Kelly's Bye

Can there be life after Lloyd Kelly? I doubt it...

I last wrote about Newcastle United in the wake of the hugely enjoyable and near life-affirming win over Bromley in the FA Cup third round. Since then it has been, as we have all come to expect with this club, a series of euphoric highs and crushing lows that have seen the club progress to the Carabao Cup final, the last 16 of the FA Cup and now sit sixth in the Premier League. However, to balance that, we have to contend with the already small squad being further depleted by the return to Atlanta United of Miguel Almiron, for who we will always be grateful for that insane period of brilliance in the Autumn of 2022, and the David Rozenhal of the PFI era, Lloyd Kelly, who has somehow ended up at Juventus on a deal whereby La Vecchia Signora are obliged to give us £20m for his services in the Summer. Considering we had six years of Miggy for a net amortisation of £10m, those deals represent extraordinarily good value. Though on the obverse, not only are we now denuded of the services of two definite FA Cup starters, but we head to the artists formerly known as Manchester City on Saturday with worries over the fitness of Botman, Burn and Gordon, with Barnes, Joelinton and Lascelles definitely missing. Still, at least Callum Wilson was fit enough to play an hour last week, eh? Let’s cherish these moments, which are as rare as Halley’s Comet flaming overhead.

Anyway, let’s rewind a month to the Wolves game. Unlike the Arsenal first leg that seemed to creep up on me, I was highly impatient for this one to come around. It was all I could think about all day, as I fancied we’d get a good result. Ironically, I hadn’t realised it was a 7.30 kick off, so nearly missed the start. I just got onto the sofa as proceedings got underway, while Ben had made the climb to Level 7 for his seat. For the first half an hour, it was really tight as Wolves appeared to have an admirable defensive solidity we were unable to puncture. However, once Isak had put us ahead with a deflected goal, their one tactic of keeping us out fell to pieces, despite the belated introduction of the impressive Cunha. Despite them creating a couple of chances, including one blinding save by Dubravka, their shambolic back line shipped a couple of goals to give us an unassailable 3-0 lead. As is his wont, Howe made the requisite 5 changes to see the game out, but with an attitude typified by the arriving Trippier barking “no goals” at the rest of the defence. The real cameo was Tonali, in the 93rd minute, sprinting back 40 yards to whip the ball from a Wolves attacker with a tackle as clean as a whistle. At full time we sat fourth on merit and things were looking bright.

I’ve long believed that if you’re going to get beat, you may as well endure a right hammering, so there can be no sense of injustice at the result. Bournemouth, who looked like the best side we’d faced all season, certainly gave us that. I’d not heard of Iraola before he pitched up at Dean Court but hats off to the bloke for assembling a fast-paced, fluid, creative side who gave us a lesson in pressing, breaking and passing at speed in this one. Frankly though, we didn’t help ourselves as only Dubravka, blameless despite conceding 4 and the tireless Tonali, acquitted themselves at an adequate level. The rest were so far below par it was untrue. In the team’s defence, they never gave up, didn’t hide or throw in the towel, but when you concede two goals in injury time, you know it has been a lousy day at the office. As the Cherries swarmed all over us, our harried defence, especially The Paper Lads at full back, were forced into an endless series of mistakes. Despite the usual hysterical social media noise in the aftermath of this chasing, the real question was how we would respond to this setback. I’ve seen us lose at home to Bournemouth before; MacLaren’s last game in the 2016 relegation season was so bad as to be comical. I’ve also seen us bounce back from hammerings, showing passion and resilience, so there was no need to show True Faith style tears of rage at this loss, if we came back from it.

We did, after a fashion and after conceding a soft opening goal, away to this season’s Premier League crash test dummies, Southampton. After watching Percy Main lose 4-2 at home to Rutherford, I headed to Ben’s to watch the rest of the game, before embarking on the Ouseburn Lambic Trail. By the time I got to his, Tonali had scored a sublime goal to ensure the points were safe, bar the obligatory 5 minutes in VAR purgatory before they had one ruled out. As per the usual routine, Howe made his subs once the points were safe, the away section had a jolly singsong, said a fond farewell to Miggy and time was run down. It wasn’t a classic performance, but it got the job done and it showed a degree of resilience after the hammering of the week before.

Unfortunately, the script was wildly deviated from and the wheels came off again when Fulham came to town. Obviously most of the crowd found it hard to watch this one through the floods of tears caused by Kelly’s imminent departure, but what was clear was that this defeat, our fourth at home, was akin to the Brighton loss rather than the Bournemouth one. I’d had a hankering for a 3-3 draw as that would have meant our home and away records were identical, and the hill I’ll die on was that this should have seen us grab a draw, but we didn’t, partly because a few players are seemingly out of form. No names. No pack drill. However, we went on that amazing winning run because everyone played to the best of their ability in almost every game. Realistically, that isn’t sustainable and sometimes you lose games you shouldn’t have. I suppose I should also pay tribute to that odious narcissist Marco Silva for some wise substitutions, but the words to stick in my throat. The very worst thing about this game was the offensive series of racist social media posts by some cretinous gambler who held Joe Willock responsible for the loss. I hope he gets the book thrown at him, if they can locate the prick from behind his VPN firewall. Upset like that and the sight of Arsenal dismantling City 5-1 on the Sunday were the last things we needed before the Carabao Cup semi final second leg. Being rational, a 2-0 lead should be enough, if we play professionally and with intelligence, but an early goal could kill us, especially with the current emotionally fraught state of the crowd.

Things got worse before they got better. Joelinton was out and we went for a back 5. That scared me, though I was pleased to see Trippier and his experience in for Livramento. In the end, the real question should be just what the hell were we worrying for? We got about them from the opening seconds when Isak had a goal disallowed for a fractional offside and, bar Odegaard’s chance, they offered absolutely nothing. As soon as Jacob Murphy acrobatically turned home the rebound from Isak’s astonishing effort that had smacked the goal frame, we were almost there. Howe’s tactical masterclass absolutely destroyed Arsenal. If you don’t believe me, watch Fabian Schar harrying Declan Rice into a grotesque mistake from a short goal kick that allowed Gordon, so unlucky with a speculative lob only seconds before, to roll in our second. From then on, it was party time, not Partey’s time.

What I sincerely hope is that we do ourselves justice in the final on March 16th, after a meek showing two years back. In a way, I’m glad it is Liverpool and not Spurs we’re playing. Firstly, allowing for a percentage of armchair based arseholes who won’t be there in any case, I could handle losing to Liverpool because their fans know the game inside out. Also, they are probably the best team in Europe currently, Plymouth result notwithstanding. Finally, my irrational hatred of James Maddison makes me rejoice at the fact the odious little twerp won’t get a medal. 

And so to the Birmingham game. It really made my weekend. Hibs had won on the Friday night away to Ayr in the Scottish Cup. Percy Main had thumped Seaton Delaval 4-1 at their place and finally, Newcastle made it through to the fifth round of the cup. What a calamitous start though, conceding a goal in the first minute, before Willock’s dubious equaliser and Wilson’s finish after Osula’s incredible miss from on the line, then their equaliser that VAR would have ruled out for an obvious offside. At that point, we had to go out as we were seeing Lindisfarne at the Exchange in Shields. They were brilliant by the way. Just as the taxi pulled up, Willock got the winner, and we squeaked through against the Digbeth Kick Boxing XI. As a result, we’ve got Brighton (the club and city Newcastle have so much more in common with than Liverpool) at home in the next round, on the day I’m at Aberdeen v Dundee United. Hope my team wins.

