The Dimming of the Light

Monday 9th March would have been The Auld Fella Eddy Cusack's 92nd birthday, so in memory of him, here's a blog about how I'm ageing, rapidly, but not without a fight....

On Wednesday 4^th March, I woke up at the usual time (10.30 now I’m retired), emptied my bladder, brushed my teeth and then got on the scales. That morning I weighed 97kg, which is 210 lb or 15 stones dead in old money. Hefty? Sure, but as I’m 180cm tall (the one statistic that remains unchanged year on year in my medical records), this means my BMI is currently 29.9. Overweight certainly, but I’m no longer obese, for the first time in almost 18 years and able to fit back into jeans I last wore in 2008. Small victories like this are cause for celebration in my world, as ever since I discovered beer and junk food in my late teens, I’ve fought an unending battle with my weight, sometimes with a measure of success, but mainly abject failure.

The heaviest I ever got was an appalling 126kg, which is only a mild kick in the arse from 20 clem. It was a real wake up call. That was when I was emotionally at my lowest ebb in late 2004 and, having decided that I wanted to live and not die, during the following year, I shed about 25kg. Viewing that as job done, I suppose I became complacent, so the weight crept back on gradually over the years, but it was the inertia of lockdown really saw me in my worst shape, piling the beef back on until I ended up back at 121kg. The irony was, I remained reasonably active, playing football twice a week and riding my bike everywhere. Team sport ended in March 2020, which was bad news for me, mentally and physically. Admittedly I still rode a bike, but there was nowhere to go and nobody to see, so the motivation to do anything other than aimlessly tour the same old empty streets quickly waned. No exercise meant no social contact and no endorphin rush. I retreated into my shell, ate shit and boozed alone. It was a tough old time, as photos of me from that era will confirm. I looked and felt terrible.  However, the darkest hour is the one before dawn and getting rid of the beard and dreads in 2022, plus several lifestyle and personal changes, not least being diagnosed as a type 2 diabetic, gave me a kickstart to do something about it, which was sorely needed as I approached my 60s.

Right now, I’m 61 years and 7 months old. My body is starting to show signs of wear and tear from the pummelling I’ve given it over the years. Consequently, I take the following medication with my morning coffee: Metformin 2 x 500mg for type 2 diabetes (and the same with my evening meal), Dapagliflozin 10mg for type 2 diabetes, Lansoprazole 30mg to counteract acid reflux, Atorvastatin 20mg to lower cholesterol (I’m 27% more likely to have a heart attack this year than last, apparently), Lisinopril 2.5mg to protect my kidneys (the old fella died of kidney cancer the day after Bobby Robson passed in 2009), Propranolol 2 x 40mg for anxiety (the only medication I’ve ever taken that I can unequivocally state has had a real and sustained positive impact on me) and Citalopram 2 x 20mg for my “depression,” which I don’t think I have, so I don’t believe it does anything for me. That’s 10 tablets every morning and two more at night. You’ll not be surprised to learn I’ve got a proper old bugger dosette box to keep them in. My Saturday morning ritual is squeezing out all the blister packs with the appropriate dosage for the week ahead. Rock and roll eh?

I don’t just take prescription medication either. For whatever reason, I’ve started taking some of these supplements that social media algorithms push at me every day. Being candid, it’s mainly because the cumulative effect of all these pills I take is that I frequently suffer from quite distressing constipation. I can go a few days without a bowel movement, which makes me feel rancid: bloated, poisoned, embarrassed by my farts and gurgling guts. Doctors tell me to drink lots of water and strong coffee, as well as having more fruit and roughage in my diet, but I don’t physically think I can take more of those things than I already do. Hence, my descent into quackery. At the start of the year I tried mushroom gummies, to no discernible effect. When they ran out, I moved on to Oregano and black seed oil gels. They don’t seem to be doing anything either. Next up, I’ve got milk thistle to try, but I’m not holding my breath as to the supposed miraculous effect in cleansing my liver.

So, back to Wednesday late morning. Caffeinated and medicated, I eat a banana, pick up my water bottle and head to the gym. I’ve been going for about 18 months now, regularly 4 or 5 times a week, and it is having a hell of a positive impact on me, both physically and mentally. I put my weight loss almost entirely down to this, though it might be because I’m now lactose intolerant and am no longer able to be the cheeseaholic I once was. Being serious, the gym it gives me so much of a serotonin boost that I can face a world I’ve always viewed as bleak, hostile and cursed, even if it is, with confidence. My routine is pretty much the same. I don’t go on Mondays as I play football that night or Saturdays, as I’m currently preoccupied with Percy Main FC and, come mid-April, the Tynemouth CC cricket season starts. Another problem I’ve got is with my shoulders; the right one is arthritic, and the left one is partially frozen. All I’ve been offered is painkillers for the right and an interminable wait for physio on the left. Even if I could afford to, I wouldn’t go private on principle. Hence, I don’t do any lifting, because I can’t. Instead, it’s purely cardio, which means bike, treadmill and rowing machine. On Wednesday 4^th March, the bikes were occupied when I arrived, so I banged out 7.5 km on the treadmill, which took me 70 minutes and burned off 600 calories. I was literally shaking when I finished, but felt elated as I limped home, oblivious to the impending pains in my lower back and calves, though I knew immediately that Thursday’s workout would be bike and rowing machine only.

Back home, I discarded my soaking gym outfit, downed a litre of water, flavoured with effervescent electrolyte tablets, then took a long, hot shower before inhaling my brunch. Porridge made with oat milk, blueberries and a spoonful of vegan yoghurt. I don’t weigh the portions, but it’s a big bowl I have, and I need it because I’m always fucking clamming after being in the gym. These days, I try to limit myself to 2 meals a day, as well as not having any crisps or biscuits (other than Scottish rough oatcakes) in the house. So for dinner, it was wholewheat pasta with a pile of vegetables (onions, mushrooms, celery, broad beans and sun dried tomatoes) in a basic tomato sauce. The sort of shit I subsisted on as a postgrad student at Leeds Uni back in 1987, when I lived in a strictly vegetarian household. Generally tasteless, except for the excessive dashes of garlic, black pepper and smoked paprika I hoy in, but very filling. Pretty low fat, but short of protein, so I lobbed a tin of tuna in with it. Don’t tell the Headingley Vegan Mafia please.

Now, if that was it for the day, we’d all be praising my new healthy lifestyle, but there’s a sting in the tail. Wednesday 4^th March saw Newcastle at home to Man Utd. I didn’t get offered a ticket, which surprised me as seemingly the entire crowd at the Everton game were threatening never to go back while Howe was manager, or at least that is the feeling I go from Twitter. As is always the case, the game was on telly, so I legged it down to The Victory at South Gosforth, my hips and calves stinging from the treadmill, where I meet my mate Knaggsy. He’s the same age as me and our conversation always begins with a discussion of our latest ailments.

Knaggsy was diagnosed with prostate cancer last year and has just completed his course of radiotherapy at the Freeman. The prognosis is really positive and I wish him, and another mate Andy who is also suffering from prostate cancer and about to begin his course of radiotherapy, all the very best. I am eternally grateful for my surgery insisting on a whole barrage of annual check-ups, from blood tests to bowel cancer screening that, fingers crossed, has shown I’m still in decent health. However, my annual contact lens check up on Tuesday 3^rd revealed the fact I now have cataracts. Very small ones and no need to book in for a procedure yet, as my vision isn’t being impaired, but that could well be the case next year, if things become blurry. Knaggsy has glaucoma, so he sympathises.

