Record Score Day

Last Saturday didn’t start off that brilliantly, to be fair. For a start, I managed to leave my keys in the house. Once I’d realised I’d been so remiss in my duties as a father as to do this, I phoned my ever so helpful 16 year old son, who’d been comatose in his pit when I headed out. Unfortunately he was unable to help solve my predicament by either meeting up to lend me his keys, or rendezvousing back at the house any time before 6pm as he was “out” and therefore “busy” with his mates, meaning there was “no way” he could possibly “waste” his valuable leisure time by helping out a “moron” like me, especially as I’d been a “daft twat” for forgetting the keys in the first place. In the words of Philip Larking; “useful to get that learnt.”

To add insult to injury, a last minute goal for Marsden Inn Veterans cost Heaton Winstons a valuable victory in Division 4 of the Over 40s League; I’d called the ball as mine when our left back needlessly nodded it out for a corner, then watched in horror as the guilty man left the player who he was supposedly marking; needlessly to say the unguarded attacker stooped to stab home at the near post. I was desolate. I was incandescent.

To prove that trouble does form part of a power trio of despair, Percy Main’s home game with Harraby Catholic Club had bitten the mud for the third time this season. Four days of incessant rain, even if Saturday was sunny and pleasantly warm, meant that the Purvis Park impromptu outdoor swimming pool precluded football being played that day. Thankfully, a text from a mate saved the day; my frankly nauseating last minute begging saw the offer of an East Stand ticket for £30, meaning I’d be able to complete my personal tour of SJP for the season, for the first time ever (I think).

Things got even better when I arrived in town. A quick pint of Jarrow Brewery’s immensely palatable 4.0% Rivet Catcher (A light, smooth, satisfying gold bitter;  subtle fruity hops give the taste profile on tongue and nose, according to their website) in the Duke of Wellington put the world back on an even keel. For some reason, High Bridge was the equivalent of Bourbon Street crossed with Notting Hill in late August. Street traders flogging plates of spicy soul food, sound systems pumping anti populist dubstep and grime, happy kids and their relaxed parents milling around a makeshift stage outside the Old George told me this was Record Store Day; a superb celebration of all that is independent and good about the music scene worldwide.

In Newcastle, this meant that Reflex Records on Nunn Street was my prime destination. If the weather had been clement, I’d not have visited Record Store Day at all; Percy Main may boast the world’s best football team, but it’s decidedly light on quality vinyl emporia. My plan had involved sending the world’s best looking groundhopper Shaun Smith to do my shopping for me. In the event, I was able to nab a copy of the Wedding Present clear vinyl 10” Quatre Chansons, boasting 4 French language versions of songs on the new album Valentina and very fine it is too. Sadly, I was unable to locate the exclusive 7” single by The Fall, so if anyone has a spare copy, I know someone who is interested.

The main point of Record Store Day, apart from celebrating the diversity of the independent, is to open your ears to something new, which I did in the shape of purchasing Harmony Springs, the debut album by the brilliant Snowgoose. Another band from the seemingly bottomless pool of brilliant Glasgow talent, including both David McGowan and Raymond McGinley from the best band in the world, Teenage Fanclub, Snowgoose are the Pentangle to the Fairport Convention of Trembling Bells, with Anna Sheard boasting as fine a voice as Lavinia Blackwall. What is even better, Snowgoose played a short acoustic set in Reflex. From the opening bars of track 1 side 1 Crawl Out Your Window, I was mesmerised. This is acoustic contemporary pop with a forceful nod to 70s Folk Rock par excellence; you can read more when my next music blog (with an emphasis on album rather than live reviews) is uploaded by the end of next month.

By 2.20 it was over and I made my way to the Bodega for a celebratory Consett 4.0% White Hot (A refreshing, straw coloured ale) and a ticket transaction, before I made my eleventh trip to St James’ Park this season, for what turned out to be the easiest victory I’d seen in the top flight since the early days of Keegan’s final return in 2008, when Reading and Fulham were dismissed 3-0 and 2-0 respectively. However, it wasn’t just the ease of the victory, but the chastening experience of a seat in the sepulchral, hushed pews of the East Stand that enabled me to refrain from a single profanity in the whole 2 hours I spent in the ground. Well, you just wouldn’t cuss and swear with the percentage of Trappist pensioners nudging towards the majority in the top tier near me. Actually, I enjoyed the refreshing lack of intensity immensely; sunshine football on a rainy afternoon.

But what a glorious view of it all I had; far better than either the Stoke defence or Alan Pardew it has to be said. Without the distractions of singing, chanting or any form of social interaction, I was able to focus on the marvellous performance turned in by Yohan Cabaye; his darting then checking before darting again to head in Cisse’s effort that had struck the bar after Ben Arfa had produced another gold medal Oscar winner of a cross. I was forced to concentrate on returning my breathing to normal after almost hyperventilating at the run of Cisse and equally astonishing pass by Cabaye for the second. The entire ground, even the silent onlookers in my mute corner, rose to acclaim just how good a team Newcastle United have become. With less than 20 minutes gone, the game had been won, by a side who are as good as we’ve seen since Sir Bobby Robson’s young stars emerged from mid table obscurity to seize a Champions’ League spot in 2001/2002. Will history repeat itself? I desperately hope so as I teach Thursday nights and would miss all the Europa League fun.

The second half of this easy win reminded me so much of the games in the latter part of the promotion season (was it really only 2 years ago?), when the team squandered dozens of scoring opportunities, in trying to give Leon Best a chance to get off the mark. This time Demba Ba, looking a million times sharper and happier than of late, was the recipient of charitable acts that didn’t quite come off. No doubt sick of such misguided compassion, Cabaye curled as beautiful a finish in to the Gallowgate goal as you could wish to see, before departing, job done, after an hour. The temperature dropped and incessant sheets of rain drenched the ground, but 52,000 of us basked in the warm glow of the privilege engendered by watching one of the best sides in the country; Newcastle United are a team worth watching.

Sadly, stuck without keys, I headed home to High Heaton for my 6pm key exchange meeting with a contemptuous teen and 2 desultory bitter pints of bad Guinness in The Newton, rather than a skinful of real ale at the annual CAMRA beer festival, while watching the hated fascists win El Clasico in the company of 200 hundred boorish, pissed youths I did not know, rather than 500 middle aged beer bores. Still, you can’t have everything; at 9.15 on Saturday morning, I had precisely nothing to look forward to that day other than hunting for a front door key, so I suppose things turned out right.