The High Rocky Road

On Saturday 1st February, I was supposed to be going to Stranraer v Spartans with Shelley, courtesy of Big Gary the Chauffeur. Sadly it has been postponed until Saturday 3rd May when Stranraer will host Bonnyrigg Rose. On Saturday 1st February, North Ferriby host Sheffield FC, when issue #25 of View from the Allotment End will be published, which includes this piece about my trip to St Johnstone versus Hibernian on Thursday 2nd January -:

Slowly but surely, I’m getting close to completing visits to all 42 Scottish league grounds. On New Year’s Day 2025, I had 8 left and on January 2nd, there were only 7, as I ticked off the last remaining ground accessible via a single day round trip on the train from Newcastle. A fresh, freezing Thursday saw me heading to Perth to take in St Johnstone v Hibs, with a 3pm kick off. They do things differently in Scotland and January 2nd is a Bank Holiday, as Hogmanay still holds greater sway than Christmas for celebrations, which is why so many of the shops I saw in Perth city centre advertised they were closed until Monday 6th January. Incidentally, St Johnstone are so titled as the former name of Perth was St John's Toun, until the 1600s. Perth is a pretty, orderly and almost prim place to visit. I’d guess it is one of the safest places in Scotland, which is just as well as I unintentionally got to see rather more of it than I intended.  

Geographically, Perth is further south than places I’ve recently visited such as Arbroath, Dundee and Montrose but, unlike the others I’ve mentioned which are all coastal settlements, inland Perth feels like it is the very end of urban Scotland. Seeing road signs for Crieff, Crianlarich and Aviemore, even if they are all a decent journey away by road, makes you aware this small city is the gateway to the Highlands.  

Regular readers of my Scottish adventures will know that my legendary inability to follow directions or read maps means getting lost is all part and parcel of the day out. The big problem with Perth is that McDiarmid Park, built on land donated to the club by local farmer Bruce McDiarmid to replace the decrepit Muirton Park, torn down to make way for an ASDA superstore in 1989, is more than 2 miles out of the city centre. Now, if you’re able to use Sat Nav on your phone or even decipher the Stagecoach app, that potential schlepp isn’t a problem, but it was for me. The further I walked from the station, from the closed shops, offices and public buildings of the city centre, through compact streets of tenement flats and on wide roads of detached mansions, the longer the distance to the ground became, according to my phone. In freezing temperatures, with no shops or pubs to call in at for help, I was trudged for over an hour and the distance to the ground had grown from 44 to 56 minutes. 

I tried to take remedial measures by cutting across a park and ended up at North Inch municipal golf course on the edge of the city. I attempted to retrace my steps and found myself at St Johnstone Social Club. This was no relief as the building had nothing to do with the football team, was nowhere near the ground and was shut anyway. Having spent almost 90 minutes aimlessly wandering, I tried to get an Uber. They don’t operate in Perth. Things were getting desperate.

On the verge of a panic attack, I phoned my partner Shelley, who was prepared to demand the Highlands Mountain Rescue helicopter was scrambled to find me. Luckily, a taxi drove by as we talked. I flagged him down and explained my plight. He said that ordinarily he couldn’t pick up without a pre-booking but figured from my anxious state, this was an emergency, or it would do until a real one arrived. He took me to the ground, through parts of Perth I’d obviously never seen before, and I tipped him generously for his troubles. Thank you Neil Bremner of Ace Taxis; you got me there just in time. 

Seconds after he dropped me off, a friendly PC from Perth plod, alerted by Shelley, called to inquire of my whereabouts. I reassured them that the panic was over and I was walking towards the turnstiles, then reflected on the fact that at my age and in the depths of winter, solo trips like this are perhaps pushing things a bit far in terms of adventure time. After I’ve ticked off Stranraer, which Big Gary is driving to and Shelley is accompanying us, I think I’ll need to do some hard thinking about planning my final 6 trips to Aberdeen, Cove, Elgin, Inverness, Peterhead and Ross County…

Unlike so many of my other Scottish trips, since visiting Airdrieonians at their former home of Broadwood Stadium in Cumbernauld to see Darren Jackson notch all 4 goals for the Hibees in a decisive away win back in May 1997, I was not visiting McDiarmid Park as a neutral observer. I was in Perth to support my team, Hibernian FC, in the first game of their 150th anniversary year, which is possibly why I did not take in as much about the actual design and ambience of the stadium as I have become accustomed to. That said, McDiarmid Park is both lovely and functional; it is a shame that it seems destined to host Championship football next season, rather than Tynecastle.

I’d bought my ticket in the Hibs section of the Main Stand from St Johnstone itself, when the Hibees were on a dismal run. However, a series of superb wins, including a Boxing Day triumph in the Derby at Tynecastle, saw the away following swell to an impressive 2,850. As well as the Main Stand, visiting fans, specifically the voluble and impressive Hibs Ultras, filled the North Stand. A great turnout, but it meant that the queue for hot drinks and pies was so consequently lengthy I had to abort my mission just before kick-off and half time was a no-go either, mainly because the kiosks were sold out of everything bar sweets and pop, which wasn’t what I needed in that climate. The reported attendance was 6,400, with the home fans in half the Main Stand and all the opposite East Stand. Sadly, the Willie Ormond Stand at the south end remained closed. Apparently it is only open when Celtic or Rangers come to town. Even then, it only accommodates visiting fans. 

Other than the endless chanting by the Hibs Ultras and a bit of a din created by the fresh-faced, high-pitched home zealots, the Fair City United Brigade, the game was watched in a very orderly fashion. In some ways this disappointed me as I’m a true connoisseur of intemperate, oath-edged talk from dyspeptic middle-aged Scotsmen, over such important matters as throw-ins or the speed at which substitutions are made. However, things did perk up in the indignation stakes when former Hearts man Jason Holt was shown a red card for a stamp on 38 minutes, though sadly Hibs did not capitalise on this dismissal. Instead, disaster showed its head. The enigmatic Rocky Bushiri, who veers between the brilliant (last second equalisers against Aberdeen at Rangers at Easter Road) and catastrophic (a ludicrous slice of an own goal at Tynecastle on Boxing Day), showed the latter, less stylish side of his game by performing an utterly unnecessary judo throw on Saints’ Nicky Clark at a corner, two minutes into injury time. The same player stuck the spot kick away, leaving Hibs a goal down at the break.

Without seeming biased, Hibs ought to have already won this game at a canter by the time I didn’t get a half time cuppa. They’d had one shot, from the spot, while we’d had 2 cleared off the line, missed a couple of good chances and hit the bar. Frustration intensified when Martin Boyle crashed in a superb equaliser on 55 minutes, only to be flagged offside. Thankfully, there was a saviour, in the shape of former Newcastle player Dwight Gayle who, fresh from notching the winner at Tynecastle, steered in a calm finish to rescue a point on 78 minutes. There were several late half chances for the Hibees as the Saints stuck everyone behind the ball and cleared their lines with gusto rather than finesse, but the game ended level. 

At full time, I walked stiff legged and starving to get a bus back into Perth. If I couldn’t navigate the place in daylight, I sure as hell wasn’t going to do so in the pitch black. Traffic was terrible and, unable to see through condensation smeared windows, I remained impervious to the delights outside, as it took us until almost 6pm to get back to the train station. With no shops open, I had to haul my grumbling guts onto the 18.14 back to Waverley without sustenance. Suffice to say, the Greggs I grabbed from Princes Street shopping mall, just as it was closing at 20.00, was the finest food I’d tasted in a long time. The 21.00 train was on time, and I gratefully stumbled into the house just before 11. Needless to say, Shelley had words to say about my adventures that day and I doubt I’ll be having many more Highland Flings before the clocks go forward.

Contingent Boys

I made it to SJP again, at last. I'm very glad I did.

I know I’ve only just written a blog about Newcastle United, but I really need to do another one after seeing them in the flesh for the first time since December 2023 (3-0 v Fulham), meaning that 2024 was the first year since 1972 when I didn’t set foot inside SJP. Because of some kindness and luck with the Bromley ballot, Ben and I ended up with a pair of East Stand Lower tickets, just over the halfway line towards the Gallowgate and I got to see a truly life-affirming game, which may not mean that much in the wider scheme of things for Newcastle or our fans, but I’m delighted I was there.