We all know how the game panned out and Osula’s stunning late winner meant we were naughty and, instead of limiting ourselves to 4 pints, we had a fifth to celebrate. Five pints of Oakham Citra, a 4.6% session beer. A canny drink on a midweek night, especially as they keep it perfectly in The Victory. Obviously nothing compared to what I used to put away, but enough to tell me, as I weaved home, that I was reasonably well served. This, of course, didn’t stop me pouring a couple of generous measures of Irish whiskey when I got in and watched the highlights on Match of the Day. On Thursday, I felt a bit rough, but the Oakham Citra did the job it is best at and my constipation, which I’d endured since Sunday, was a thing of the past.

Yes I know I still drink too much, but as with ideal BMI measurements (I’d need to be 76kg not to be overweight and that is not going to happen), the regulations are inflexible. I know plenty of people who have endured the illness of alcohol addiction and several who have died young because of it, but I don’t think it is likely at my age that I’m going to suddenly become gripped by an insatiable urge to quaff white cider for breakfast. The fact is, I could have stayed in the house alone and watched the game, but as a social being, I crave interaction. That is why I went to Benfield 1 Marske 1 on the Tuesday to catch up with my mate Gary who is having a tough time of it, and why I met Knaggsy. After the health issues he’s had, and remembering all those close to me I’ve lost recently (at least 3 this year so far, for instance), I think it is imperative I keep in touch with my friends. So what if that involves exceeding the weekly number of recommended units? I would feel immeasurably worse if I didn’t meet up with my pals regularly. Having recently spent my first ever Christmas Day on my own, I can tell you loneliness is an awful thing to endure.

What I’ve come to realise is that death is inevitable and we have no way of predicting when it happens or halting it when it arrives. Ageing is a different matter. We all grow old and our bodies start to slow down and break but trying to keep moving forward in a reasonable shape is one of the best ways I know to keep my head right. For decades, the spectre of mental illness haunted me. It blighted so much of my life, for the worse. However, I decided not to let it define me. Yes, I’m a disputatious sod who can start a fight in an empty phone box, but I believe, fundamentally, I’m a decent person and that my life, thus far, has seen me do some good for humanity. I’d like to keep on living for a while yet, though if the Assisted Dying Bill becomes law and I end up terminally ill, I’ll certainly avail myself of it. While I still have breath and the energy to enjoy life, I’ll embrace it to the full. If the price of that is a dozen prescription pills a day, then so be it.

Overfilled & Half Empty Glasses

Culturally, this is what I’ve been consuming so far in 2026. I’m trying to make the most of reading and seeing bands, as I’ve just been diagnosed with cataracts…

MUSIC:

I had hoped my first live music of 2026 would have been John Garner and John Pope’s lunchtime performance at Northumbria University on Tuesday 17^th February, but despite being in town that day, the number of appointments I had made it impossible to get along (sorry fellas!), so my actual first gig was Vibracathedral Orchestra at The Lubber Fiend on Saturday 21^st. This was supposed to be with Ben, but the poor lad cried off with a nasty bout of flu and I couldn’t even give my spare away, despite strenuous efforts. This being The Lubber Fiend, nobody it checked either. This was my first time of seeing the legendary free ensemble in person and I was desperately disappointed by the paltry turn out. Predictably, none of the No Audience Underground Beautiful People made it along, on account of the fact they weren’t on the bill, in all probability. Having watched the first half of the Man City game in The Bodega, I missed support act Joe Posset, for which I humbly apologised. Indeed, the Vibracathedral Orchestra had already started by the time I got settled. They were brilliant. Hypnotic. Loud. Innovative. And it’s the first time I’ve ever had to put a sticking plaster on a bleeding musician’s index finger mid set. An hour and a half of beguiling free noise persuaded me to buy their 10” Live at Total Inertia (from 2016) for the knockdown price of a fiver. Tremendous it is, and this was a tremendous night, over early enough so I could test my pensioner’s prostate on the last 38 home. It failed. Just.

Inspired by Vibracathedral Orchestra and my regular emails from Café Oto, I sourced their former collaborator, percussionist, as well as one time member of Dream / Aktion Unit, Chris Corsano’s 2006 solo album The Young Cricketer from Discogs after hearing snatches on Bandcamp. It is a fabulous, punishing, atonal racket. Frenetic drumming and squealing, home made reed instruments on a series of short and loud pieces. It made this old cricketer very happy indeed. He’s touring this year and I’d love to see him.

The next gig I did see came hot on the heels of the first; Mogwai at The Glasshouse on Thursday 26^th, in the company of a largely recovered Ben, Dave, John, Marc and Charlotte. It was almost a year to the day since Ben, Dave and I had seen then in Leeds and two years since they last played The Glasshouse. Was it a case of familiarity breeding contempt at first? Possibly, but also the inability of The Glasshouse security staff to adequately manage the flow of punters into the main hall didn’t help. The stage left side was dangerously overfilled, to the point it was impeding enjoyment of the performance. Sensibly, Ben and I took the decision to shift round to the other side, ending up right next to Marc and Charlotte as it turned out, and this is when things got immeasurably better. From the fourth number in, the ferocious slavering monster that is Mogwai Fear Satan, we were back on familiar, tremulous ground. The Glasshouse has always been blessed with incredible acoustics and tonight was no exception. You could literally feel the floor shake, while hearing every nuance of sound.  If you consider Mogwai played only 12 songs in their 100 minutes on stage, you’ll know what territory we were in. A single encore, but that was My Father, My King. There’s nothing left to say after that. Brilliant as ever, after a bit of an iffy start. Next up; GY!BE in Leeds. Best keep those ear plugs handy, eh?

As regards music I’ve bought, I showed loyalty to Wormhole World Recordings for releasing my (now sold out) Hello Cheeky CD in January, by buying their February bundle. Four fantastic slices of outsider art: Deficit Piala Endependence, Gidiouille Collective Now, Here, Greg Nieuwsma and Antanello Perfelto Things Heard in the Fan and the peerless Shunyata Improvisation Group Wild Garden.

Obviously I was familiar with SIG, whose release is their first in their current iteration as a trio, and Gidiouille, whose album is a meditation on News from Nowhere by William Morris. These are both excellent riffs on the furrow these artists plough, but I was unaware of the other artists. Deficit is a Russian Asian sound artist and Piala Endependence is a tribute to bazaars. I quite like it but prefer the more menacing improvisational noise of Things Heard in the Fan by Greg Nieuwsma and Antanello Perfelto. Whatever the style, whatever the artistic merit, the fact that Wormhole World work so devotedly in putting obscure stuff out there is what really matters. I feel awfully guilty I missed out on their March bundle but will be poised for when the April one is announced. As you can see, I’ve become rather detached from the mainstream, which is no bad thing of course.

