savage and Dave McCullough championed weird, underground acts that were utterly uncommercial, totally uncompromising and seemingly innovative. However, unless you chanced upon a random John Peel airing for one of these outfits, there was no way to hear their music.

One act that had stood out in press coverage was Throbbing Gristle. They seemed to be scary and beyond anything that had gone before. Serendipitously, when I stepped into Listen Ear, the strange sound that assailed me was the rerelease of Second Annual Report, the debut TG album. Specifically the track “Slug Bait,” which was genuinely shocking in terms of both lyrics and sounds. It was abrasive, confrontational and unique to my tender ears. I didn’t buy it though, because the disc was about six quid.  I inquired if there were any other TG products available, which is how I bought, unheard, the 7” single “United” / “Zyklon B Zombie.” I still have it, in the original austere monochrome sleeve that depicts a row of council garages, and it’s in pretty good nick.  “Zyklon B Zombie” was an unintelligible stream of distorted vocals and guitar abuse that reminded me of “I Heard Her Call My Name” by The Velvets. However, “United” was something else entirely, a hypnotic plodding, minimalist synth driven love song that got inside my head from first play and, like “Do The Mussolini (Headkick)” by Cabaret Voltaire has remained there as the original and best examples of primitive industrial electronic music. Jean Michel Jarre they were not.

Following that, I counted Throbbing Gristle as one of my bands. I bought DoA: Third And Final Report at the end of 1978 and the magnificently titled 20 Jazz Funk Greats when it came out in 1979. I adore both records and have near played them to death, much to the disgust of my cousin who then championed such aural excrement as Cockney Rejects and UK Subs and tried to persuade me that TG weren’t musicians, but actual murderers. He almost echoed the words of the bibulous Scottish Tory Sir Nicholas Fairbairn, who had described TG as “wreckers of civilisation,” which they took as an enormous compliment.

To be fair, TG were an odd bunch, who were clearly more than the sum of their parts. I’m not being glib, but the phrase used by criminologists for the collective evil of The Moors Murderers and the Wests is folie a deux. For TG it was folie a quatre, as some kind of alien chemistry bonded Genesis P-Orridge, “Sleazy” Peter Christopherson, Cosey Fanni Tutti and Chris Carter, allowing them to make such challenging music in their initial iteration. In fact, it was something of a menage a quatre as rehearsals and recording sessions often began with a rampant sex session, “to break the ice.” Quite. You can’t see The Dubliners doing that can you? I mean, I’m a tolerant sort of person regarding what people do in the privacy of their own practice room, but these lot were proper deviants. “Sleazy” was well nicknamed and you can get an insight into his predilections from the title of his subsequent project Coil’s album Scatology. Cosey made ends meet as a porn actress and stripper, but claims never to have been exploited as it was all performance art. I’m not sure I accept that, but it’s her body and her call I guess. Her life partner Chris just seemed to be the geeky one who made all the gadgets, but he was an enthusiastic participant in the art film After Cease to Exist, the soundtrack to which is on Second Annual Report, that climaxes (pardon the word) with Cosey seeming to castrate him.

And then there’s Genesis. Born to an indulgent middle class family in Cheshire and given the birth name Neil Megson, other than his work with TG there’s little to recommend him as a human being. A vain, narcissistic sociopath. A gaslighting, misogynistic control freak who modelled himself on Charles Manson and helmed the bizarre Temple Ov Psychick Youth, before undergoing body modification along with his final wife, a dominatrix called Jaye Breyer, that saw them attempting to be body doubles, as part of their pandrogyne project. He’s dead now. So is “Sleazy,” whose heart conked out at 55 from a life of decadent drug excess. Chris and Cosey are still going; DJing and releasing records under the Carter Tutti moniker. I’ve never heard any of them. Not interested, same as I never investigated Psychic TV and Coil, or even the reformed TG. As far as I’m concerned, TG existed in a specific period (1976-1980), before imploding. Anything else they did, singly or collectively, could never match their original oeuvre.

In addition to reading Art, Sex, Music by Cosey Fanni Tutti, Wreckers of Civilisation by Simon Ford and the frankly appalling Non Binary by Genesis P Orridge, I finally bought a copy of Second Annual Report on CD. Almost half a century later it remains a chilling, inspirational record that is as important as it is angry. The use of homemade synths, broken instruments, tapes and effects was genuinely groundbreaking and the results stand the test of time. The horrific imagery of “Slug Bait” and “Maggot Death,” the ambient menace of “After Cease to Exist,” as well as subsequent albums and singles such as “United” and “Discipline” tell the story of a band like no other. This is truly music for the ages by one of the most important avant garde outfits ever.

Meanwhile, I also continue to make my way through the pile of books I bought from my pal Matt a few months ago. Because of the Throbbing Gristle detour, I’ve only managed another 2 since we last spoke. Dave Thompson’s Wall of Pain is an arms-length chronological biography of the truly awful Phil Spector, which seeks justify the murderous Svengali’s atrocious conduct by contrasting it with his, admittedly, glorious golden period of girl groups in the early to mid-60s. An utter absence of interviews, second hand or otherwise, makes this a bathetic, boring read. In contrast, Paul Whitelaw’s fawning hagiography of Belle & Sebastian, Just a Modern Rock Story, has pages of interviews with a band I’ve never believed to be as good as they think they are. It was an interesting read I will concede. Now only another 24 of Matt’s books to go, plus imminent new arrivals from James Ellroy, Paul Hanley and Irvine Welsh to keep me busy, cataracts permitting.