Of course these days, you can see every game on the telly if you want. Or at least you theoretically can, if you’re allowed, as I was booted out the house by Shelley when the Spurs away game was on, as she had her mates round for one of those semi-mythical girlie chats that I’m relieved I wasn’t privy to. Rather than complaining about me going to football, Shelley actually made me head to Newcastle Independent versus Newcastle East End on the 4G at Coach Lane on Saturday 4th January. It wasn’t my first choice of game. I actually went a bit further up the road to try and take in what ended up as being Chemfica Amateurs 1 Hexham 11, but the Longbenton Sports’ Ground was deserted, locked and barred, presumably as the game had been moved to Cochrane Park. Coach Lane was a good alternative, but I suspect the folks at East End are weary of seeing me at their place as they lost 3-2, again, to a late arriving Independent side who played with their usual swagger. East End rocked them back on their heels by taking an early lead, but the balance of the game shifted, and East End were undone, partly because of an extremely harsh decision to send Colin White off for a tackle on a longhaired youth, who yelped like a beaten dog when challenged.

Anyway, Coach Lane is a good place to be for Newcastle away games, as every time the Mags are away they win when I’m there, and so it proved once again, as an early concession at Spurs was counteracted by some strong play at the other end. Obviously the highlights must not have done the game justice as Postecoglu, with the desperation of a man clinging to his job like a drowning mariner scrabbling to control a piece of disintegrating driftwood, somehow claimed Spurs ought to have won. Yes, really. Well, it may not have been as comfortable as the wins at Old Trafford or Portman Road, but we did enough to edge a tough, tight game and really ought to have had a penalty for the bodycheck on Gordon.

So, we moved on from Saturday lunchtime in one part of North London to Tuesday evening in another, for the League Cup semi final first leg at Arsenal. Beforehand, I hadn’t given this one a great deal of thought, as it was a two-legged affair and I assumed there would be a degree of calculation required before acknowledging what was a satisfactory result, with the consensus seeming to be that a narrow loss wouldn’t be the worst outcome in the world. However, as you know, we won this one comfortably, on account of our ability to master the penny floaters they make you use in this competition, while Arteta confined himself to talking a load of hot air rather than teaching his players how to control that gas when it is inside a leather casing. However, and let’s get this straight, we are only at the halfway stage. A 2-0 lead is nice, but if we blow it at home in early February, the comedown will be appalling. That said, we were fucking brilliant weren’t we? In 9 days we’ve been to Old Trafford, Spurs and now Arsenal and thumped the three of them.  Alright, Arsenal were profligate in front of goal, but we weren’t, and we defended like titans to give Dubravka, who was again incredible, a deserved clean sheet. Isak. Gordon. Bruno. Tonali. Stellar talents. Hall. Livrimento. A full back pairing with breathtaking potential. Big Dan Burn. Geordie hero. And at the end, we returned to Bruceball, playing 5-5-0, but keeping the Gunners at arm’s length. Hats off to the whole lot of them, but remember it is only half time in the tie.

And so to the Bromley game. With the way we’ve been going in the League and the situation at the halfway stage of the League Cup semi-final, this was a game I was happy to lose. I said as much to my Bromley supporting mate, the literary giant and birthday boy Mike Head, while we were celebrating his 57th in the Mean Eyed Cat and Town Mouse on Friday night, with some superb ales. Kasteel Rouge Kriek anyone? So much for Dry January, but we had a fabulous time out with a fine contingent of fellas, who’d travelled from areas as disparate as Virginia and Scarborough to be at this one. 

The stupid train of thought that seeks to impose a hierarchy of support among football fans would have been destroyed by 10 minutes in our company. It doesn’t matter who you support, or at what level your team plays, nobody is intrinsically a better supporter than anyone else. Some may be a little more eccentric, including the two blokes who expressed an interest in taking in North Shields Athletic v Newcastle Independent on Saturday, but that was frozen off. It had been my intended game of choice, mainly because Shelley wanted some sun dried tomatoes from Morrisons’, but when the game was called off, I opted against either Benton v Morpeth or Newcastle East End v Haltwhistle and spent the afternoon on the sofa, rather like the 35,000 Mackems who were doing an emergency back shift at Nissan. Not because it was cold, but because I wanted to spend time with Shelley as I’d be out on Sunday. Still saw all the televised games mind.

Sadly, I didn’t get the chance to meet up with Mike and the rest of the Bromley Boys on Sunday, but I know they will have been proud of their team’s efforts. Nobody will ever be able to take away their euphoria at taking the lead with a fine, curling strike. Alright, so we won out in the end, but it was nip and tuck until we brought on Bruno and Gordon after the break. I knew we’d pick a much changed side; indeed, I called 9 of the starting 11, surprised only by seeing Dubravka and Joelinton, who was the only player along with Miley, to play well in the opening half. I did feel a bit out of the loop when it came to all the new songs, though I reckon I’ve got the Osula one off pat. It was reassuring to know I was back in the East Stand when some moaning old bastard behind us kept slating Almiron all game, even after he went off, but was generally referring to Trippier when he did so. The fact is, our players are so bloody good now that there’s no point in offering them any advice, as they know so much more about the game than we do.  Miley was superb and scored an absolute thunderbolt of an equaliser. So pleased to see him back. 

Let’s enjoy this one but move swiftly on to the upcoming pair of home games against Wolves and Bournemouth, before we visit Southampton and host Fulham in preparation for Birmingham away in the cup.

Tonali Wired

NUFC; 2024 is over & the Premier League has reached the halfway point...

We’re all familiar with the truism that the actual days of the week become somehow irrelevant between Christmas and New Year, with the only thing to anchor us to reality being FA Cup third round day on the first Saturday in January. Very true, but this year it is on the second weekend in January, with the 20th round of Premier League fixtures pencilled in for the weekend of Saturday 4th and the League Cup semi finals scheduled for the midweek after that. For Newcastle, this means a pair of trips to North London, for Spurs in the league and then Arsenal in the first leg of the cup. Fixtures don’t let up after that, with three home games off the belt: Bromley (FA Cup, Sunday 12th), Wolves (Wednesday 15th) and Bournemouth (Saturday 18th lunchtime). Bearing in mind that I’ve not written about the club since the November international break, which seems an age ago, I’d best rapidly scribble a few thoughts as the league campaign reaches the halfway point.

2024 was the first year since 1972 when I didn’t set foot inside St James Park. My last visit was the 3-0 thumping of Fulham in December 2023, and my next one will be the Bromley cup game, which I’m getting a mite giddy at the prospect of already. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves though; there are 9 games to reflect on since I last blogged my opinions. After a cracking pair of results at home against Chelsea in the cup and Arsenal in the league, none of us were keen on the unnecessary November international break, but still held a strong belief we’d put a labouring West Ham side to the sword when hostilities resumed on Monday 25th November. I was really ill that day, having picked up either a bug or some version of food poisoning, meaning I’d slept, shivered and sweated in rapid rotation for the 20 hours until kick off. I managed to drag myself from my sick bed to lie prone on the sofa for this one and frankly wish I hadn’t bothered. Perhaps all of our memories erase the good parts of all defeats, but I recall we started this one promisingly and on the front foot. However, atrocious finishing either side of their opening goal let us down badly. The second half saw an alarming dip in the quality of our play. While I was lucky enough to miss the second, killer goal, while throwing up in the bog, I saw the uncomfortable reality of much of Newcastle United’s support. There doesn’t seem to be much point in agitating for a massive new ground, or an extended current one, if the place is only half full after 75 minutes and most of those remaining are sat in sulky silence, ready to boo the team off at full time. Yes, it was a poor result and a disappointing performance, after the break, but there’s no need to flounce off in a strop. If you can’t handle getting beat, don’t follow football.