BOOKS:

Obviously the year began with the reading of my Christmas presents. First up was Whitley Bay’s number one exponent of Tyneside noir Austin Burke and his latest Shiver in the Dark, which is a follow up to 2024’s Crazy on the Waltzer. Like the first book, this is a realistic, hard-boiled tale of North Tyneside’s grim underbelly. It isn’t so much a police procedural, as a criminal caper. Starting with a botched robbery near Rotterdam, the action then switches location to the mean streets of Earsdon, where protagonist Paul Docherty (we’d best not call him a hero) finds himself in a real life, ultra-violent version of Traitors. After some hair-raising scrapes and several unexpected plot twists (a couple of which you’d never have guessed in a month of Sundays), he comes out the other side, ready to fight, steal and deal again. There will be a third book in this series and I’m looking forward to it immensely. If you like your crime fiction tough, brutal and in a series of locations you’ve walked and drank in, this is a book for you. I couldn’t recommend it highly enough.

Staying with the north east theme, Ian Fawdon’s detailed, if somewhat piecemeal, account of the region’s musical heritage from the early 60s to the present day, Too Far North, is an absorbing read. However, what intrigues me is as much what he misses out, the Riverside, dance music and No Audience Underground / Tusk movements in particular, rather than what he writes about. We get superbly detailed accounts of the Dolce Vita era 60s beat groups and a reasonably broad perspective on the 70s folk rock movements, with a highly praiseworthy account of Prelude after their moment in the sun, but after that the lens is less widely focussed. The punk period doesn’t include much about Penetration and their influence and subsequent activities, but it is fascinating to read what happened to the criminally underrated Neon. Strangely, Club Anti Pop and the Noise Toys from the Gosforth Hotel, not to mention Total Chaos and the Garage, are missing from this section, along with a whole litany of important bands of that time, such as The Model Workers, The Weights and the legendary Chris Gray Band. In contrast, the NWOBHM is given massive coverage that, from my perspective I’d wonder if it merits. I think I’ve still got the Mythra single somewhere you know, but having endured a Venom show at Heworth Miners’ Welfare in July 1980, there was little else I wanted to learn about that scene. Kitchenware, despite a total lack of input from the elusive and evasive Paddy McAloon, is dealt with in detail, before the book finishes by talking about the Sunderland scene (bizarrely including Maximo Park), based around Pop Recs, in hagiographic terms. As I say, Riverside is not mentioned, so I’d suggest you look up Carol Lynn and Carl Taylor’s brilliant, exhaustive account of that period of north east music instead. Dance music (Rezzerection, Bloated and what have you) is totally missing, as is the experimental side of things, starting at Spectro Arts, by way of Zoviet France, Tusk and the present day work of TQ, which is an unforgivable omission I feel. An interesting, thorough read, but perhaps concentrating on too few elements and in too much detail.

Sometimes, exhaustive detail is to be welcomed and that is certainly the case with Say Nothing by Patrick Radden Keefe. This is primarily the story of the abduction, murder and eventual discovery of the remains of Jean McConville, a widowed mother of 10 who was taken from her home in West Belfast’s Divis Flats in December 1972 by a vengeful Republican mob who claimed, correctly it appears, that the woman was a paid informer for the British state. The tragedy of the whole story is not just the dire economic circumstances that forced the starving widow into accepting blood money, but the sheer, undimmed outrage by resolutely unapologetic Republicans, many of whom had no sympathy for her fate. This was not only true of active IRA physical force veterans such as the late Dolours Price, named as the one who pulled the trigger, or Brendan Hughes, but of ordinary, working class West Belfast Nationalists, who despised the occupying British army with every fibre of their being. More than half a century on, there is still little pity for Jean McConville, nor for her blighted children, whose subsequent lives were lived in the torment of not knowing what had become of their mother. In such a story, despite the relative normality of the Six Counties post Good Friday Agreement, there are only losers, apart from perhaps one man. The former MP for West Belfast, TD for Louth and President of Sinn Fein, but never (as he is at pains to insist) IRA Chief of Staff, Gerry Adams. What Say Nothing establishes beyond all doubt is the centrality of Adams’s role in the execution of Jean McConville. He didn’t carry it out, but he ordered and planned it. This, as Keefe Radden so eloquently proves, is evidence of the sheer, self-serving, sociopathic streak that runs through Adams like a streak of seaside rock. And, at the end of the day he, like William Bloat’s wife, is still alive and sinning.

It is of course hard to imagine Gerry Adams without the beard. The Gerry Adams Beard is part and parcel of the Gerry Adams Persona. It symbolises his revolutionary ardour, his passion for constitutional change. And now as it whitens it cements his status as eminence-grise, aging philosopher king.

The above quotation is taken from David Ireland’s play, Cyprus Avenue. When first staged in Dublin, the central role of Loyalist terrorist and PTSD sufferer Eric was played by Dolour Price’s ex-husband Stephen Rea. In the play, Eric becomes firstly convinced his baby granddaughter has been fathered by Gerry Adams and then, as his mania worsens, is actually Gerry Adams. The shocking violence that ends the play makes it a chilling meditation on national identity, delusional beliefs and the desensitising effect of mindless violence on the individual. It is a strong piece, and I’d love to see it on stage.

J. G. Ballard’s final novel, Kingdom Come, also deals with delusional beliefs, mob rule and senseless violence. Set in the familiar M40 corridor of consumerist, cultural deserts out past Heathrow, Ballard takes a shopping centre (the Metro Centre, ironically) as a symbol of Little Englander avarice and intolerance. A whole cult of consumerist ethnofascism has grown up around a mall, where support for the English values instilled by sport, shopping and chain restaurants has been codified by regular worshippers at this Babel attiring themselves in flags of St George and flying them from their houses, as well as engaging in riotous racial vandalism towards Asians and East Europeans in the community. Sound familiar? It is, chillingly so. Of course it wouldn’t be Ballard without unbelievable acts of near Civil War and an implausible death list, but it provides a prescient warning about the potential future strategies of Farage, Lowe and Yaxley-Lennon.

The novelist Marc Nash recommended Geometric Regional Novel by Gert Jonke to me. Like his countryman Peter Handke, Jonke specialises in the brief, emotionless nouvelle roman, where symbolic description completely overtakes character delineation, credible plot development or almost everything else a normal story book includes. It is also, unlike Handke, extremely funny. Endless microscopic descriptions of mundane events in a nameless village square, along with bizarre invasions of vicious birds, a tsunamic artesian well and the removal of all trees and park benches, happen for inexplicable reasons. Then the book ends. Extraordinary.

Finally, I’ve done some proper reading. To prove I still had it in me, I tackled Satantango by 2025 Nobel Prize Winner, László Krasznahorkai. In English not Hungarian I must add. Published in 1985, it was Krasznahorkai’s debut novel. It ticks all the essential postmodernist boxes; narrated from multiple perspectives, structured to resemble a tango, with six steps forward followed by six backward, while every chapter is a long paragraph which does not contain line breaks. Orthodox heterodoxy. Set in a dystopian failed former collective farm that endures incessant rain, a group of hopelessly lost and inadequate characters are duped out of their money by a semi mythical returning son of the area. Did I enjoy it? It was hard work and I probably won’t bother with the 7 hour Bela Tarr cinematic version, but I’m glad I read it. Now it’s time to prepare for soon-come novels by David Keenan, James Ellroy and Irvine Welsh.