When Newcastle went to Palace, I went to Forfar Athletic v Stirling Albion in the Scotch FA Cup and had a brilliant day. Sadly, after a breathtaking 120 minutes had ended in a 3-3 draw, I had to leave before the penalties (Forfar won 4-2) in order to make my connections. Only when I was sat on the bus back to Dundee did I check on the Newcastle score as, with the amount of chaotic fun to be enjoyed at Station Park, I’d naively assumed we’d held on for a 1-0 win, courtesy of our former transfer target, the notoriously homophobic Marc Guehi. As you all know, this wasn’t the case and I have to say, watching the highlights, a draw seemed a fair result. Obviously, social media went into meltdown over the performance and the result, but nobody seemed keen on pointing the finger at who was responsible for their late equaliser; Nick Pope had a positional shocker for that goal and, sad to say, hasn’t looked all that brilliant the whole season through. With Isak limping off, I would imagine were rubbing their hands with glee at the thought of a trip to Tyneside and three easy points in midweek.

Before that game kicked off, I had two funerals to attend; the second of which on the Wednesday itself was my dear friend Gary’s dad, Colin. He’d been a lifelong Newcastle fan, and this game produced the kind of rip-roaring excitement and raise the roof atmosphere that was a fitting tribute to a great bloke. I loved how Newcastle got at them right from the off (what a goal by Isak eh?) and never allowed their heads to drop when Liverpool came back into it. In the end, I think shit refereeing did cost us as we definitely should have had a penalty for a foul on Isak, but I find it hard to get angry about the final whistle blowing when we were on the attack, as the laws of the game state the final whistle must be blown when the ball is in play. This was hardly Brazil v Sweden in 1978, was it?

By the time of the Brentford away game on the Saturday, the weather had taken a turn for the worse and the only game I could find was Benton 0 Hexham 6 at the NFA’s unfinished symphony to the local game at St Peter’s Fields. You’ve got to feel sorry for clubs who put on home games in terrible conditions and then get trounced, but at least it meant I got home, frozen and soaked, for the second half of the Brentford game. I wish I hadn’t bothered, as what unfolded, after a pretty even and exciting first period, was the kind of limp catastrophe akin to the abject surrender there under Bruce in the League Cup quarter finals back in 2020. Same as on that night, as soon as we went behind, it was game over. I honestly don’t recall us having an effort on goal worthy of the name in the whole second period. For the first time in years, we had a load of empty shirts picking up their wages for nothing. Bruno was the worst offender, but many others offered nothing tangible. The continued presence of Callum Wilson at this club is an outrage, with Mickail Antonio being more mobile and offering more of a threat while in an induced coma. The whole team were sluggish, utterly unable to force the pace and impotent in attack. Sadly, the buck has to stop with Howe. If the Saudi owners are serious about Newcastle United as a project, then the next home games against Leicester and Brentford in the cup, as well as the trip to Ipswich, were all must win games. In any normal circumstances, failure in that trio of fixtures would see the axe fall. However, I remain to be convinced that the PFI are that bothered about Newcastle United because of the irritating profit and sustainability restrictions. It’s all about the line of least resistance, I guess.

In the end, such speculation is worthless as well as imponderable, as Newcastle turned in 5 astonishing victories in a row, scoring 16 and conceding 1. In the league, the four wins off the belt were achieved with consecutive clean sheets. If success starts from the back, then the presence of a rejuvenated Martin Dubravka between the sticks has to be the bedrock of this upswing in form. The hesitant, fumbling mistake in waiting we saw last season has been transformed. Additionally, the Tonali and Guimaraes partnership has bloomed beautifully, while Isak has returned to the full-on assassin mode we saw when he first arrived. However, the real hero has been Jacob Murphy; a popular player, but one often derided for supposedly lack star quality, he has torn up the form book of late. I arrived back from another Percy Main loss about half an hour into the Leicester game, where all the commentators could talk about was how fabulous Newcastle had played, but were failing to turn this dominance into goals. Just then, Murphy put us ahead with an effortlessly beautiful strike from a Gordon assist. From that moment on, we held the game by the scruff of the neck, with Lewis Hall and Anthony Gordon displaying telepathic understanding down the left. In all honesty, a 4-0 win flattered them, and we moved on to the Brentford cup game in energy saving mode.

Brentford are great at home, but less impressive on their travels. This may have tilted the scales in our favour, but the real difference was Tonali, starting in place of the suspended Sean, who scored two blinding goals. He really is starting to pay us back for standing by him during his suspension last season. Brentford didn’t look interested until 3-0, when we made a raft of changes. Their late goal, which may have been called offside by VAR, spoiled Dubravka’s clean sheet, but it was important to get through to the semi-finals, though I think I would have preferred Spurs in the semis, not Arsenal.

Ipswich seem to be a reinvention of Swindon 1993/1994, playing pretty football, but too often a soft touch when up against quality. I recall a 4-0 win in September 2009 under Chris Hughton, which contrasted with an awful 3-1 loss in the next promotion campaign under El Fraudo. There was no chance of the latter being repeated, but every chance of the former, when Isak rifled us ahead after 24 seconds, though my notification said 4 minutes, allowing for the VAR check. In the end, a second successive 4-0 win in the league was achieved with the minimum of fuss, sending us into Christmas with a spring our step.

After a wonderful visit to Sam Smith’s Park to see Benfield win the local derby 1-0 over Blue Star, I eschewed an afternoon on the pop, for one on the sofa, as Amazon Prime broadcast the Villa game, which I enjoyed almost as much as Hibs restoring the natural order in Embra after trouncing the Bus Drivers at Swinecastle with a goal by NUFC legend Dwight Gayle. Let’s be honest, Aston Villa are a canny team and our 5-1 win at home last season was a bit of an outlier for both sides, so I didn’t dare dream we could make a repeat performance. We did though, tearing into them from the off, seeing Gordon smashing us into an early lead with a brilliant finish and then benefitting from Jhon Duran’s idiotic assault on Schar that was rightly punished with a red card. From that point on, we cruised to a win. Three disallowed efforts and an absolute pearler from Joelinton saw us move up to fifth, which we’d scarcely have dreamed possible only three weeks earlier.

But the easiest win was still to come. A facile, fatuous stroll in the park at Old Trafford, where a Manchester United team, far worse than the one that went down in 1974, lay down and died without a fight. We scored two simple, textbook goals from perfect crosses by Hall and Gordon, as the obvious weaknesses of the home side played right into our hands. If Tonali had scored instead of hitting the inside of the post, we could have given them a thumping for the ages, but why bother exhausting ourselves? When Tonali nutmegged the referee, I couldn’t stop laughing for about 10 minutes. The game was in the bag after 20 minutes and we didn’t need to exert ourselves further. Ignoring our opponents’ weaknesses, the game saw us end 2024 in 5th place. We’ve won 9, drawn 5 and lost 5 of the first set of fixtures, giving us 32 points thus far. If we continue to play with the tempo, flair and verve, we should be looking to improve on that and finish top 4, though I’d much rather we won the League Cup. Being selfish, I really want to see a good win against Bromley.

Can things go wrong? Injuries, loss of form or bad luck can derail our progress. I do seriously doubt we will be busy in the transfer market. Howe has already sought to dampen speculation about arrivals. At least if we do remain inactive, it will provide True Faith with something to twist their faces about, which will please them no end. 

East Enders Christmas Special

 I've been back to Benfield for the first time in 5 years, and it was a wonderful experience -:

I know the summer was lousy, costing us well over a third of our cricket fixtures because of the amount of rain, but the football season hasn’t been too bad in comparison, thus far. Other than a couple of storms at the end of November and early in December, that caused the cancellation of fixtures away to Ponteland and at home to Shields Athletic respectively, Percy Main Amateurs haven’t been hit too badly. In fact, we’ve played 17 league games of the 30 required which, allied to our traditional disinclination to participate in cup competitions beyond the opening round, means we’re on schedule to finish our season around the time the clocks go forward, if the Good Lord’s willing and the Coble Dene don’t rise. Presumably, as well as the complete shutdown scheduled for 28th December, this is why the Alliance also gave us Saturday 21st December off.

Thankfully, there were plenty of other games scheduled for that day to keep me out of mischief. In fact, I could have grabbed myself a tick by visiting Darlington Town in the Northern League Second Division, for their 2-2 draw with sunderland West End, although the fact kick off was moved to 1.30, reason unknown, did make the idea of travelling down there a theoretical rather than practical one. In the Alliance, both Ovingham, 4-0 winners over Wideopen Reserves and Wrekenton Blue Star, who lost 3-1 to Prudhoe Youth Club Seniors Reserves, were at home with 2pm kick offs. The big problem for me with either of those was getting across the river. While the latter two grounds are both served by regular Go North East services, the intense bottleneck caused by the closure of the A167 flyover and the related cancellation of all Metro services from the south, augmented by insane levels of shoppers on account of it being the last Saturday before Christmas, meant I had to pick something reasonably easy to get to. After dismissing thoughts of Blyth Town v Shildon in Northern League Division 1 on account of it being a bit glamorous for my tastes, I settled on the competitive sounding contest between Newcastle East End and Burradon & New Fordley in the Alliance top division.

I’ve a lot of time for both clubs; East End have reached where they are by a whole load of hard graft taking them up from the Tyneside Amateur League and Fordley are probably the favourites in the title race in the Alliance Premier. Additionally, I’d not seen East End since they moved to Coach Lane from Walker College. I thought, wrongly as it turns out, they’d be using what was Team Northumbria’s old pitch, but they were actually on the 4G pitch that Newcastle Independent have recently vacated for their bizarre move to Kingston Park rugby ground. After Stagecoach failed to send a number 1 in a timeous fashion, I only entered the ground as play got underway. From my angle, it seemed as if East End took the lead with 5 seconds of the start of play, but it actually transpired that it was 2 minutes into the game, and I’d actually been late. Mea culpa for that. In my defence, I subsequently never took my eyes off proceedings, other than to check out NUFC goals at Ipswich and Hibs beating Ross County at the Leith San Siro.

What I saw, despite a blustery north to south wind, blowing from one end of the pitch to the other, was a good, tight, competitive contest that Fordley edged 3-2, probably fairly on the balance of play, though the result was in the balance right until the final whistle. It’s always good to see a former student doing well. Trae Rowlandson seems to have really settled down at Burradon and appears to be enjoying his football. He slammed in a quality equaliser, via a slight deflection, and basically tormented East End’s left flank all game. Well done to him. Well done to everyone else for a top quality contest. I’m even prepared to congratulate Go North East for dropping me home in time to see the last knockings of Newcastle’s evisceration of Ipswich.

Boxing Day is one of the red letter days in the football calendar, but over the past few years I’ve not seen many games on this date. Partly because of the weather and partly because of the Alliance’s annual Saturnalian cessation. This year, I was determined to haul myself out my pit to take in Benfield versus Blue Star at Sam Smith’s Park. It would be my first time back at the ground in 5 years, since before COVID-19 in fact. That feels such a long time ago. Almost a lifetime in fact. Sadly, many of those involved in the club back then, such as the wonderful Johnny Innes and Dave Robson, are no longer with us. What I must say is that both the Chair, Craig Bell and the Secretary, my dear friend Gary Thompson, have been urging me since the end of last season to get myself back along to the ground and see how the Lions are progressing.

Heading down Benfield Road and along Chesterwood, I must admit to a level of nervous anticipation as the turnstile approached. However, I paid in, quickly spotted Gary and took my place on the terracing behind the goal, for the visit of Newcastle Blue Star and their charming, unintentionally amusing Ultras. Over the past few seasons, I’ve been to plenty of Benfield away games, but to be back in the home ground of my still beloved Northern League side, who I followed devotedly from their accession to the Northern League in 2003, was a joy and an honour. The place has been improved immeasurably and it is a real credit to the club and the league as a whole. 

It was particularly touching to welcomed back by so many people I’d not seen in so long, from Big Mark to David Robson and Syd Phelan, as well as Craig and Gary of course. I felt immediately among friends and people I deeply respect. And I tell you what, the team aren’t bad these days either, deservedly taking all three points with a clever, deceptive free kick from captain Andre Bennett. Massive credit also goes out to keeper Thomas Shanley, once of Burradon of course, who appeared to be the first credible replacement between the sticks for the godlike genius of Andrew Grainger, who at the age of 42, may not return from his latest injury. One goal was enough, and I celebrated lustily with everyone around me at full time. It felt so special, and I was so honoured to be there.

Indeed, things got even better for Benfield on Saturday 28 December, when they saw off the title challenge of Redcar Athletic, beating them 2-1. Unfortunately, I’d opted to go to Whitley Bay 2 West Auckland 1 instead, which was a largely sterile affair, made amusing by Bay’s 94th minute winner from a free kick where the wall crumbled like a concrete flyover next to the Felling By-Pass. 

Quelques chansons et livres dans ma vie

2024 books and music; the last round-up...

And so, we come to the end of another year, which means I am required to discuss my latest cultural adventures that date from October 1st onwards. A couple of years ago, I decided not to rank books and music, whether newly released or from the past, in any order of merit, so the lists here that follow the discussion of recent events and releases, are purely chronological in form. As an aside, TQ #74 included lists of what several of the contributors had read in 2024, with mine being edited for reasons of space to end by saying “38 books by Ian Rankin,” which amused me greatly. Anyway, here goes

BOOKS:

The first thing I read in October was a choice made by serendipity; Organic Music Societies, by various American and Scandinavian musicologists, was a book I found in Sainsbury's car park when dropping off a load of recycling. It is a fascinating, extensive but decidedly niche account of Don Cherry and his wife Moki's experimental music and lifestyle activities. Set mainly in Sweden during the early 70s, it details Cherry's attempts to blend African, Asian and other “pure” musical elements to his own improvisational practice, while living in a kind of artistic commune with likeminded souls. At times, it's a tough, almost academic read, but you're probably aware that Don's music can be an equally tough listen at times. An interesting and committed retelling of a story that existed far beyond the mainstream more than half a century ago.

The 38th Ian Rankin book I read this year was Midnight and Blue, the 25th and I'd guess, penultimate Rebus book. This time around, the old curmudgeon is in the nick for killing Big Ger Cafferty and while incarcerated, he is up to his usual tricks, namely solving seemingly insoluble murder mysteries and getting under the skin of authority. On the outside, Siobhan Clarke is looking into the disappearance of a schoolgirl, leading us into a world of online pornography, pseudo-celebrities and exploitation. Inside, one of Rebus's fellow prisoners is found with his throat slashed in his locked cell, his cellmate having been thumped unconscious to boot. The victim was banged up after leaving his own blood at a break-in that conveniently showed the premises were being used by a major southern drug dealer. One of the advantages of Rankin's Edinburgh quasi-village setting is that the connections between the cases do not seem forced.

Rankin is good in detail, which seems as if it is there merely to make the novel seem authentic but proves instrumental in the denouement. As Rankin's books have become more character than plot focused, the reader stands a fighting chance of solving both the murders, and in some ways it is the ease and fluidity of Rankin's prose that allows him to smuggle crucial points past all but the most attentive of readers. It's not a spoiler to say that there will most likely be a Rebus #26, as this ends with a cliffhanger and unfinished business. And that's fine for me.

I've adopted the title for this blog from Michel Houellebecq, whose latest (and as yet untranslated) work of non-fiction is the story of him getting involved in another unseemly argument about Islam with a leading French intellectual. Entitled Quelques mois dans ma vie, I await its English publication with bated breath. This is especially true because all I had heard about his latest (and supposedly last) novel, Annihilation was that Houellebecq had gone soft and sentimental in his old age. Therefore, to prepare myself, I firstly read the anthology Interventions 2020; the third iteration of the original book, brought up to date with accounts of more unnecessary contemporary feuding, snide digs and deliberately obtuse interviews. The tone is best captured by his prediction about life after the COVID lockdown; “Everything will be the same, but worse.”