  

Not Bad Bohemian

My first football blog of the year. Bohemian 0 St. Patrick's Athletic 0...

After completing the full 42 Scottish grounds at the back end of last year with a trip to Queen’s Park 2 Raith Rovers 1, I’ve been at a bit of a loss where to go next on my groundhopper wanderings. While I’ve done 12 of the Lowland League teams, mainly because they are former SPFL sides, I decided not to finish those as the Scottish pyramid is being restructured for next season, so I’ll have a better idea where I need to go come July. I’ve also still got 44 of the 92 south of the border to visit, comprising 11 revisits to new grounds and 33 others I’ve never been to ever, but that really isn’t a priority of mine. There are a couple of non-league teams, such as Keens Park Rangers in Surrey and Ossett United that I’m keen to do, but the opportunity hasn’t presented itself yet.  Hence, I’ve decided my next task is to complete the League of Ireland.

Comprising 20 teams split equally across 2 divisions, I’ve ticked off 16 of the current members, as well as former clubs Cabinteely, Home Farm and St. James’s Gate. This process is something of a slow labour of love, as Finn Harps (1985) and Derry City (1986) were my first visits when I was a student and I’d not been back to Ireland, other than a trip to the north for Crusaders 9 Carrick Rangers 0 in August 2024, since 2016. Add in the fact that the League of Ireland plays from February to October, finding times to visit can be problematic, when you factor in my Percy Main and Tynemouth CC commitments. Geographically, the fact you can only fly to Dublin from Newcastle means that my target clubs (Coh Ramblers, Cork City, Kerry and Treaty United) all play in the south west province of Munster, generally on Friday nights except for Bank Holidays, means some planning is required. The good news is that I’ve already booked flights over on Thursday 30^th April, returning on Tuesday 5^th May, at a cost of £45 return, to take in Cork v Cobh in the big Leeside derby on the Friday and probably Treaty United v Wexford, on Monday 4^th. I could also have gone over for Easter weekend to do Kerry v Cobh and Cobh v Treaty on the Friday and Monday respectively, but flight prices are sky high, so I’ve got to postpone those visits for a while.

If you asked me who I support in Ireland, for the hurling and football, the answer is an emphatic one; my ancestral county of Cork, though strangely I’ve not developed much of an affection for Cork City. In the League of Ireland, I’m a follower of Dublin’s originals. Big club. Da Boez. The Gypsies. Bohemian FC. Any side that has sponsorship from Kneecap, boasts the phrase Refugees Welcome across their jerseys and runs out to “The Boys are Back in Town” is worthy of my support. In the terrible times we live in, where negative, racist nationalism isn’t just a problem in the UK, but is getting toehold in the 26 Counties, Bohemian stand proudly against such bigotry. They’re a good bunch. I mean there’s a load of howyehs from Da Nortsoide in their ranks, but we can let that slide when looking at the bigger picture.

Last season, Bohs, whose home ground of Dalymount Park (Dalier) has been on the verge of redevelopment since the Celtic Tiger was a kitten, took the unprecedented step of hiring the Aviva Stadium (formerly Lansdowne Road) for the season opener against the awful Shamrock Rovers, winning 1-0 in front of over 33,000 spectators. An incredibly big crowd for a league game; probably as many as attend the weekly 10 fixtures across both divisions. Consequently, the idea was repeated for 2026, with another Dublin side, St. Patrick’s Athletic, the chosen visitors. Presumably, it’ll happen again next year so Shelbourne can get an invite. I doubt UCD would be considered if they, miraculously, achieve promotion.

The League of Ireland season kicked off on Friday 6^th February, while game was scheduled for Sunday 8^th February, the day after my mate John McQuaid, originally from Roscommon but a long time resident of Maynooth, County Kildare, and an even longer supporter of the Mags, was over for a day trip to take in Newcastle’s home game v Brentford. Checking the Ryan Air website, I found I could get Saturday and Monday return flights for £30, providing I was prepared to sack off my weekly 6-a-side game. I wrestled with my conscience and took the plunge. You see, this is the sort of adventure I can have now I’m retired. John sorted Aviva tickets, which cost as much as my flights, and I looked forward to him arriving Saturday morning, so we could take in Sporting Wallsend v Percy Main before he hit SJP. Except it didn’t work out like that.

Checking my phone about 10.00 on the Saturday, when I expected him to arrive, I found a message stating he had failed to set the alarm, slept in and missed his flight. Not to be deterred, he rebooked via Edinburgh, took the train down, arrived at 4 and missed the Percy Main game. We lost 3-2, but I imagine we put in a better performance than Newcastle did in losing by the same score. Once that latest fiasco was done with, I packed a bag and took the Metro out to the airport, where I met John 12 hours later than anticipated. I had also anticipated the flight would be empty, but it was full and I was about the only person who hadn’t been to SJP. A whole load of miserable Irish Mags were accompanied by about 40 kids and parents from Cherry Orchard FC junior section, who’d played a tournament and then been to the game. There was also a sole, smug Brentford fan, who typically enough John ended up sitting next to. The only idiots were a couple of Durham NFL fans, who had booked to go to Dublin to watch the Superbowl. Why? Surely you can watch it at home, considering it starts after the pubs shut!! Anyway, the flight went like a dream, and we touched down on time at 12.45 AM. After exiting the terminal and availing ourselves of the free shuttle bus, we then spent 20 minutes looking for John’s car, as in his flustered state that morning, he’d forgotten exactly where he parked it. It was like the sort of thing Graham Linehan used to write wittily about before he went crazy. Anyway, vehicle recovered, we headed off to Maynooth, and I hit the hay almost immediately we got in the door.

Sunday was a very good day. A lavish Irish breakfast courtesy of John put everything right with the world and we headed towards the Aviva by train. The great thing about John being over 70 is that he can not only travel free on the trains but is entitled to take a companion with him. That was me. We took the 11.44 to Connolly, that filled up quickly, overwhelmingly with Bohs fans as it reached the exurbs of north Dublin. Pats are based in Inchicore in west Dublin, so there were only a few of their fans as they are known as a team with very strong local support. That changed once we got on the packed, but well-organised match day special to Lansdowne Road. There was a great atmosphere. Loads of kids and a huge number of international fans, as Dublin is a massive, multi-ethnic, inclusive city. A couple in Boca Juniors jerseys were sat in front of us, in point of fact. The number and variety of Bohs jerseys was dazzling to behold: Thin Lizzy, Fontaines DC, Refugees Welcome and so on. It’s a far cry since Des Kelly Carpets (now Des Kelly Interiors) kept the club going. The only Pats fan I know is Ken from Maynooth. We ran into him and he said that the whole occasion seemed more like a cup final than a league game. He was right, but that just made it a better experience for a tourist like me.

The crowd was subsequently announced as 22,487. Not as many as last year, but a good showing in what is an excellent ground. The Aviva was built for both rugby and football and, while far smaller than Croke Park, is a great place to watch a game. The seats were comfortable (padded!!), the sightlines clear and the legroom generous. You could get pints and food if you wanted, but I didn’t see anyone selling programmes, though there were clearly some available. Sadly, I didn’t get a souvenir of the day. Building up to kick off, the atmosphere ramped up. “The Boys are Back in Town,” “The Old Triangle,” “Hold Me Now” (Johnny Logan is a lifelong Bohs fan) and flares being set off as the Bohs Ultras chanted “Free! Free! Palestine!” Incredible.

And then the game kicked off. It ended 0-0. Not quite so incredible, but possibly a fair result. Pats were on top for most of the first half, without really threatening and Bohs came back after the break, pinning them back and seeing Pats keeper, and Man of the Match, Joseph Anang make 3 excellent saves from Connor Parsons to earn his side a point. On the whole, the football was neat and tidy on an excellent surface, but the lack of any potent goal threat suggests neither side will trouble favourites for the title Shamrock Rovers (whose game on Friday at home to Dundalk had been rained off) and Derry City (who have recently re-signed James McClean).

We exited the ground via escalators, stopping to remove a rogue Shamrock rovers Ultra sticker to the approval of both sets of fans, took a circuitous route back to the DART station, changed at Connolly and caught the next train to Maynooth, which went from packed to nearly empty as we left Dublin for Kildare. Back in Maynooth, we went on the gargle. A fine turkey and ham dinner in McMahons accompanied by Beamish, glorious Guinness in front of a roaring fire in The Roost (it’s about the only place you can smell turf burning in Maynooth, as the dominant aroma is garlic and chilli from the 36 food emporia on the main street), a hike out to the GAA club for more Guinness and then in John’s local The Newtown for more Beamish. Back in the house just after midnight following a glorious day out, I again crashed out. Like the clowns from Durham, I didn’t see the Superbowl either.

Monday was a quiet one. A lie-in. Lunch in Friel’s of Straffan. Train and bus to the airport. Supposedly delayed flight, that left almost on time. Saw someone I used to work with (hello Sabrina). Straight on the Metro. In the door for 22.45. Lights out by midnight. A brilliant trip. So good to be back in Ireland. Let’s hope for some goals next time!

Hello Cheeky

I have a new CD, "Hello Cheeky," coming out on Wormhole World, which you can order from here https://wormholeworld.bandcamp.com/album/hello-cheeky - here is a piece I wrote for the Wormhole World Substack about this release, which I'm really rather proud of -: 

 Give us a micro biography of you as a sound artist/musician.

I got my first guitar almost exactly 50 years ago, Christmas Day 1975, when I was 11. It was a nylon stringed acoustic and I learned the few folk chords that I still rely on now, before graduating to an electric in 1978 after a few mates from school decided to form a band, influenced by Rough Trade, Fast Product and other arcane post punk bands, which is when I developed a love for feedback and white noise. We gigged very occasionally, recorded some long lost C60s, but got nowhere and fell apart in 1982 when I went to university. Our final name was Decadence, which is relevant to the new album. A couple of years later, my parents were downsizing to a retirement bungalow, and the Auld Fella flogged my gear without asking!! This meant I effectively retired from making music in the mid-80s, concentrating on writing instead. Alongside freelance sport journalism (cricket and football, mainly grassroots for both), I wrote about music as well, when print still existed. I still do, as well as writing fiction; I’ve a novel, Braunhemden, coming out in late March, from 5767 Publishing. I didn’t give up on music entirely, after a bloke I worked with in the early 90s gave me a lovely Hofner semi-acoustic he’d found in his garage after moving in. I’ve still got it and use it still. It was my instrument I used on my first release, Dresden Heist, with Chris Bartholomew (who is a genius BTW) that we released in 2023. That project was the first musical venture I’d been involved with in over 35 years, after deciding I wanted to get noisily creative in my declining years. Since then, I’ve acquired a bass, a Telecaster that’s too good for me and an electric violin, all of which have been essential in helping me create my subsequent self-released solo efforts, The World is Flat (2024) and The Pseudobulbar Effect (2025), which came out in in editions of 50. They’re both sold out, but you can listen to them on my Bandcamp page https://iancusack.bandcamp.com/music  Also in 2025, I was involved in the Scratch and Reflect Ensemble, co-ordinated by Tyneside music therapist Chris Minnis, along with my dear friend Martin Donkin of the wonderful Shunyata Improvisation Group, which I found an empowering and inspirational experience. You can read about it here; https://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.com/2025/06/cusack-serves-imperialism.html After this project ended, I began assembling Hello Cheeky.

Tell us a little about the album.

Technical details first; I recorded it on my phone and mixed it on the laptop using Audacity, in my spare bedroom. The front cover is of a bloke who got done for road rage in Bournemouth or somewhere, pictured mid rant. Musically, The World is Flat was mainly guitar and ancient, recycled cassette skronk, while The Pseudobulbar Effect involved bass, found sounds and AI voice manipulation. I am proud of them both, but felt in retrospect, they contained a couple of weak tracks and ideas that hadn’t been fully realised. For Hello Cheeky, I wanted to do the very best job I could, without any filler, which I think I’ve achieved, despite the component parts being longer pieces than I’m normally associated with. I mentioned my teenage band Decadence, which is also the name of the first track on the album. I’m still in touch with 2 of the members, Francis Robson and Richard McLeod and was very keen to involve them. We didn’t meet up as Francis lives in the wilds of Northumberland and Richard is based in West London (and has been for 40 years). Richard actually gave me a rather lovely Telecaster in Summer 2023 which I “play” on this track. After I’d recorded it, I sent it to both Francis and Richard, asking them to contribute in any way they saw fit. Francis contributed the wild synth noises and Richard a swampy, sluggish beat that reminded me of a Jacques Cousteau soundtrack. Putting the three parts together really excited me and I am so glad they took the time to participate. The other 4 tracks involve me “playing” guitar on 3 of them and, for the first time, electric violin on the final number “Surveillance.” That one and “On The Job Training” also include spoken text, as they are two of my published pieces of short fiction. The former spoken by me and the latter AI generated. I am delighted to be able to combine my two main creative outlets in this way.

 Which is your personal favourite track on the album?

Despite what I’ve said about the joy of working collaboratively and the importance of including my written texts in my sound work, my personal favourite is “Fumima Fumami,” which involves neither of these. Using a background of trains entering and departing Waverley in Edinburgh, including the accidental sound of someone playing the station piano, it includes a repeated guitar motif that is possibly the most melodic thing I’ve ever been responsible for. I find it uplifting to be honest. I hope other people like it.

Are there any other artists that have appeared on Wormhole World that interest you?

From completely different ends of the musical spectrum, I absolutely adore the work of Shunyata Improvisation Group who, like The Fall in the words of the great John Peel, are “always different, always the same” and the 2 Deaf German EPs, which are some of the most magical moments of unpleasant noise I’ve ever heard. I’m also a great admirer of the wonderfully eclectic St James Infirmary, having known Gary Lang for over 35 years. TSR2 would be my favourite of the electronic artists, as I find their analogue attack to be tremendously uplifting and almost nostalgic for those who raved a bit in the late 80s. Also a shout out to Gidouille Collective, for being the cleverest Dadaists around.

What brought you to join the Wormhole World family?