Annihilation is supposed to be Houellebecq's final foray into fiction. It is certainly his longest and, arguably, it is his best. Certainly, other than the portrayal of a dislikeable sister-in-law it has the smallest serving of bile of any of his books, not to mention a complete lack of snide nastiness. The novel's protagonist, Paul Raison, a French equivalent of a Whitehall Mandarin, finds himself at the beck and call of the workaholic Finance Minister, which suits Paul just fine. Although he lives with his wife Prudence, they lead separate lives and seem unable to work up enough passion to dislike each other. 

While France sleepwalks into another presidential election, a terrorist group with unclear motives posts online videos of both fake and real acts of violence, including a lifelike video of Paul's boss losing his head by guillotine. The terrorists do not explain their actions or issue lists of demands. French intelligence cannot even place the group on a political map, as they firstly seem left wing, then right wing, subsequently Catholic traditionalist and eventually neo-pagan. 

Paul's father, a retired intelligence officer, suffers a stroke and loses his ability to communicate. Although distanced from his family, Paul works with his siblings and his father's partner to put together a care plan. When they see their father is trapped in a nursing home whose austerity policies usher patients towards death, they turn in despair to Paul's working-class brother-in-law, who knows people who may or may not be part of a cadre of French nationalist / Catholic traditionalist paramilitaries. Whoever they are, Paul's friends oppose the modern state and operate very efficiently. 

With one part of his family life resolved, a further plot development unheard of in Houellebecq novels, sees Paul and Prudence slowly fall back in love. It seems Prudence is helped in her efforts to revive her marriage by her new interest in Wicca. Houellebecq keeps the plot moving, but in the final act he brings to the fore a storyline only hinted at earlier: Paul learns he is at least as sick as his father and will likely die within a year. Annihilation, however, does not end with Paul's diagnosis, but with his death. Houellebecq hints at questions of violence, politics, and economics that continue to confront France and the rest of the world. No part of life stops to give way to any other part. Some questions are solved, some go unanswered, and some will not find the answers until after they die. This, for Houellebecq, is a happy ending.

The last book I've consumed this year is Porridge: The Complete Scripts and Series Guide. This is a wonderfully nostalgic, enormously enjoyable and hugely detailed treasure trove about one of the most iconic sitcoms of all time. All the various characters come back to life magically on the page and, having seen the original episodes about a million times each, you hear their voices. It's a lovely read and, contrary to expectations, the I used to think I was working class until I went to Glasgow, and I realized I was middle class joke, only appears twice. Perhaps my familiarity with it could be explained away, if Clement and La Frenais also used it in The Likely Lads?

Finally, on a literary note, the highlight of the years for me was having a couple of pints in the Station Bar in Durham with David Peace. I'd gone to see him at the Gala Theater discussing Munichs as part of the Durham Book Festival, which was a fascinating and well-attended event. Afterwards, we sampled some Wylam Ales and had a chinwag. He's a lovely bloke with more fascinating projects ahead, although the long-awaited Yorkshire CCC five act tragedy may not see the light of day, I'm sad to report.

 

John King London Country Fiction

Ian Rankin Let it Bleed Fiction

Ian Rankin Black & Blue Fiction

Ian Rankin Knots & Crosses Fiction

Magnus Mills The Cure for Disgruntlement Fiction

Ian Rankin The Hanging Garden Fiction

Kim Gordon Girl in a Band Non-Fiction

Duncan Stone Different Class Non-Fiction

Various Nightwatchman 43 Non-Fiction

Various Nightwatchman 44 Non-Fiction

Ian Rankin West Wind Fiction

Ian Rankin The Complaints Fiction

Ian Rankin A Cool Head Fiction

Ian Rankin Tooth & Nail Fiction

Ian Rankin Standing in Another Man's Grave Fiction

Ian Rankin The Flood Fiction

Ian Rankin Watchman Fiction

Ian Rankin Rebus's Scotland Non-Fiction

Ian Rankin Long Shadows Play

Ian Rankin Dark Entries Fiction

Ian Rankin Dark Road Play

Ian Rankin Beggars Banquet Fiction

Ian Rankin Dark Remains Fiction

Ian Rankin A Game Called Malice Play

Ian Rankin Witch Hunt Fiction

Ian Rankin Bleeding Hearts Fiction

Ian Rankin Blood Hunt Fiction

Duncan Steer Cricket: The Golden Age Non-Fiction

David Underdown Start of Play Non-Fiction

Ian Rankin The Impossible Dead Fiction

Ian Rankin Hide & Seek Fiction

Ian Rankin Strip Jack Fiction

Ian Rankin The Black Book Fiction

Ian Rankin Mortal Causes Fiction

Various Nightwatchman 45 Non-Fiction

Ian Rankin Dead Souls Fiction

Ian Rankin Set in Darkness Fiction

Moby Then It Fell Apart Non-Fiction

Ian Rankin The Falls Fiction

Rory Waterman Come Here to this Gate Poetry

Rory Waterman Sarajevo Roses Poetry

Ian Rankin Resurrection Men Fiction

Ian Rankin A Question of Blood Fiction

Ian Rankin Fleshmarket Close Fiction

Ronnie Spector Be My Baby Non-Fiction

Marc Nash The Death of the Author (In Triplicate) Fiction

Magnus Mills The Encouragment of Others Fiction

Ian Rankin Even Dogs in the Wild Fiction

Paul Hanley Sixteen Again Non-Fiction

Ian Rankin Rather Be the Devil Fiction

Robert Winder Hell for Leather Non-Fiction

Colin Larkin The Guinness Who's Who of Folk Music Non-Fiction

Ian Rankin In A House of Lies Fiction

Ian Rankin A Song for the Dark Times Fiction

John Burnside The Dumb House Fiction

Harry Crews Scar Lover Fiction

CLR James Beyond A Boundary Non-Fiction

Joe England Lone Moor Road Fiction

Gotthold Ephraim Lessing Nathan the Wise Play

Will Woolard Cricket's Crazy Moments Non-Fiction

Irvine Welsh Resolution Fiction

Peter Handke The Left Handed Woman Fiction

William Faulkner As I Lay Dying Fiction

ee cummings The Enormous Room Non-Fiction

Nick J Brown To Rise in the Dark Fiction

Roddy Doyle The Women Behind the Doors Fiction

David Peace Munich's Fiction

Various Don & Moki Cherry's Organic Music Societies Non-Fiction

Ian Rankin Midnight & Blue Fiction

Michel Houellebecq Interventions 2020 Non-Fiction

Michel Houellebecq Annihilation Fiction

Dick Clement & Ian La Frenais Porridge: The Complete Scripts Play

MUSIC:

October began with a trip to Manchester to see Godspeed You! Black Emperor at the Ritz. It was an incredible performance. The film projections before the band starts up, show oil refineries burning as wildfires rage; the word “hope” flickers as if to show the precariousness of the concept, introducing Hope Drone. The message is we are living in a state of emergency, one they remain committed to facing head on. The new album, No Title as of 13 February 2024, 28,340 Dead is a reference to the estimated death toll in Gaza at the time of the record's completion. The fact they play four songs from it in an eight-song set list which only once reaches back pre-reunion suggests a band intent on pushing forward, remaining relevant. Over almost two hours the drama, textures and violence is gripping. This is grand-scale music; cathartic, magisterial, elegiac if you will, but it is the detail and sensitivity of their interplay that fuels it. The star of the show is violinist Sophie Trudeau, who plays a lament as drums begin to vibrate in frenzy. The brimming guitar gradually slows and stretches out gorgeously to allow tumbling fills within each beat, climaxing in a furious rally of cavernous, clarion noise, as the three guitarists play a cascading refrain from somewhere deep within the noise.

The mid-section is where the violence really hits. As oil refinery images rage, Fire at Static Valley approaches metal territory, with an impressive guitar figure through the churn. The unruly, vaulting riff feeds into Gray Rubble Green Shoots, which starts in a state of static desolation, until the spark catches. Trudeau's violin sounds particularly beautiful. Only Piss Crowns Are Trebled, from 2015's Asunder, Sweet and Other Distress, sounds almost conventional, a thought destroyed by the closing Sad Mafioso. Desolate, bent guitar notes ring out amid flurries of noise before the song races to a dense, squalling conclusion, Trudeau's violin cutting through the tumult. As it crashes to an end, GY!BE keep the drone feedback going for at least 10 minutes, creating a space for awe and contemplation that's just as impactful as the previous, battering two hours.