Back in 2019, my mate Paul Flanagan told me about TQ Magazine, edited by the wonderful Andy Wood. If you’re aware of TQ, you know what a warm and wonderful person Andy is. Him, Paul and also Gary Lang of St James Infirmary, provided me with an insight into the No Audience Underground in Newcastle and environs, which had begun as an adjunct to the Tusk Festival. After reading all the back issues of TQ I could get my hands on, as well as listening to everything they recommended that I could source on line, I found myself falling into a wonderful, deep, dark rabbit (worm?) hole of intensely creative, obscure and wilfully obtuse sounds. Clearly, Wormhole World were prime movers in putting stuff out there. Having got me through lockdown with a miasma of invigorating noise, I wanted to be part of this. While the Tyneside NAU is nowhere near as inclusive or supportive as the beautiful people would like to pretend (I’ve only managed to do 5 gigs in 5 years, despite being desperate to perform live), and I’ve struggled to crack social media as a way to publicise my work or make contacts, TQ and Wormhole World have been resolute and forthright in their support of my work. Having tracks on the last 3 Xmas compilations (firstly as BARTHOLOMEW cusack and latterly solo) has been an incredible shot in the arm in terms of validating my work. I can’t praise TQ and Wormhole World highly enough.

What’s your favourite album by another artist?

If you’re putting a gun to my head, and we’re looking beyond the Wormhole World oeuvre, it has to be The Mekons’ 1980 masterpiece second album, Devils, Rats & Piggies: A Special Message from Godzilla.

Who or what do you consider your influences?

Goodness: where do we start? My Auld Fella was Irish and so I grew up on a steady diet of The Clancy Brothers and The Dubliners (Dad, who had a fine voice, actually sang with Luke Kelly in the late 50s at The Bridge Hotel folk club in Newcastle). Being from Tyneside, Lindisfarne and Roxy Music were early favourites and still are. Then Bob Dylan (65-68 mainly, but everything up to Street Legal in 78 and nothing afterwards), before US art punk (hearing Blank Generation on Peel, Xmas Eve 76 was a game changer). Other than Wire and early Buzzcocks, UK punk left me cold. Post punk still holds me in its embrace; Gang of Four, The Mekons, Essential Logic, The Raincoats, The Fall (until MES lost the plot) and a hundred others. The Postcard Records catalogue is still a love, and I was delighted to see Edwyn Collins on his farewell tour last October. This led me on to C86 stuff, with The Wedding Present still firm favourites. I fell in love with Teenage Fanclub in the early 90s and would regard them as my favourite band to this day. Recently, I’ve seen My Bloody Valentine, who were on fire, and am looking forward to seeing Mogwai, Godspeed You! Black Emperor and Cabaret Voltaire in 2026. Vibracathedral Orchestra too. Here’s a link to a blog that lists everything I listened to, saw and read in 2025: https://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.com/2026/01/the-king-of-new-york-and-chirton.html

Oh, did I mention The Velvet Underground? Them as well, plus anything and everything from 60s to early 70s folk, prog, psych worlds, as well as anything avant garde, including free jazz, DIY, improv, noise and drone of all eras from AMM to Zoviet France.

Do you have a favourite instrument or go-to sound making contraption?

Undoubtedly, it’s my venerable Hofner semi-acoustic. Any proper guitarist would love it, but it’s mine. Forever.

 

The King of New York (and Chirton)

Welcome to my final cultural blog for 2025. As well as talking about what I’ve heard, seen and read these last couple of months, I’ve included lists of everything I’ve encountered this year. As is my practise, this is in chronological rather than preference order. Who am I to judge the efforts of those who seek to bring creative beauty to the world? Anyway, here goes -:

MUSIC:

Since we were last here, I’ve only been to two gigs; My Bloody Valentine at Glasgow Hydro on November 27^th and Shunyata Improvisation Group at The Globe on December 21^st. Ostensibly, we have the musical equivalents of diamond and graphite here; hewn from the same creative mine, but as dissimilar in properties as could be imagined. My Bloody Valentine louder than war and Shunyata as peaceful as the grave. Yet both produced gruelling performances of profound, startling brilliance in completely contrasting ways. Ben, Dave and I travelled to Glasgow with deep expectation and were not to be disappointed by the awesome power and punishing beauty we encountered. I’d last seen My Bloody Valentine at Northumbria University in December 1991, when their almost unbearable white noise dissonance in the closing You Made Me Realise fused the electrics in the hall, leaving only the emergency exit signs glowing in the darkness. 34 years on, it’s still talked about with a sense of awe by those who were there. At the 14,000 capacity Hydro, having been supported by the eternally wonderful J Mascis playing solo, they again finished their set with the same number. This time the noise section stretched out to almost 10 minutes. It wasn’t unbearable at all; it was a delight. I’d worn ear plugs to a gig for the first time ever, but dispensed with them for the final two numbers, once Feed Me With Your Kiss kicked in. It may have been a foolish thing to do, but it was necessary to experience and endure the ferocious power of the band in full flow. Despite the raw volume, there was the trademark sweetness and melodies as well. A 19-song set derived from 1988 onwards, with highlights such as Soon and Wonder 2, this was an absolutely outstanding evening. Almost spiritual in its essence and worth enduring the pain in the ear that lasted until the next week.

In its own way, SIG’s 8-hour, dawn to dusk Solstice performance with associated allies John Pope, Faye Calman and NofC, was as much of a test of endurance as My Bloody Valentine. Other than the 3 core members (Martin Donkin, John Garner and Katie Oswell), I was the only one of the 19 assorted audience members who lasted the whole day, for which I received praise from both Martin in person and John on social media. I hadn’t necessarily intended to be there for the whole event and will cheerfully admit to struggling for both energy and concentration in the early afternoon, but a curious desire to experience the whole event, as well as the fragile beauty of the music produced, kept me in the room, other than for the occasional comfort break.

When my alarm went off at 6.30, in order for me to make a packed breakfast and catch the 7.15 bus along with a couple of dozen yawning retail workers, I didn’t really comprehend what an 8-hour gig would entail. I walked down the empty streets from the Monument, humming Cavan O’Connor’s I’m Only a Strolling Vagabond, for no apparent reason, then observed the preludial 10-minute silence, the same length of time My Bloody Valentine scorched our ears with pure, white noise in You Made Me Realise, that heralded the start of the entertainment. Here the similarity between SIG and MBV became obvious, as both trade in celestial, otherworldly out of body musical experiences that combine and transcend beauty and spirituality. Initially, SIG were joined by John Pope on double bass for the opening 2 hours, as daylight imperceptibly seeped through the windows. Every single act in a SIG performance has import, whether it be Katie drinking from her travel mug, John Garner silently blowing his nose or John Pope pretending to snore, which has been known to happen at previous Shunyata performances. As a performance of such length is as much of a physical test of endurance as it is a question of musical intervention, players drop in and drop out of the circle, to reflect and recharge. The noise of their stockinged feet padding across the sticky upstairs floor is as much a part of the whole as any other sound.

Following John Pope’s departure, where the noises associated with him packing away his gear added to the overall effect, the crucial three took it on themselves to perform for 4 hours solid. I did wonder if this was too ambitious a project to be fully realised, but I have to say the performers passed this test of endurance with flying colours. While the audience are free to go when they want, the players freedom is to go where they want, meaning this ensured a wider ranging set of sounds than normally associated with a SIG gig. Far more dadaist than pastoral it must be said, though still with elegiac moments of incredible beauty. Partly this was on account of the guests who assisted them, and I’d love to have been a participant I must admit. At one stage, the audience dropped to 2, begging the question whether, if nobody had been present, would the gig still have mattered? Of course it would. Shunyata’s sounds are like the life of a day. Things often happen, though sometimes they don’t, yet time always passes.

At times, the room was stuffy and airless, which did my head cold no good at all and there was the ominous presence of a Christmas ukelele workshop downstairs. If you think the No-Audience Underground attracts weirdos and oddballs (me, for instance), you ought to have seen that constituency. Despite my dehydration headache, which was at its worst around 1.30, I saw the whole event through, rewarded by the magnificent interplay between John’s shakuhachi and Faye’s clarinet, which seemed to suit the SIG vibe more than her sax playing, especially when they spontaneously broke into a smoky 60s NY bebop jazz style section. This was a stunning triumph, and I eagerly await Shunyata’s next move. Incidentally, they have a new CD coming out on Wormhole World, the same label who are releasing my new Hello Cheeky album in mid-January, early in 2026. Please investigate.

Lindisfarne	Shields Exchange	08-Feb
Orange Claw Hammer	The Globe	20-Feb
Rumours of Fleetwood Mac	Shields Exchange	21-Feb
Mogwai	Leeds O2	22-Feb
Mark Carroll & Paul Taylor	Lit & Phil	11-Apr
The Mekons	The Cluny	12-May
Ramleh	Lubber Fiend	31-May
Shuyata Improvisation Group	Cullercoats Watch House	08-Jun
The Pastels	Cumberland Arms	20-Jul
So-Anne-So	Little Buildings	21-Jul
Bartholomew	The Globe	24-Jul
Johny Brown & Bill Lewington	The Cumberland	10-Aug
Loveable Wholes	Little Buildings	11-Aug
Lava Mouse	Laurels Whitley Bay	23-Aug
Shunyata Improvisation Group	Earthlings Café	07-Sep
Edwyn Collins	Boiler Shop	09-Oct
Wedding Present	Boiler Shop	10-Oct
My Bloody Valentine	Glasgow Hydro	27-Nov
Shunyata Improvisation Group	The Globe	21-Dec

As far as recorded, physical releases go, I’ve had to face up to the new reality of my retirement. While not in financial dire straits, I do have to watch the pennies. Hence, I’ve had to pass on a trio of releases by Billy Steiger, Dublin raised avant garde violinist, Emergence Collective, the Sheffield equivalent of Shunyata, and another John Pope / John Garner project, Anarchist Reading Group, as I couldn’t justify a total of £50 plus postage for the 3 releases, which is a terrible shame. I was delighted to receive free copies of Posset’s The Teenage Virus (Volume 4) from auteur Joe Murray at the Shunyata gig and Music is the Message by Sons of Slum, that came free with issue #16 of Spinners. The latter is a solid slab of 1970s Chicago funk, rescued from the vaults, and the latter is another enduring and deeply enjoyable melange of tape skronk by the world’s foremost Dictaphone manipulator. I’m also delighted to feature, as track 3 on the first disc no less, on Wormhole World’s triple CD Christmas 2025 release, along with some titans of the NAU. Deep gratitude to Paul for all his support.

While we’re not in the business of handing out end of year awards, Johny Brown’s incredible, autobiographical magnum opus Dream a Memory of Home is one of the very best things I’ve heard in many a long year and is up there with our own blessed boy’s finest ever work.

I’ve told you this story a million times before, but it deserves another hearing. I was 12 going on 13 when I saw a Pink band in the flesh for the very first time; Speed in the old University Theatre foyer, as part of a series of gigs designed to raise money for the occupation of said building in opposition to swingeing cuts that would have seen its closure. In the same way that hearing (I Belong to the) Blank Generation by Richard Hell & the Voidoids on John Peel’s Christmas Eve programme in 1976 altered my cultural perceptions forever, Speed did the same. Johny Fusion (aka Brown) was the lead singer, oscillating between coy diffidence off stage and crazed dervish when performing. Their screaming and uncompromising racket amazed me. I never saw them with Johny again. Soon he’d packed his bags for South East London squat life and next crossed my radar when I came across the brilliant, enduring Band of Holy Joy. Now if you want to read about them in far more eloquent detail than I could ever manage, read the following awesome article by Martin Gray on the Louder Than War website, which tells you everything you need to know; https://louderthanwar.com/the-band-of-holy-joy-celebrating-their-40-years-of-recordings/

Since properly reconnecting with Johny about 20 years ago, though I’ve seen the Band of Holy Joy on dozens of occasions since about 1987, we’ve become friends. He has been immensely supportive of my creative endeavours and I’ve always encouraged him. I was therefore utterly honoured to be sent an advance copy of Dream a Memory of Home, an album that is his very own Astral Weeks. Yes, it deserves to be mentioned in the same breath as Van the Man’s timeless classic. Johny was born in New York (the one between Rake Lane and Norham Road North) and lived there and in Chirton. Hence, this is a love letter to his roots, his family, and the canny folk of Shields, who live in his home town. Never did I ever think I’d hear Nile Street, Bedford Street and the dear, departed Cannon sang about in such loving tones. Anyone who believes that Sam Fender is the authentic voice of NE29 needs to hear this record, from the opening nostalgia of When Football was our Game, to the sentimental hilarity of My First Pint, via a paean to his first musical venture, A Hymn to Speed and the brutal memories of a tough upbringing in A Burning Thief’s Lament, this is a psychogeographical masterpiece.

The one CD I did shell out for was Maxi by The Wedding Present. As you’ll know I’ve become disillusioned by David Gedge’s enduring ability to rinse his adoring fanbase with a load of expensive scams, like rerecording old albums, that we all keep falling for. The live shows continue to take your breath away, but other than Boo Boo from El Rey and various parts of both Going Going and 24 Songs, the vast majority of post reformation Wedding Present stuff, while vastly superior to the Cinerama interlude, is largely forgettable. So it is with Maxi, a driving themed update of 1995’s Mini. Being honest, it’s alright. We get nods to various Weddoes eras, such as the histrionic pop of Valentina on both Two For the Road and Silver Shadow. A bit of hamfisted shambling thud on the single Hot Wheels isn’t bad, but the only one that really stands out is the cleverly constructed Saturnalia style emotionally charged Interceptor. So, it’s alright, but I doubt I’ll be jettisoning Seamonsters for this any time soon.