Ever since they first appeared with 1997's stunning F♯ A♯ ∞, Godspeed You! Black Emperor have been at their most potent when embellishing apocalyptic post-rock soundscapes with incongruous flashes of vulnerability and beauty. It perhaps isn't hugely surprising that their first album in three years sees them become one of the few acts to release music that explicitly references the genocide in Gaza. Musically, this is their strongest set since 2002's Yanqui UXO, with the three songs that pass the 10-minute mark particularly stirring. Raindrops Cast in Lead builds slowly via a repeating motif on distorted guitar, before a gentle interlude precedes a squalling climax. Album closer Gray Rubble Green Shoots ends more contemplatively, with Sophie Trudeau's violin to the fore, the band taking a step back from the abyss. Bold, brave and brilliant.

Almost as loud, but not quite as subtle are Bardo Pond. Feeling flush when I got my retirement bit, I immediately ordered the Matador re-release of Set & Setting and the 1990s B-sides compilation Melt Away. The 25th anniversary edition of the former is a masterful, immense slab of lazy, stoned post rock, that begins with the 11-minute epic Walking Stick Man. It sets the tone with a heavy Hendrix sonic wall of drone. The dual guitars are played at a drugged pace, developing only slightly around a single riff. The similarities to late 60's/early 70's heavy psych rock and stoner rock is striking. There are moments in this 11-minute tune where we get brief, varied guitar excursions but overall, it just blasts its way along in a linear fashion with Isobel's tortured, beautiful vocals, howling incomprehensible lyrics. Datura is one of my favorite tracks featuring layers of texture for added variety and resulting in a gorgeous fuzzed out space trip. Another strong track is Crawl Away which has the stoner feel of Walking Stick Man, and some of the freakiest spaced-out guitars on the disc. This Time (So Fucked) is an interesting tune with a melody (yes, there's actually a melody), though of course the wall of sound is present and Isobel's vocals represent anguish. Cross Current caught my attention with its trancey violin intro that is joined by a massive guitar assault slowly fading in as the violin continues its melody in the background.

What I love about Bardo Pond is their repetitive nature; incessant jamming around single themes with little variation in hypnotic and there's no questioning the beauty of the heavily dosed acid guitars on this disc. Double-LP compilation Melt Away was released in tandem with the 25th anniversary reissue of Set & Setting. It comprises one LP of material that previously appeared on various comps and a split 10-inch with Mogwai, and another of late 1990s ephemera. Some might complain that Melt Away comes with no liner notes and only the best information about the sourcing of this material, but let's face it, no one puts on Bardo Pond in order to read. The Philadelphia band's slow-motion maelstrom of sound is designed to put a stop to such activity. Just turn the music up and lay your head down or, at least, confine it to up-and-down motion; the Sabbath-worthy, slow-motion stumble of Shadow Puppet practically demands that you explore the middle zone between head-nodding and head-banging. Previously available as a digital single, its appearance on a physical format feels like the restoration of a cosmic imbalance.

Certain of these songs have been available before, but not in these versions. There's a shorter, more guitar-focused take of 1997's Anadamide that gives the listener more time to get swallowed in looping, decaying sonic quicksand. Tapir Dub achieves peak wooziness by stripping a thick layer of guitars off 1996's Tapir Song to focus on its unhurried rhythm and Isobel's murmuring vocal. Nowadays, archival material is all that Bardo Pond offers. The heavy-psychedelic combo played its last gig before the lockdown, and rumors within give little hope that anything new will be recorded. Tragically, I never got to see them.

Fortunately, that is not the case for Clock DVA, but any hope I had that they would be running through Thirst or White Souls in Black Suits was soon dispelled in front of a sizeable crowd at The Lubber Fiend at the back end of October. Sole original member and innovative driving force behind the project, Adi Newton, has resolutely plowed a furrow, despite zero commercial potential in his oeuvre. That said, this strong, muscular synth pop, that thankfully never threatened to deafen us with power electronics, kept me interested and alert on a dreary Tuesday evening. I didn't buy anything from the merch stall, as I didn't know where to begin, but I'll keep an eye on these in the future.

At the other end of the spectrum, Shunyata Improvisation Group barely speak above a whisper, and this is what makes their Profound Subtlety album, recorded at The Globe last December, just that bit subtle too. Over the course of 50 minutes, nothing much happens, and the piece draws to a close with the listener surprised that any time has passed at all, so modest are the aims of the performers in this piece. However, the acoustic grandeur of Shovel Dance Collective's self-titled album is a constant joy. The fact this is one of 2024's best releases is best personified by the joyous, uplifting Rolling Wave instrumental and the rousing maritime singalong, Merry Golden Tree. I was impressed by them in April at The Lubber Fiend, but this blows that performance out of the water. Steeleye Span meets Here & Now. 

Even better in terms of this year's albums was Macdara Yeates's sublime Traditional Singing from Dublin, which is so brilliant a record that Shelley and I took the rattler down the Durham coastline one Sunday afternoon in October to catch the fella himself as part of the Hartlepool Folk Festival. Having been forced to take lunch at McDonald's and noticing that almost every citizen of Hartlepool looks like a drug addict, child molester or victim of domestic violence, we were glad to take a bus out of the dismal town center to the Headland where music was playing . I'd happily stay the night out there, if I could drink deeply in the Fisherman's Arms, where Macdara played. He did a chronological run through the album, with The Shores of Lough Bran still being the highlight and One Starry Night not being so far behind, but the whole album sounds so much more vibrant and muscular live. He's a grand fella to talk to as well and I sincerely hope to make it to The Night Before Larry Got Stretched at The Cobblestone in Smithfield at some point. The only drawback to this gig was the ignorance of the English. Hey-nonny-nonny types wandering in the pub mid-song, standing in the way and talking over the music. Pricks. Say what you want about Kneecap, but they'd not tolerate that.

I actually was offered a ticket to see Kneecap the other week but, same as the offer to see The Jesus & Mary Chain, I had to turn them down. You'll not believe how much this new bathroom and new kitchen installation has been taking out of me. I've hardly had a chance to get acquainted with Jill Lorean's new album, Peace Cult, which is an absolute crying shame. The project was heralded by the release of the sublime, sludgy drawl of Crushing the Campsies, but that isn't indicative of the album as a whole. As strong as their debut This Rock, Peace Cult shows that Jill Lorean is a real band; a powerful power trio and not just some mates helping Jill out on a solo record. Andy Monaghan (bass) and Pete Kelly (drums) are teachers. The bonds between the musicians are strong; instinctive and unbreakable. When the Bell Stopped Ringing is one of the songs of the year, with a set of lyrics we should all take note of. I absolutely love this band. Them and Dragged Up continue to show that Glasgow is the center of the world for guitar driven indie. Long live Byers Road and Forza Kelvingrove!!

Up in Ashington, they're partying like it's 1964 with the return of the railway linking the world's biggest pit village with civilization. A good soundtrack to the celebrations should be St. James Infirmary's fantastic homage to the world of the Velvet Underground, Can and others of that ilk, All Will Be Well. Trying to keep track of all of Gary Lang's musical adventures is a fond ask, but this is as crucial as At Second Avenue. A whole album of stuff that reminds you of What Goes On (Live 69 version) or Hallogallo but isn't. A tremendous set of earworms. 

The same can be said of Wormhole World's seasonal triple CD. Undoubtedly the least pretentious, most gregarious and undyingly supportive of all the underground micro labels releasing stuff currently in this country, they have assembled 80 tracks from acts as varied as Gidouille, St James Infirmary and some joker called ian cusack that are tangentially associated with the festive season. I think it's a magnificent project and one that you really should support.