Artist	Title	Year of Release
Virgin Prunes	A New Form of Beauty 1-4	1982
Mogwai	The Bad Fire	2025
Isolated Community & There Are No Birds Here	We are the Wreckage of our Former Selves	2025
Various	Volcanic Tongue	2025
AMM	AMM	1966
Soft Machine	Live at the Paradiso	1969
The Mekons	Horror	2025
Alex Rex	The National Trust	2025
Blue Cheer	Junk	2025
Swell Maps	Peel Sessions	2025
Martin Donkin & John Garner	Interventions & Detours	2025
Milkweed	Remscela	2025
Mark Glanville & Alexander Knapp	A Yiddish Winterreise	2014
Lavinia Blackwall	The Making	2025
Isolated Community	Movement in the Half Light	2025
Jill Lorean	The Book	2025
Dragged Up	Blake's Tape	2025
Bartholomew	Subterranea	2025
Beverley Martyn	The Phoenix & The Turtle	2014
Buffalo Springfield	Retrospective	1968
The Loveable Wholes	Cloth Work Sessions	2025
Martin Donkin & John Garner	The Moon in the Stream	2025
Principal Edward's Magic Theatre	Soundtracks	1970
Various	TSPTR Sound Library Volume 1	2025
Wedding Present	Hot Wheels	2025
Sexual Objects	Orangutang	2025
Pettaluck	Carnival of the Sea	2025
Young Knives	DIY Years	2025
Wedding Present	Maxi	2025
Various	Wormhole World Xmas 2025	2025
Johny Brown	Dream a Memory of Home	2025
Posset	The Teenage Virus	2025
Sons of Slum	Music is the Message	1978

 BOOKS:

John King, as well as editing the excellent Verbal magazine and piloting the estimable London Books, has written some of the most thought-provoking and compelling novels of working class life in contemporary literature. Set, almost uniformly, in the satellite, quasi-dormitory towns beyond London’s western approaches, they act as an important reminder to those, like me, who often dismiss the southern white working class as rabid, racist flag shaggers. While I’m not familiar with or attracted to the 1977 revivalist music scene John is involved in, I do have an admiration for the loyalty he displays to the genre. However, the works of fiction John has produced do involve me deeply. His latest Peekaboo Bosh, a novella linked tangentially to his earlier work The Animal House, written from an unapologetically vegan, anti-vivisectionist perspective, is less densely plotted and without many of his trademark sub plots and interpolations. It is a deeply moral and highly judgemental tract about those who work in the sordid field of animal experimentation. As is the case in all his books, the good guys do legally questionable deeds to bring down evil men. In Peekaboo Bosh, the antagonist meets a grim but deserved end, providing pay back for all his years of immoral acts. It’s a taut, thought-provoking read, written in John’s trademark spare, polished style. A great read, if not an uplifting one.

Scrolling through recent obituaries in The Guardian, I came across the recently deceased author Ian Marchant, a writer with whom I was unfamiliar. The valediction on his passing told of a writer who had produced a couple of novels, but who was most praised for his polymath non-fiction. During his career, which latterly saw him earn his living as a Creative Writing lecturer in Birmingham, he wrote books on an array of subjects including pub crawls, suburban railways and the Beat Generation. Superficially, or so it seemed, his was a furrow similar to the mid-career works of my dear friend and legendary chronicler of the arcane minutiae of ordinary life, Harry Pearson. A bit of digging on Ebay garnered copies of Marchant’s Men & Models and Something of the Night. The comparison with Harry seemed a valid one, in terms of the wilfully obscure subject matter, personal anecdotes and warm, witty prose style. That said, Marchant’s social conservatism (he was a practising Anglican and a vehement supporter of the Ulster Unionist cause) means he writes from a perspective almost diametrically opposed to Harry who, for the avoidance of doubt, isn’t a Satan-worshipping Provo.

Men & Models is a jolly little photo book, consisting of thumbnail sketches of elderly blokes who probably started off as kids by assembling Airfix Spitfires and Messerschmitts or by staring transfixed at Hornby 00 gauge Deltics trundling round circular tracks, but whose adult hobbies spiralled into uncontrollable urges to build scale models of Apollo rockets in their back garden or whole villages in miniature to store in their potting sheds. It’s a warm, nostalgic take on a fascinating subject, but the structural limitations enforced by a need to have one page of text facing a whole page photo of the model maker means it is more of a coffee table photobook than an in-depth study of the motivations of the men themselves. Decent, but not a book to linger long I the memory. Something of the Night is much better. Set one dope-crazed evening in the wilds of West Cork, where Marchant has driven from the bosom of his Loyalist in-laws in County Down, to buy a big bag of grass, he riffs on all the meanings of night time, from sleeping to revelry, shift work to football, over the past centuries. Despite an unpleasant thread of bigoted anti-Catholicism that could almost be seen as a racist attitude towards citizens of the Rebel County, it is an interesting and diverting read. I may yet look out more of Marchant’s works.

Early 2026 will be spent devouring my Christmas print goodies; Austin Burke’s Shiver in the Dark, which is the follow up to Crazy on the Waltzer, a hardboiled Tyneside Noir crime thriller, Ian Fawdon’s Too Far North, an exhaustive history of the Tyneside music scene from the 60s to the present day and Say Nothing, a forensic account of the Jean McConville case by Patrick Radden Keefe. Finally, a word of thanks to my dear friend Richy Hetherington for giving me a copy of his late son Thomas Davidson Hetherington’s book of drawings and sketches, An Artist’s Life. You’ll forgive me if I don’t review such a deeply personal artefact for public consumption.

Author	Title	Genre	Date Finished
James Baldwin	Fifty Famous Stories	Fiction	02-Jan
Maxwell Bodenheim	Slow Vision	Fiction	28-Jan
Robert Coover	Gerald's Party	Fiction	10-Feb
Bertrand Blier	Making It	Fiction	24-Feb
Austin Burke	Crazy on the Waltzer	Fiction	01-Mar
Geoff Nicholson	Street Sleeper	Fiction	02-Mar
Max Porter	Lanny	Fiction	03-Mar
Magnus Mills	An Early Bath for Thompson	Fiction	06-Mar
David Keenan	Volcanic Tongue	Non fiction	12-Mar
Donal Ryan	Strange Flowers	Fiction	27-Mar
Ian McEwan	On Chesil Beach	Fiction	06-Apr
Ben Nolan	31 Days, 31 Nights	Non fiction	20-Apr
Nick J Brown	Hunter	Fiction	07-May
Michael Keenaghan	Cocaine Eyes	Fiction	27-May
Dag Solstad	Professor Andersen's Night	Fiction	13-Jul
Jon King	To Hell With Poverty	Non fiction	14-Jun
John Braine	Stay With Me Till Morning	Fiction	17-Jul
John Noone	The Man With The Chocolate Egg	Fiction	18-Jul
Irvine Welsh	Men in Love	Fiction	24-Jul
The Kray Twins	Our Story	Non fiction	27-Jul
Lemmy	White Line Fever	Non fiction	05-Aug
Mike Gatting	Leading from the Front	Non fiction	06-Aug
Sakia Holling	You & Me Against the World	Non fiction	18-Aug
John Anderson	The Utilita Football Yearbook	Non fiction	20-Aug
Brian Moore	The Statement	Fiction	22-Aug
Various	North East Labour History 2007	Non fiction	01-Sep
Various	North East Labour History 2011	Non fiction	02-Sep
David Lodge	Ginger You're Barmy	Fiction	08-Sep
Mike Head	21 Again	Non fiction	15-Sep
Simon Donald	Him off the Viz	Non fiction	29-Sep
Simon Pollock	I Love Suburbia	Non fiction	03-Oct
Chris Donald	Rude Kids	Non fiction	26-Oct
John King	Peekaboo Bosh	Fiction	02-Dec
Ian Marchant	Men & Models	Non fiction	09-Dec
Ian Marchant	Something of the Night	Non fiction	23-Dec