The same is true of absolutely everything Andy Wood does with TQ magazine. His final gig of the year at The Globe saw a superbly curated complementary series of 3 acts. First up were Ammonites from Whitby, who were spine-tinglingly macabre and nightmare provoking spooky. Inspired by the writings of Arthur Machen, sinister synth work augmented quasi Victorian mythological and psychological horror (no gore necessary). I'm really glad they weren't on top of the bill as I'd have had nightmares after that. Next up we had the live debut of All the Heavens Were a Bell, a kind of Tyneside NAU supergroup. A ditzy preppy lass on guitar alternatively declaimed intensely personal prose poetry and sex and that sort of thing, while incessantly pushing her hair back behind her ears while wrestling peals of feedback. The other participant was a beady longhair playing a whole selection of effects pedals and some steel wire strapped to a bit of wood the size of an ironing board. It was loud and I loved it immensely. Top of the bill were a shorthanded TSR2 who reanimated the analogue synth with a superb evocation of the worlds of Tangerine Dream and Jean Michel Jarre, meets Adamski and early Depeche Mode. They're a great act, making pretty sounds that fit perfectly together. All in all, a super final live event of the year. 

Finally, I'd like to talk about going to see Wrest at The Grove on December 6th. I've long been used to attending gigs with Ben (I think The Pigeon Detectives in October 2008 was our first and Godspeed You! Black Emperor in Manchester our most recent), but this was the first time I'd had the privilege of seeing a band with Chloe and Lewis. Obviously Shelley and I saw Wrest at Barrowlands at the beginning of September, but this was better. Partly because I felt Wrest worked better in the more intimate surroundings of The Grove, which I'm starting to think is one of Newcastle's best venues, but mainly because Lew and Chloe had such a brilliant time, as did Shelley, who spent most of the evening screaming like a teenybopper and poiuring Two by Two Snake Eyes down her throat. Nah, in all seriousness, Wrest's delicate, crafter, anthemic pop, the seems to plow a course between Belle & Sebastian and Big Country just gets better, and catchier, on repeated hearings. They may not be Falkirk's finest, as Arab Strap still surely hold that title, but they are the most melodic of bands not to have come from Bellshill that I'm aware of. Eventually they will be huge, I guarantee it.

Muireann Bradley I Kept These Old Blues 2023

Dermot O'Brien Spancil Hill 1974

Sean O'Se The Boys of Kilmichael 1968

Peony Live at TQ Live 2024

Dragged Up Missing Person 2024

Various Any Love is Good Love 2021

The Mekons Existentialism 2016

Neil Young Before & After 2023

Kim Gordon The Collective 2024

Milkweed Folklore 1979-2024

The Tiller Boys Big Noise in the Jungle 1979

Isolated Community The Rock, The Watcher, The Stranger 2024

Dragged Up High on Ripple 2024

Milkweed Myths & Legends of Wales 2022

Milkweed The Mound People 2023

Dragged Up D/U 2020

House Proud Live EP 2024

Jon Langford & the Bright Shiners Where It Really Starts 2024

Shellac To All Trains 2024

Shovel Dance Collective Offcuts & Oddities 2024

Thomas McCarthy Last Man Standing 2020

Deaf German Tyres 2021

John the Postman Still Above God 2014

Gerry Mandarin Oddrophenia 2024

Deafbed Birth. School. Work. Death 2024

Stephen Pastel & Gavin Thomson This is Memorial Device 2024

Dirty 3 Love Changes Everything 2024

Dove's Vagaries Goodness & Guile 2024

The McPeake Family Will Ye Go, Lassie Go? 1962

Royal Trux Accelerator 1998

Drooping Finger Arthur's Hell 2024

Drooping Finger Arthur's Hell Reimagined 2024

Gerry Mandarin Sound Affects 2024

Lovable Wholes Show Your Working Out 2024

Various Field Trip 1993

Various Creation for the Nation 1997

Various Brat Pack 1994

Various The Mutha of Creation 1994

Various USA Today 1995

Various WEA NME C30 1994

Macdara Yeates Traditional Singing from Dublin 2024

Godspeed You! Black Emperor NO TITLE AS OF 13 FEBRUARY 2024 28,340 DEAD 2024

Shovel Dance Collective The Shovel Dance 2024

Shunyata Improvisation Group Profound Subtlety 2024

Bardo Pond Melt Away 1999

Bardo Pond Set & Setting 1999

Jill Lorean Peace Cult 2024

St James Infirmary All Will Be Well 2024

Various Wormhole Xmas 2024

THEATRICAL PERFORMANCES:

As well as the readings and the gigs, Shelley and I have been broadening our horizons. First with a trip to Northern Stage to see Please Right Back, Theater 1927's intriguing tale about a missing father who struggles to tell his children the truth. Four actors juggle more than 20 parts in a story of a family whose father is apparently on a madcap odyssey which he relays though letters to his teenage daughter, Kim and son, Davey. The latter is a screen animation who feels as magically real and characterful as his older sister. Folded into this is the drama of their mother, trying to fend off Sally, who might be a harmless busy-body or someone altogether more sinister.

Darkness strains against childlike make-believe but what seems like whimsy or dream logic at first reveals itself to be part of a controlled story, inspired by the childhood of writer, Suzanne Andrade. It is about the role that fiction can play for children processing trauma and facing difficult experiences safely. Reality collides with fantasy, memories are enacted before zipping forward again to the story at hand, and animated characters interact with live actors, along with delightful breakouts into song, dance, comedy and psychedelic make-believe. The set is a triptych of screens, and the animation keeps to black-and-white imagery with occasional, glorious, bursts of colour, flipping from naive joy to nightmarish. Sometimes it looks like actors have jumped inside the pages of a graphic novel, other times as if the animation is extending itself into their world. It is all wonderfully tongue-in-cheek, but the tension and emotion build alongside this archness. I'm so glad we went to see this.

The same is true of a trip to Odeon Silverlink to see a production of Swan Lake by the English National Ballet. I had never seen ballet before, and I hold my hands up and exclaim that I'm delighted Shelley took me to this. It was a 4-act play, with the full Tchaikovsky experience diluted by the removal of the tragic final act. Instead, it ends up as a gloriously happy ending as Siegfried marries Odette / Odile, rather than mourning her passing. This production, a revival of Derek Deane's 1997 production in-the-round was filmed at the Royal Albert Hall. A fully immersive experience, it transports us to the lakeside, a unique take on a ballet that was first performed in Moscow in 1877.

Perhaps we might take in some opera in 2025. Who knows? I do know I'll be taking in Mogwai, Orange Claw Hammer, Lindisfarne, The Mekons, Gang of Four and Teenage Fanclub in 2025, with hopefully many others to be added as well.

Shu+E23+A2:D23+A2:D24+A2:D23 The Globe Jan-18

Poor Things ODEON Silverlink Jan-20

Shunyata Improvisation Group Cullercoats Watch House Mar-08

BRB Voicecoil Depletion Lubber Fiend Mar-23

Shovel Dance Collective Milkweed Lubber Fiend Apr-12

L Devine Wylam Brewery Apr-24

Dragged Up House Proud Museum Vaults, sunderland May-05

Jon Langford & the Bright Shiners Broken Chanter The Central May-18

Deafbed Me & Earl John Charlton Blyth Headway Jun-14

Peony Ruaridh Law The Globe Jun-20

Dragged Up The Cumberland Jul-27

Lovable Wholes Sybil Ends The Globe Aug-13

Wrest Barrowlands, Glasgow Aug-31

The Critic Cineworld The Gate Sep-20

Modulator ESP St James Infirmary The Globe Sep-26

Godspeed You! Black Emperor Manchester Ritz Oct-01

Please Right Back Northern Stage Oct-03

Macdara Yeates Hartlepool Fisherman's Arms Oct-06

David Peace Durham Gala Theater Oct-12

Clock DVA Burnthouse Lane Lubber Fiend Oct-26

Wrest Tired of Fighting The Grove Dec-06

TSR 2 Ammonites The Globe Dec-19